Age Against the Machine

“Warning: this episode of The Crow Show has been rated TV-14-L. It contains strong language that may be unsuitable for younger audiences. The opinions expressed in this episode are solely those of the host and his guests and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Mystery Rider Productions or their affiliates. Viewer discretion is advised.”

The words and TV rating on the screen blew away in a fog of dust while an animated cowboy with a skeleton mask rode into view on a horse. The animal bucked up in the air and let out a powerful shriek while the cowboy screamed, “Yee-haw!” The words “Mystery Rider Productions Presents…” appeared below the now frozen logo after a bolt of lightning ripped through the screen. The logo also blew away in a cloud of dust in favor of the words, “Today’s Episode: Age Against the Machine”.

The black screen faded in to reveal a clapping audience while the camera circularly panned toward the main desk. On one side of the desk sat a grumpily frowning gentleman in a suit and tie while occupying the other side was a pleasant-faced middle-aged lady in a sun dress and hat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, here’s the star of The Crow Show: Marcus Crow!” shouted the background announcer, prompting the clapping audience to rise to their feet and cheer even louder than before. A dapperly-dressed black male appeared onstage smiling and waving at his adoring crowd while smoothly making his way toward the desk. Mr. Crow even bowed to his audience like they were gods as the cheering slowly died down.

“Hello, everyone! Welcome to the Crow Show! Today’s episode is probably going to be the most controversial one we’ve had in a long time. I’ve hired extra security to come out if necessary. The topic of course is the so-called Brat Ban sweeping the nation. Children deemed too noisy or disobedient are being ejected from public places along with their parents. Some people agree with this policy while others believe it’s unfair and ageist towards these small children. My guests today represent both sides of the Brat Ban debate.

To my left, she is a stay at home mom of two sons and she’s also a parenting blogger who claims to be on the wrong end of the Brat Ban, give it up for Ms. Leslie Cain!” The audience cheered and clapped as Marcus stole a kiss on the back of Leslie’s hand. He continued, “To my right, he is a retired restaurant manager who has enforced the Brat Ban multiple times in his career, give it up for Mr. David Charles!” The audience’s cheers were purely for the sake of being respectful and had nothing to do with their love of Mr. Charles.

“Okay everyone, let’s get started. Now before I…”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” interrupted David. “I want to clear the air on something before we begin. Mr. Crow, you said earlier that people are suggesting the Brat Ban is ageist, but I’m here to tell you it’s not. Ageism would suggest that I’m prejudiced. I didn’t prejudge those children. I judged them based on things they all universally do.”

With her arms folded and a death stare on her face, Leslie asked, “And what do all children universally do, Mr. Charles? Do they get hungry? Do they get impatient? Do they…you know…act like children? You can’t hold little babies to the same standards as adults. It is unfair, David.”

Marcus extended his arms in a quasi-barrier between his two guests and said, “Okay guys, let’s have a little bit of civility here. We’re trying to get to the bottom of…”

“Bottom of what, Marcus? Your Nielsen ratings?” belted David, which was followed by an “ooo” from the audience. The host straightened his tie and remained passive while David pointed his finger at him and said, “Don’t think for a minute that I don’t know about how badly this show is doing. You knew full well me and this crazy bitch would never get along, so why don’t you…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” interrupted Leslie, holding her hands out defensively. “What the hell’s your problem? I didn’t come here to be humiliated by an ageist creep!” The audience came back to life with a round of applause. “I came here to have a civilized debate! Maybe if you’d actually open your eyes every now and then, you wouldn’t have to throw those children out of your restaurant!”

Marcus tried once again in vain to restore order, but David blasted right through his verbiage with, “You’re right! I don’t have to worry about throwing kids out, because I don’t have a restaurant anymore! I sold it to my oldest son so that I wouldn’t have to…”

An even louder “Oh!” emanated from the audience while Leslie cut off her foe. “You have a son? So you actually have kids and you’re out here making these ridiculous claims? The irony’s killing me more than your greasy ass food probably would have!”

The audience continued to voice their “ooos” and “ahs” as David and Leslie traded barbs back and forth. David said, “First of all, you fucking moron, unlike the bitchy parents who had to get thrown out, I raised my kids the right way! If they did half the shit that these banned kids did, I’d beat their asses with a belt!”

The banter between Leslie and David escalated when the two guests stood up and came nose-to-nose with each other. Marcus had given up hope completely and sat at the table with his shaking head in his hands. The beefy security guards in black T-shirts stormed onto the stage to separate David and Leslie, but the two wouldn’t stop turning the studio into a cacophonic hellhole with their screeches and screams. The audience didn’t do much to ease Marcus’s aching head with their own noisy chants.

The stressed out host finally put a stop to the madness when he shot up from his seat, extended his arms in another pseudo-barricade, and shouted, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” The audience, guests, and security team calmed down long enough to allow the host’s words wash over them like a tidal wave of rage. Marcus straightened his collar and shouted, “This is not the Jerry Springer Show! I will not have fighting on my program! This is a respectable show and I demand that everyone here treat it as such!”

“I don’t know, Marcus,” mocked David. “The Jerry Springer Show’s pulling better ratings than the Blow Show right now. Maybe you can get some more viewers if that Leslie chick takes her clothes off!”

Leslie Cain bolted towards David Charles like she was shot out of a cannon and rained down fists and elbows upon the child-hating guest. Not even the fierceness of the security team could contain the motherly fireball. She just kept climbing over them and throwing more haymakers, to which David inadequately covered his head and dropped to the floor.

Marcus jumped up on the table and dove onto the mass of humanity brawling it out on the stage, while the audience mockingly chanted, “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” During the scuffle, Marcus Crow suffered a deep scratch on his arm and bled buckets all over the stage. The redness in his arm was only matched by the redness in his vision. He hungered for violence. He hungered for retribution. The sinister urge ate a hole in his stomach. In his blind rage, he threw a punch at what he thought was the source of the scratch.

