Blanka from Street Fighter II vs. Laura Ingraham from Fox News: A Masterclass in Malicious Compliance

 

Ghost Story

I ate a can of spam and my heart went kerplunk

I hit the wooden floor with a heavy ass thunk

Final seconds of my life I saw my greatest hits

From a baby in a diaper to a corpse taking shits

The Rainbow Bridge had burst into flames

The ghosts of my pets with their human names

Possessed my dead body, turned me into a puppet

Now we’re going to have fun, because, fuck it

Kitties and doggies were my necromantic fuel

Now it’s time to get vengeance on a world so cruel

Visit puppy mills and set the little duppies free

Chew the breeders’ brains for all eternity

Visit every dog fighting circuit in the underground

Come on, tough guy, fight with me for five rounds

You might get away with an uppercut or two

But I clamp my broken teeth and start to chew

An abuser’s flesh tastes like T-bone steak

Drink a flood of blood the size of a lake

Rince and repeat until the bones are picked clean

A birthday buffet for the zombified fiend

The Rainbow Bridge is supplied with fresh souls

Every abuser’s death turns the flames ice cold

Ashes of the dead replenish the plant life

From dour to flowers, phytomantic power

Colors glow brightly across the fields

The souls of furry friends can finally heal

After I enjoyed my never-ending meals

I can finally rest in peace as part of the deal

Ghosts leave my body, the maggots take over

Until there’s nothing left but formaldehyde odor

The circle of life continues after death

Every living thing is now eating like a king

Rainbow Ranch, Prologue

Loki repeatedly slurped his canine tongue across Razor Ripley’s bony toes, half-expecting them to taste like they used to have meat on them. Even that was better tasting than the dried kibble in his metal bowl. What the brown and black Labrador really wanted was some scratches behind his ears and maybe a few rubs of his belly. Ripley certainly had the sharp nails on his fingers to achieve such a blissful massage.

But this was far from the night to be asking his master for love and affection. The skeletal necromancer’s mind was somewhere else, far away from the borders of Rainbow Ranch. The same thing could be said about the king sitting across from him at the chess table. The stone pieces hadn’t moved in what seemed like ages. These two lovers of doggies everywhere were growing old sitting in these wooden chairs. Then again, growing old explained the presence of most of the “clients” in this funeral home. Loki curled up against Razor Ripley’s sandaled feet to provide him with warmth, but it was his heart and soul that needed warmth the most.

“I’m growing impatient,” growled Ripley, gesturing with his skeletal fingers for King James Gaines to move one of his pieces.

“I’m sorry, Ripley. I can’t focus tonight.” King James squeezed his temples with his gauntlet-covered hand. “It’s hard to get anything done these days knowing my brother is in that coffin.” He jerked his thumb to the next room, the temporary resting place of his younger brother Harrison. He wiped the wetness from his eye and breathed a sigh.

“I understand where you’re coming from, my liege. But your brother made his decision a long time ago. He couldn’t let go of his obsession with revenge, even though our animal friends already did. He made them human-like, for god’s sake. It was never the mission of Rainbow Ranch to give these poor creatures human responsibilities. Harrison made a grave mistake. I’d say he has to live with it, but he’s clearly not doing a whole lot of living.”

“I know. Trust me, Ripley, I know. I just wish things could have been different. Maybe if I convinced him to seek help for his madness…Look…it doesn’t change the fact that I still miss him. He’s my brother. This is not the same man I grew up with. He was hurting.”

Razor Ripley placed his hand over King James’s and spoke in a much more sympathetic tone. “I miss Harrison too. But he has changed so much over the years that he’s hardly recognizable. It’s time to let his spirit go to the next world. The funeral is tomorrow. I’ll have the Shut Up Stupid Dogs primed and ready.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t call them that, Ripley.”

Loki finally got his desired pettings upon sniffing Ripley’s robed crotch. But there was something off about his master’s strokes. They didn’t feel right. They didn’t feel like true affection. Loki whined before stumbling off to the nearby wall and laying down in a donut circle.

Ripley continued. “I call them that, because that’s what they respond to. They don’t seem to mind.”

“I know, but it just feels…wrong.”

“If it pleases your majesty, I’ll ponder another name shortly. But for now, this is what my squadron of soldiers will be called. Do you wish to forfeit this game of chess?”

King James nodded and languidly knocked over the stone pieces before Ripley began disassembling the board. Loki’s eyes grew sore as he watched his masters in this much pain. The death of King Harrison hit them like a war hammer to the gut. Loki could hardly blame them for their slow zombie-like movements, but the Labrador still wanted his love and affection. He still wanted to be called a good boy. But in that regard, he was glad he was never made human-like by Harrison’s magic and called a Shut Up Stupid Dog by the bony wizard who was supposed to love him. Loki whined and whimpered as his masters shuffled out of the lobby, presumably back to the castle to deal with the logistics of Harrison’s funeral.

Loki could just lie there all night and let his puppy soul drift away into the universe. Maybe somewhere out in the stars, he could hear Harrison’s voice calling him over for the pettings he wanted. Maybe Harrison would have a sausage link ready to wolf down in a matter of seconds. If dogs could purr, these thoughts would get Loki’s throat motor running. Maybe the dream world would be kinder to him than a couple of royals whose minds were somewhere else. Loki knew they wouldn’t be like that forever, but why did this cycle of grieving have to take so long?

“Loki!” said a sinister throaty voice that only the funeral home dog could hear. His head perked right up and he looked everywhere. “Loki! Loki-Pokey! Loki J. Pokicus! Sweet gee-nee baby!” There was only one person the dog knew of who would use such a hideous, yet endearing baby voice. But it couldn’t be him. He