But then the audience gasped in horror when it was Leslie who took one on the jaw and flopped over unconscious. The bruises were on Marcus’s knuckles. He stopped giving a shit about his bloody arm and started hypnotically at his purple fist. In that moment, everybody was quiet, the security guards slowly backed away, and time itself stood as still as a statue for Marcus Crow.

The frozen host barely noticed David Charles’s hand on his shoulder when the guest mocked, “Well, well, well, I guess you’ve got your ratings after all. Isn’t this what you wanted? A steady income? Lots of fame? Well, you’re famous now, buddy. Come on, say it with me: Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!”

“I…I…” Marcus wiped a singular tear away from his eyes and softly said, “I’m not Jerry fucking Springer…”

“You’re right, buddy,” said David as he patted Marcus on the shoulder. Making reference to Marcus’s black skin, he said, “You’re the host of the Jerome Springer Show! Enjoy your fame!” David gently shook the still petrified Marcus and danced off the set whistling a merry tune.

Marcus slowly turned his head to face the camera and stuttered, “We…we’ll be right back after…th…these messages.” The camera still rolled long enough to catch Marcus shaking as he pointed at Leslie’s unconscious body and telling his security detail to take her to the medical wing. The sullen-faced bouncers heaved Leslie on their shoulders and carried her away like it was a funeral procession.

Marcus gingerly made his way to the desk and couldn’t bring himself to face the hushed audience, so he held his head in his hands yet again. He lifted his head only a little bit and noticed the camera still hadn’t gone to commercials. “What are you waiting for?!” he roared. “Turn that fucking thing off and take a commercial break, damn it!” Except instead of a five-minute word from the sponsors, Marcus was certain he would have a permanent vacation from television life. He was right: he wasn’t Jerry Springer. At least Jerry Springer would still have a show.

Bloodstained Paycheck

Owen Edge took a sip of his black coffee out of a thermos and smiled at the strong flavor. He sat in his car as the morning sun peaked over the horizon and gave him that little burst of sunshine he needed to start his day. He loved orange clouds and pink skies since they reminded him of eating sherbet ice cream as a kid. What he didn’t love was the fact that his car was parked outside of a porn theater. Sure, masturbation was a natural function, but pressing sticky white fluids against the walls was straight up disgusting. Nonetheless, Owen had a job to do.

He took one last sip of his coffee, straightened his brown jacket and blue tie, and exited the vehicle after popping his trunk. He pulled a gigantic blue tarp along with some cleaning supplies out of said trunk before sighing heavily and trudging his way into the porn theater. Because his arms were full, he kicked at the steel door to let the bouncer know he was here.

A little slide on the door opened up to reveal harsh eyes staring bullets into Owen’s soul. The cleaner asked, “Are you Dennis McKay?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Owen. I clean messes for a living. Mind if I come in?”

Dennis slid the eye hole shut and opened the door for Owen, who was hurried inside and patted down by the hulking bouncer. Dennis’s muscular frame made the skinnier Owen look like a small child by comparison. The bouncer wore a black security T-shirt that magnified every muscle in his body along with a pair of blue jeans that were conversely too baggy.

Once Dennis found no weapons or contraband on Owen, he said, “Security protocol. I’ve got to do it with everybody…even if you are earning a bloodstained paycheck today.” Mr. McKay handed Owen a taped up stack of freshly laundered one hundred dollar bills, to which Owen dropped his cleaning supplies and thumbed through it quickly to see if it was real money.

Satisfied with his findings, Owen picked up his acidic spray bottles and sponges and said, “Grab that tarp. It’s time to get busy. Show me where the body is.”

The two of them strolled to a glass booth only protected by a thin black curtain. As if the semen stains on the glass and curtain weren’t disgusting enough, the bloody corpse of a young man with a college logo T-shirt made the claustrophobic booth look like a slaughterhouse. “Jesus Christ, Dennis, what the fuck did you do to him?”

“The bastard had it coming. Yeah, it was a little rough, but come on, if you saw the shit he was doing, you’d go berserk too. He thinks he can do whatever he wants just because he’s got a liberal arts degree from some faggot university.”

“Fair enough,” said Owen. The two of them rolled the dead body in the tarp like a burrito so that not even the head and feet could stick out. The cleaner then gave the beefcake bouncer a book of matches and ordered, “Take the corpse out to the dumpster and burn that motherfucker. If some cop sticks his nose where it shouldn’t be, just tell him some homeless fucker got drunk and fell into his own fire.”

“Got it,” said Dennis. “Just make sure you’ve got all that blood cleaned up and I’ll give you the other half of your payment. My boss paid good money for you.”

Owen patted the hulking ogre on his shoulder and assured him, “Trust me, Dennis, by the time I’m done with this place, people will be able to eat off of it, in more ways than one.” That last joke was punctuated with a wink, to which Dennis smiled and hauled the corpse out to the back alley.

The cleaner evaluated the work he had cut out for him with a mixture of disgust and professionalism. The blood and semen would be the easiest part of his job. It was the pieces of brain, skull, and god knows what else that would prove to be difficult.

Nonetheless, Owen knelt down, wetted his sponge with the acidic cleaning spray and scrubbed down the mess as hard as he could. Despite being a skinny guy, he scrubbed like he had Dennis’s 24-inch pythons, working his arms and hands down to the bone. Even with this tiring effort, the stains wouldn’t come out so easily, so he sprayed them some more.

As he was wiping the carpeted floor, he could hear rapping underneath. His eyes darted from side to side in confusion, but Owen Edge ultimately shrugged his shoulders and continued scrubbing. The rapping got progressively louder until Owen threw his sponge in frustration. “What, has he got fucking rats down here or something? Shit!”

He scoped his general vicinity to make sure all was clear before spraying acid on the corner of the carpet and ripping it up with ruthless force. Underneath the carpet was a trap door that took the brunt of the light rapping. Soon that rapping turned to kicking. And then the kicking turned to muffled female moaning. Owen squirted acid on the wooden door and used the newly formed hole as a leverage point to heave the heavy son of a bitch. The cleaner gazed into the hole with wide eyes and shaky hands before whispering, “Holy shit…”

Fifteen minutes later, Owen Edge stood cross legged and arms folded against the wall of the porn shop’s lobby, preferably a wall that wasn’t decorated with dildos, ball gags, whips, chains, gimp hoods, god knows what else. With the way the cleaner drummed his fingers against his arm, he knew there was going to be hell to pay for Dennis once he got his giant ass back in here. What was taking him so long to burn the body?

“Owen? You’re done already? Holy shit, you are the best! High five, buddy!” said Dennis as he sneaked back into the lobby with his hand held high in the air.

“You know, Dennis, I’d love to high five you right now, but I actually figured out where that hand has been. Not even my superior cleaning skills can get that mess off. You need help, buddy,” said Owen sternly.

“You’re in a porn theater, dumb ass. Get used to it!” barked Dennis.

“Oh, I’m fully aware of my current location. In fact, I seem to know this place up and down, backwards and forwards…first floor and underground.” Dennis’s arrogant smile melted off of his face like a popsicle. “That girl has a name, asshole: it’s Felicia Strom. She told me everything, every goddamn detail, although I could figure most of it out by the fact that she had a ball gag in her mouth and she was in a leather thong and bra. Were you planning on telling me this minute detail?”

Dennis chuckled nervously and said, “What her? She works here. She needs the money just like we all do in this life. You know something about that, don’t you, Owen. Besides, when did you get a moral compass all of the sudden?”

“Yeah, who knew that fucking with teenaged girls would be one of my berserk buttons?” said Owen as he sized up his bouncer nemesis. “Everybody has standards, Dennis. Everybody has a line that they don’t cross. I don’t know what yours is, but mine happens to be kidnapping young ladies and making them…do the things she did.” He gagged at that last sentence.

“Where is she?” asked Dennis before screaming the same question and grabbing Owen’s suit jacket.

“She’s long gone, probably going back home to her parents for the first time in forever. But you? You’re going straight to hell if you don’t get your splooge-covered hands off of me,” threatened Owen.

Dennis burst into a rage and hoisted Owen up by his arm pits before slamming him repeatedly against the wall. The cleaner felt the air being driven out of his lungs with every hard slam as well as his head popping and his neck creaking. Dennis’s barbaric anger caused him to slam Owen into other parts of the wall, knocking sex novelties off their display holders. Owen tried to grab a dildo off the wall and pound Dennis over the head with it, but the bouncer no-sold it, smiled, and chucked the cleaner over the counter.

Owen could feel his muscles weakening, his bones chipping, and his brain fogging up. He also coughed up a liberal amount of blood as he grabbed the counter and gingerly pulled himself to his wobbly feet. He fell down a few times and coughed up more blood, but found his footing after the third or fourth try. His vision was dark and hazy, but he could make out the shape of Dennis with his arms folded. The bouncer laughed at him with a demonic voice, one that was ear-splitting enough to keep Owen from falling asleep. The only words Owen could muster at that point were, “Felicia…run!”

The sex slave teenager stood in the doorway naked, shivering, and teary-eyed. She also had Owen’s thermos of black coffee, which was still steaming hot even after all of the time spent cleaning the crime scene.

Dennis mocked her by spreading his arms out and saying, “You’re going to throw that in my face, bitch? Go ahead. Do it. I fucking dare you! Come on! Throw that shit in my face! It’ll be like what my customers do to you every night, but with a different liquid!”

Felicia continued shivering and crying while weakly holding the coffee thermos out to potentially throw. “I…I…I won’t let you…I…you can’t…”

“Leave her alone, Dennis! Felicia, run!” shouted Owen as he still struggled to maintain his equilibrium.

“That’s what I thought, bitch. Give me that fucking coffee, I’m thirsty!” grunted Dennis as he yanked the thermos out of his victim’s hand. He gulped it down in a hurry, not giving a damn how hot it was. He sighed and said, “That’s some damn good coffee, bitch! Mmm-mmm-mmm! What flavor is this? Taster’s Choice?”

“Actually, Dennis…” squeaked Felicia. “There’s vanilla…some caramel…some whipped cream…and…Viagra! Lots and lots of Viagra!” The last list item was punctuated with a confident stance and deadly eyes.

Dennis’s own eyes bulged out of his head as he coughed violently and clutched his chest with a death grip. He dropped to his knees and hacked some more. He tried sucking down air, but it came out raspy and sweat poured off of him like a fire hydrant. “How could you?” he said weakly. “We gave you everything. A home…good money…and…” Dennis coughed up blood before rolling on his back and passing out with a bulge in his jeans. His breathing became shallow and his eyes rolled back in his head. His skin whitened like glue. And then, his head twisted to the side to signify his otherwise limp body.

Owen kept holding onto the counter for balance, but he struggled even more when he couldn’t stop laughing. “Dennis McKay takes Viagra? Holy shit! All that muscle mass and….god, what was I saying?” The cleaner lost his balance again and collapsed to the floor.

Felicia rushed to his side and held his hand. “Are you okay? Speak to me!”

“Oh, I’m fine, Miss Strom. This ain’t my first rodeo and it won’t be my last. I’m more worried about how you are.” Owen dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out the wad of one hundred dollar bills. Felicia’s eyes widened as she handled all of that money. The cleaner said, “Listen, babe: that bloodstained paycheck belongs to you. Get your ass home, spend that money on college or some shit, and don’t ever come back to this place again. Got it? Don’t worry about me, I’ll find my way out of here. I’ll get to a hospital…or hell…or heaven…who knows where I’m going from here…”

Owen nodded off while Felicia pounded his chest in an attempt to wake him up. The further he drifted off, the harder she shook him. During his last few moments of consciousness, he kept wondering if being in the cleaning business was worth it anymore. Would there be other scummy clients like Dennis McKay? Of course. Would they go to his extremes? More likely than not. Being neutral and coldhearted was Owen Edge’s mantra for so long. Now that he was about to meet his maker, all the laundered money in the world couldn’t help him in the afterlife.

Street Warriors

Kristen Miranda’s legs felt like they had blocks of cement tied to them. Running for that long in knee-high leather boots would do that to a skinny girl like her. The boots were a nice compliment to her black hoodie, black Pantera halter top, and black mini skirt with fishnet stockings. The mascara would have been a nice touch if she hadn’t spent the last hour with tears streaking down her innocent face. Her makeup looked messier than an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Her black lipstick dried out from all of the huffing and puffing she did.

Kristen wondered exactly how long she had been running away from home. She could still feel the sting of her parents grabbing her arms tightly as they argued relentlessly. What the hell were they fighting about? Did it matter? She was finally free in the outskirts of Paulson City, though dark red skies, graffiti-covered walls, and dumpster fires didn’t look a whole lot like freedom. The stern look on her previously crying face gave the impression that these greasy hobos would be better company than her parents any day of the week.

Most of these trench-coat and newspaper wearing folk were already asleep by the time Kristen reached the encampment (out of sheer luck). Their machinegun snores filled the air as did their whiskey burps and green-clouded farts. Kristen held her nose while gently treading across the garbage can fires. She rubbed her sore arms vigorously as if that would stop the chill.

She spotted an unattended dumpster fire next to a chain link fence and rushed over to hold her hands to the flames. Chills of warmth and sadness surged through her body. How would she survive out here on the streets? She only had a pocketful of one dollar bills and some spare quarters. There was a donut shop around the corner from here, but a Bavarian cream-filled pastry would only last her for so long. She sighed as her stomach rumbled like grinding machinery.

The gothic teen snapped out of her trance and gasped deeply when she felt a hand even stronger than her parents grab her by the arm. The strength at which this man squeezed was reminiscent of a blood pressure cuff and left purple impressions on her bicep. Kristen gazed at this man in wide-eyed horror while weakly trying to pull away from his grasp. Like the other hobos, he had a filthy gray trench coat, little underneath, and newspaper shoes. Why he was wearing a demonic clown mask with horns and a rainbow wig was a mystery in and of itself.

“Shouldn’t you be at home playing with Barbies and blowing your boyfriend?” asked the clown in a gravelly voice. “This is not your territory, bitch. This place ain’t no rave party.”

“P…please, sir!” stuttered Kristen. “I don’t have anywhere else to go! I just need a place to sleep tonight and then I’ll leave, I promise!”

“Sleep? You want a place to sleep?!” grimaced the clown, sending tremors throughout his victim’s body. “I wish I had a place to sleep other than this dumpster fire. I used to have a nice warm bed with lots to eat and a woman to snuggle with. And then do you know what happened?” With teary eyes, Kristen shook her head. “The bitch took it all from me!” shouted the clown, prompting even more tears from the teenaged girl. “In fact, you kind of look like her with those pretty brown eyes and black sexy hair.” The clown took a big sniff of Kristen’s hair. “Yeah, she used that same shampoo. Oh, I’m going to have some serious fun with you tonight!”

Kristen slapped the clown with her free hand, but it barely fazed him and only put an evil grin on his face. The clown grabbed the teen by her throat and bull rushed her against the chain link face. She tried to yell, but only gagging sounds and red spit came out. The clown quickly cuffed her hands to the fence and shoved a ball gag in her mouth the shape of a cheeseburger. While the teen moaned through her gag, the clown said, “You want to eat so badly? Choke on that, you slutty bitch!”

The clown’s ghostly laughter was silenced by an Indian-accent shouting, “Hey, Crackers!” The teen and her captor stared saucer-eyed at a hobo with torn sweat pants, newspaper shoes, and a dirty white turban, who could be seen carrying a wooden plank wrapped in razor wire. “That girl doesn’t belong to you!” he said. “You owe me for that box of donuts I gave you! If anybody’s taking that bitch’s cherry, it’s me!”

Kristen screamed through her foul-tasting gag and prompted Crackers to yell, “Shut up!” and slap her across the face. Tears flooded from Kristen’s eyes and burned the now open wound.

Crackers folded his arms and said to his rival, “Samir, I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. If you didn’t give me that box of donuts, I would have smashed your fucking face in and taken them from you. Are you new to this shit or something? You know how this works!”

“You better hand over that hot piece of ass or I’m shoving this plank up yours!” threatened Samir while he held his weapon high in the air.

“Oh, you want to go? You want to do this right now? Let’s go, bitch!” shouted Crackers as he threw his trench coat down and revealed bloody polka dot pants underneath.

Kristen watched the fight unfold with a sore jaw, sore cheeks, a whimpering voice, and hazy eyes. For every fist Crackers threw, for every swing of Samir’s plank, the gothic teen struggled in vain to jerk herself free from the handcuffs. The two combatants’ attacks missed wildly due to their initial drunkenness, but Samir was finally able to bury his plank into Crackers’ thigh, earning a wild scream from both him and Kristen in the process.

Despite the bleeding, Crackers yanked the 2 X 4 out of his leg and broke it over his good knee, earning more cuts in the process (he was too drunk to care). He then threw rapid fire punches Samir’s way and ended up punching the cage and various dumpster fires as he missed. Samir picked up a trash can lid off the ground and smashed it across Crackers’ face. The demonic clown no-sold that blow and head butted the Indian for his efforts, knocking the turban off his greasy scalp and sending him crashing to the ground.

Kristen continued to struggle and scream while Crackers hoisted Samir up by his neck and attempted to throw him into a nearby dumpster fire. The Indian braced himself by shoving against the metal structure with his feet. Just when he was getting forced closer to the flame, he reached down for another wooden plank, lit it on fire, and smashed it across Crackers’ face. Once again, the clown no-sold the offence despite the ashes forming on his cheeks.

With a wicked smile on his face, Crackers grabbed Samir by the armpits and tossed him against the chain link fence. The clown then grinded the Indian’s face against the wire and opened some massive cuts, even managing to pop one of his eyeballs and break some of the fencing.

Seeing how easily the fence broke under Crackers’ violent force gave Kristen the confidence to struggle harder. This time she pressed against the cage using her boots and grinded her metal studs across the wire. She even used the studs on her novelty gag to shred the wires even more.

Every time she saw Samir’s blood fly across the cage, Kristen missed her family more and more. Her parents could be a pain in the ass, but they were nowhere close to being as violent or psychotic as these two street warriors. How she longed for the taste of mother’s cooking. How she loved bullshitting with her father about classic rock bands they both loved. How she missed petting her dog across the back and feeling fluff and love. Each of these images and more fueled her passionate struggle against the fence. She heard a wire snap and struggled harder. She heard another one snap. And another. And another.

Her efforts were halted by Crackers grabbing her hair and yanking her head backwards. As Kristen breathed heavily through her nose, the clown said, “Nobody’s coming to save you, you dumb bitch! Not your parents, not the police, not even nacho nuts over there!”

Despite looking like a cross between a horror movie victim and a slaughterhouse cow with his splattered blood and popped eyeball, Samir managed to pick up a piece of broken razor wire and slam it against Crackers’ wrist (the rapid bleeding took away some of his equilibrium). This time Crackers sold it like a champ since his wound was juicier than a spilled soda truck.

What Samir unwittingly did in the process was slash the chain on Kristen’s handcuffs and allow her to jerk free from the cage. With nothing but adrenaline and a tearful love for her family, Kristen unfastened her cuffs and cheeseburger gag before bolting out of the hobo hideout with demonic swearing behind her. She didn’t care if running away from home made her exhausted. Running back home was sure to put her in a coma, but she ignored her burning pain and sprinted like a motherfucker.

Her legs felt like liquid shit. Her face felt like gonorrhea piss. Her ribs felt more crushed than Samir’s bloody eye. Yet she ran screaming and never looked back. She didn’t care about being covered in darkness. She didn’t care about the red sky polluted with industrial filth. She cared less about the car pulling up to her on the street potentially being filled with bad guys. She threw the back door open and leapt inside while screaming, “Go, go, go!” The car pulled away in a big fucking hurry, leaving skid marks underneath its tires.

Despite having gelatinous green fluid in her nose from crying so much, Kristen detected the familiar scents of a pine tree air freshener and old leather seats. She was in her parents’ car. They actually went out to find her. While Mr. Miranda was busy speeding away from the scene, Mrs. Miranda reached behind her shotgun seat and hugged her daughter tightly while showering her with kisses. “Don’t ever run away from us again, Kristen! We love you! We love you forever!”

“I love you too, Mom!” sobbed Kristen. While she and her mom continued hugging it out, Mr. Miranda turned on the radio and played “Pigs On the Wing” by Pink Floyd, a love song with no hint of shallowness or perversion. Oh, how good it felt to hear “old people music” again. Kristen couldn’t help but smile through her tears at the sound of such a familiar tune. She was finally going home to a warm bed that didn’t feel anything remotely like a dumpster fire. Crackers and Samir could bleed each other dry for all she cared. It was over now. It was all over.

Fairytale

Steve Mercer and Joey Mitchell spent the last thirty minutes staring at each other with angry frowns and fiery eyes, like they wanted to kill each other. Steve stood at one end of the holding cell still dressed in his wedding tuxedo and his wife sat at the bench across from him still in her cake-stained wedding dress. Steve had a silent and passive aura about him while Joey had passion and hot lava flowing through her veins.

At any moment, she could have screamed like a demon and strangled her would-be husband to where his head burst like a pimple. But instead, she chose to let her words be her fists of fury. “I can’t fucking believe you right now, Steve. All of that money spent and all of that frustrating planning went to waste. I really thought you were the one for me. And then you said, ‘I do not’ at the very last minute. Our families brawling afterwards was the icing on the cake. And yet, you have nothing to say for yourself right now.”

While rubbing his aching temples, Steve said, “Look, babe, I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“That’s been your answer for every one of our arguments, Steve!” shouted Joey as she shot up from her seat. “It’s like you don’t give a shit about anything anymore! I might as well have been marrying a zombie at that wedding!”

“Please stop yelling, you’re making my head hurt,” said an exhausted and defeated Steve as he continued to give himself a head massage.

“No, I’m not going to stop yelling! I’m pissed off! You talk about your head hurting?! Well, I’m hurting too, asshole! I feel like any second now I’m going to burst into tears and you’re just going to stand there and do nothing about it! You’re a coward! You’re a goddamn coward, Steve!” shouted Joey as she pounded her fists to her sides.

“You want to see some passion, you crazy bitch?!” shouted Steve, prompting his now fearful wife to sit back down on the bench. “You want some fire?! You want some energy?! You’ve got it, babe!”

After a few angry breaths, he continued his oratory with, “You want to know why I said no at that altar? Fine, I’ll tell you why! Before we decided to get married, we’ve had nothing but love for each other. We kissed, we hugged, we made sweet monkey love on your couch, and we said, ‘I love you’ every damn day! And then after we got engaged, that’s when your so-called stress kicked in and we had nothing but fights to show for it. Every damn day was an argument about something whether it was leaving food on the table, not doing a certain chore correctly, or not having enough money for a cup of coffee. You know, the little things in life!”

“Wow, you’ve never really had a girlfriend before have you, Steve!” Joey fired back. “If you did, you would know that arguments happen all the time in relationships! That’s how problems get solved! Relationships require a little something called work! Even though we fought a lot during the wedding planning, I still loved you for everything you are!”

“Really? Because you had a funny way of showing it, that’s for sure!” shouted Steve while throwing his arms around in anger. “I always thought that romance was supposed to play out like a fairytale! I actually believed in happily ever after and making love until the end of time! And then you came along and destroyed that for me! Instead of solving your problems peacefully, you decided yelling at me every five minutes was the answer! Well, I may be the only one in this world who believes in fairytales, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong!”

Joey stood back up with her arms folded and said, “I really hate to burst your little fantasy bubble, Steve, but fairytale romances don’t exist! You spend way too much time with those novels and Disney movies of yours and you actually think that’s how love works! I don’t fight with you because I hate you, Steve! I fight with you because I love you! I’m fighting to keep our relationship together!” Her eyes welled up with tears and she wiped a few of them a way with her manicured finger. “I still have feelings for you, Steve. Please, don’t leave me!”

“So is that really why people get together in the first place?” asked Steve in a low, but firm voice. “They just get together and fight each other? Well, if you want to fight all the time, join the UFC. Hell, you’ll get paid big sums of money to do what you love to do. And you don’t even have to give your heart away, that’s the best part! Me? It’s too late for someone like me. I actually believe in solving problems peacefully. I believe that frequent arguments lead to breakups and divorces. I believe that drama is uncomfortable to watch and even worse to be a part of. Maybe I do believe in fairytales too much. That doesn’t mean I’m crazy.”

Joey sat back down on the bench and let out a frustrated sigh. After a few long seconds of ducking her head and wiping her tears away, she said, “Here’s the deal, Steve. You don’t realize it right now, but I still love you even after you basically incited a riot between our families and got us in jail in the first place. But I’m not sure you love me back anymore. So I’m giving you an ultimatum: love me or leave me. If you love me, I will make you the happiest husband you could ever be. If you leave me, you won’t find your fairytale romance anywhere else because relationships don’t work like that. Either way, the ball’s in your court, buddy.”

Steve folded his arms and sighed before saying, “I need the rest of the night to think about this.”

“What is there to think about, Steve? It’s a simple question with two answers! How could it be that difficult?!” said Joey while flailing her arms in anger.

“Hey! Do you want me to make the right decision or not?!” shouted Steve, opening a rift of uncomfortable silence between boyfriend and girlfriend. “If you want an answer, wait until morning. Right now, my head feels like it’s been jammed in a vice and I’ve got bruises all over my body from your stupid family’s punches. We’ve done enough arguing for the evening. I just want to rest right now and clear my head. Is that so wrong? Or do you want to argue some more because fairytales don’t exist?”

Joey hung her head in silent sorrow while Steve laid down on the floor of the holding cell, where he would spend the rest of the evening snoozing away and sounding like a machinegun as he snored. Joey slept peacefully on her bench like she was at a comfortable hotel. A part of her wanted fairytales to exist. She wanted to have a seaside honeymoon with her husband and make love until the end of time while eating chocolate-covered strawberries. Her husband’s innocent ways put a small smile on her face. She hoped he would make the right decision by the time the morning sun shone through their cell.

When morning finally came, it wasn’t the brilliant orange skies that woke her up, but the sounds of war-like thunder followed by foggy visuals through her window. Even though Joey and Steve slept like rocks, they woke up so sore and stiff that sleeping on a bed of barbed wire would have been more comfortable. The argumentative couple cracked her joints and stretched their limbs before staring at each other blankly. Had Steve made his decision? Was he ready to accept the responsibilities of marriage or was he too much of a sucker for fairytales?

“Good morning, lovebirds,” said the police officer standing at the holding cell door. “Mr. Mercer, you’re free to go. Your family posted bail.” The cop opened the cell door and motioned for Steve to come over.

Steve dragged his stiff and aching body toward the door, holding his ribs like they had just taken a massive beating. Once freedom was within reach, he stopped for a minute and turned around to give Joey the most sorrowful look he could. Tears started forming in the bride’s eyes once more. She needed an answer so badly that anxiety was building up in her stomach and ice water was passing through her veins.

Steve looked down at his wedding band for the longest time before sliding it off of his finger and tossing it into Joey’s hands. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. Not with you, not with anyone else. Romance sucks.” He turned heel and walked out the door without so much as a wave or a blown kiss.

Once the cell door closed behind him, Joey’s stomach felt like she had been punched with a loaded glove. Her heart felt like it was being ripped into confetti. Her eyes felt like they’d been gouged out as hot tears poured from her face. She let out an animalistic, “NO!!” and pounded the bench with her fists. She spent the next few minutes allowing her tears to dampen the concrete floor beneath her. Was there something to be said for fairytale endings? Did she and Steve really fight as much as he said they did? Is anybody else worth putting her trust into? So many questions, but no answers, only tears and red puffy eyes.

Kill Me or I'll Quit

What a waste of fucking time, said Norman Long in his head. He sat on one of the fluffy couches of the Lion Pie Hotel with his back hunched over and his head hung low. Every once and a while, he would ball up his fist and pound the couch cushion he was sitting on. Anyone who was around him and saw the act of frustration walked a little faster toward wherever they were going, even going so far as to shield their children.

Norman Long had the look of a brooding high school nerd even though he was much older. His black hair was shaggy and unkempt. His beard was out of control as well. His glasses had a hard time staying on the bridge of his nose while he held his head in that position. The black leather jacket, blue jeans, and white Star Wars T-shirt gave off a gothic geek combination to anyone who actually had the stones to judge him at that moment.

“Kill me or I’ll quit!” In the finals of the Magic: the Gathering card game tournament, those were the simple instructions Norman gave to his opponent, Larry Bryce, a middle aged man with a gray and brown ponytail and beard, glasses of his own, and a black Pink Floyd T-shirt with gray jeans and sandals. Peace, love, and understanding was the motto Larry portrayed with his hippie ensemble. In fact, the final match was so peaceful that Norman actually considered falling asleep to show his boredom.

Larry could have finished off this overly drawn out game of Magic: the Gathering anytime he wanted. He had an army of creatures in play and they were much bigger and stronger than Norman’s piddly ass Llanawar Elves. Just one big ass stampede of ogres, orcs, and berserkers and the battlefield would have been covered in elf juice and Norman’s tears. But instead, Larry decided to stall for as long as he could just so he could flaunt his arrogant might. He didn’t kill Norman off in that game. Norman packed up his cards and forfeited the game, leaving the older player with a big fat five thousand dollar check.

Had this been a friendly game, Larry’s sins would have been forgivable in Norman’s eyes. But it was five thousand dollars, which would have been enough to cover his travel and hotel expenses while still having enough to pay his apartment bills back home and get something extra for fun. He could have bought World of Warcraft action figures. A new laptop. An MP3 player with thirty gigabytes of memory. But instead, Norman sat in the hotel lobby with pieces of his broken heart in his hands and a possible eviction notice on the way.

Just when he was ready to burst into a waterfall of tears, he felt a feeble hand pat him gently on the shoulder while the person said, “Good game!” That voice belonged to Larry Bryce, who walked past him only to stop at Norman asking him in an aggressive tone what he said. The defeated MTG player stood up and scowled at Larry with vicious eyebrows and dewy eyeballs.

“Come on, man, it’s just a game. You’re pissed off about a game of Magic?” said Larry.

“Don’t bullshit me, Larry!” grunted Norman, catching the attention of clerks and patrons around him. “You could have ended that game anytime you wanted! Instead you chose the cheap way to win by boring me to tears! Magic games are supposed to be fast-paced and fun! That’s the whole reason I started playing in the first place! Well, guess what, Larry! I’ve played against arrogant nut sacks like you before! And if there are more people like you out there…” Norman pulled his deck of Magic cards out of his jacket pocket and said, “I don’t need this anymore! I quit!” With a basketball like hand motion, he threw his deck into a nearby garbage can.

Larry shook his head no and pulled the deck out of the garbage can. “You know, buddy, if you’re not going to play anymore, then don’t waste a perfectly good deck of cards. There are lots of players in this hotel who would love to have something like this.”

“And once again, you’re so full of shit that you’re bursting at the fucking seams!” shouted Norman with more vigor than before. He speed-walked up to Larry and pulled the deck of cards out of his hands before ripping them into pieces. He then threw the pieces of confetti into Larry’s face and watched him shake his head no yet again.

“Do you have any idea how expensive Magic: the Gathering cards can be? That’s easily hundreds of dollars down the drain, buddy. Look, if you want to have a conniption over a game of Magic, that’s fine with me, but don’t take your anger out on those expensive cards. You wouldn’t rip up the Mona Lisa in a fit of rage, would you?”

Norman smiled psychotically and shook his head before grabbing Larry by his Pink Floyd T-shirt and grunting through gritted teeth, “No, asshole! I’ll rip you up instead!” From there, shoves and punches were thrown between the two Magic players. Several bystanders, including hotel staff, tried to break them up, but they too were met with strikes and shoves. There was even one instance where Norman and Larry both dove over the couch together.

***

In hindsight, fist fighting over a game of Magic (even though five thousand dollars were on the line) was dumber than eating a pepperoni pizza in Israel. In the Paulson City Police Department holding cell, Larry and Norman sat across from each other with hunched over spines and wicked facial expressions. They were the only ones that night who had to cause trouble, thus they were alone together. They could have ripped each other apart that night if it wasn’t for the guard standing at the entrance.

They didn’t speak to each other for a whole half hour before Larry broke the silence with, “Just so you know, you’re going to be serving this jail sentence alone, buddy. I’ve five thousand dollars richer, which means I can post bail. What have you got to show for your rage, huh? You could have sold those Magic cards to a lucky kid and have your bail posted as well. Instead you chose to…”

“Can it, Larry!” interrupted Norman. The tension between the two troublemakers would have had the hotel patrons and staff quaking in their shoes if they were still at the Lion Pie. “You think you’ve got me figured out? You think you know what the hell is going on here? That deck wouldn’t have done anybody good anyways! It lost to yours, right? It didn’t make me five thousand dollars richer, did it?”

“That’s all you care about?” asked Larry when he stood up. “You play Magic: the Gathering for money? It would be a cool professional gig, but that’s not something that would look good on a resume. You know what looks good on a resume? Being a tech support guy for five long years and providing for a wife and two children. That’s what I’m doing with my life. Playing Magic is just for fun. Did you already forget how to have fun?”

“Sure!” yelled Norman as he stood up and put his face in Larry’s. “I’ll have all the fun in the world when I get my ass evicted! I was depending on that five thousand dollars to keep my apartment! Not only am I now going to be homeless, but I have this mental image of you rubbing it in my face during the tournament finals! So from now on, every time I beg someone on the street corner for money, I’m going to see your smiling jackass face handing me a bottle cap or a rusty wing nut!”

“First of all, dingus!” screamed Larry. “You don’t have to worry about being homeless, because you’re going to jail for assault! Second of all, if you were so dependent on rent money that you’d take a chance with a Magic: the Gathering tournament, you might be taken to a nut house instead of jail, because that’s the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever heard of! Only one person could have won that tournament! One person out of God knows how many! Somebody had to win and that someone was me! I’ve got news for you, buddy-boy! There’s always somebody out there who’s going to be better than you! The only reason why I won was because I had the luck of the draw when others didn’t!”

Larry shook his head, chuckled in frustration, and sat back down on the bench. “You took a chance and your chance didn’t pay off. Then again, you shouldn’t expect it to. Magic: the Gathering is based on fairytales. Real life is not, my friend.”

Those harsh, but true words hit Norman like a heavyweight boxer’s punch to the gut. His eyes were sore, his heart was broken yet again, and all he could do was sit on his side of the holding cell and wait for dawn to come. Larry was an arrogant Magic player, but he was right on all levels. This was the fuel Norman would take with him to the dream world that night. He curled up on the bench and hugged himself for warmth. He didn’t want to look at Larry anymore because of what other harsh truths he had in store. No more hammers brought down on Norman. Just sleep. Just a long, dreamless, haunted sleep.

***

The sunshine-filled morning descended upon the police station. No amount of burning light could wake Norman up from his empty slumber. A knight stick rapping the cell door repeatedly, however, was just obnoxious enough to bring Norman Long back into reality. The stiff and sore sleepyhead slowly sat upright in his bench as his eyes adjusted to the morning light. He looked around and thought he was still exhausted when he saw that the cell door was open. It was the furthest thing from a dream, however. “Mr. Norman James Long? You’re free to go.”

Norman formed a confused look on his face before the prison guard said, “What are you waiting for? I said you’re free to go!” The dejected Magic player stood up and trudged out of the holding cell. He was guided to the front desk to collect his personal belongings in a manila envelope. He opened the envelope once he got outside the station and sat down on the concrete stairs to inspect everything.

Glasses? Check. Wallet? Check. Keys? Check. Cell phone? Hell yeah. An ass load of cash? Check. Wait a minute. An ass load of cash? With a note attached to it? What the hell was going on here. Norman unfolded the piece of paper and read it with much clearer eyes than when he exited the station.

“Dear Norman: I have to admit that I acted like an ass back at the Lion Pie Hotel. I’m sorry about that. There’s no excuse for drawing the game out that long and I could tell you were pissed off about it. I posted bail for you and there should be enough cash in this envelope to pay off your rent for the month. If you unwrap the wad of cash, you’ll see something else in there that will bring your hopes up. I’m bailing you out on one condition: you’re getting back into Magic and you and I are going to play more often until you’re good enough to enjoy yourself. Never give up. Never. Yours truly, Larry Bryce.”

Norman pulled the rubber band off of the wad of cash and saw a deck of Magic: the Gathering cards underneath. He looked through them and saw the same hulking ogres and dragons Larry used to defeat him. A tear escaped Norman’s eye and gently splashed the manila envelope. “Thank you, Larry,” he said softly to himself.

Violence, Blood, and Gore

VERSE 1
Enough of this G-rated garbage
Don’t cater to a flowery market
It’s time to put on our gloves
Fight like it’s all we ever love
Broken skulls, shredded flesh
Electric wire, steel cage mesh
Someone’s getting knocked out tonight
It’s a brutal battle, it’s an epic fight


CHORUS 1
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s see some gore!
Come get yourself some!


VERSE 2
I’m sick of this PG-rated sewage
I’m getting ready to fucking lose it
Beat some ass, smash some heads
One of us is going to end up dead
Swing that Singapore cane with style
Watch the bruises bleed for a while
Leaking with pus and other sickly stuff
This is what we are, this is what we love


CHORUS 2
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some gore!
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s beg them for more!


VERSE 3
TV-MA has gone out of fashion
Lost forever to violent passion
Rated-R Superstar falling far
Down like a brawler in a bar
NC-17, you must be dreaming
Triple X, you’re not steaming
Lost innocence doesn’t have a limit
Bloodthirsty warrior’s my only gimmick


CHORUS 3
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some gore!
Let’s break the silence!


HOOK
EC-dub, bitch! EC-dub!
Join the party! Join the club!
The janitors will clean and scrub
The bloody stains, puked up grub
This is what I call mortal combat
With a drunken brawler and a conman
Nobody gets out alive tonight
Lace up your boots, get ready to fight!

Dreams About Fighting Criminals

I haven’t been in a fight since 2003. I’m not talking about a pitty-patty slap fest, I’m talking about a real, down in the dirt, drag-out brawl. In 2003 when I had my last fight, I punched my opponent in the face and then he ended up dragging me to the floor and returning the favor tenfold. Ever since then, I’ve thought about getting in more fights, but I’ve never actually done it. It could be that I’ve developed allergies to a jail cell and the people who occupy it. But lord knows there were plenty of people in my life worth kicking the shit out of. I could do it too if I put my mind to it. This must be the reason why I keep having dreams at night about getting in fights with criminals. Not just anybody, but criminals. High school bullies, street thugs, people who think they’re street thugs, and just plain guys from Seattle: in my dream’s theater, they all want a piece of me. Every time they look for a battle with me, they always lose. I’ve done everything in these subconscious battles from twisting them into submission holds to breaking their necks to just plain delivering punches and kicks. Hell, there was even one dream where I collected the scalps of everybody I fought. What exactly do these dreams mean? Do they mean that it’s time to kick some ass again? I’d like to think so, but again, I’m not looking forward to a life in prison. That reminds me of a little trope about growing up. When you’re a kid and you get in a fight, you get a time out. When you’re a pre-teen, you get a one day vacation from school. When you’re a full-blown teenager, you get a five day vacation from school. But when you’re an adult, that vacation can last anywhere from a short-lived night to a 25-year sentence behind bars. The lesson here is that the older you get, the worse the punishment. If you have people to beat up, do it before you’re old enough to go to prison for a life sentence. This is especially important if you come from a poor family. Matt Taibbi wrote an entire book about how poor people are punished worse than rich people. If you’re a working class black lady and you slap your cheating boyfriend, you’ll go to jail for a long, long time. If you’re a rich white cocksucker who molested his children, the judge will give you probation because rich people “don’t do well in prison”. No wonder I have so many dreams about fighting people: there are lots of people to fight and lots of anger to go around. But this is just the dream world. In the real world, I do all my fighting through my short stories. I have characters who fight for their lives, for justice, for love, and for honor. They don’t always do it with an AK-47 and a Sherman tank. Sometimes they just scream with all their soul power and that’s often enough.

　

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

“If Mike Tyson asks permission to do something, is it wrong to tell him to knock himself out?”

-Me-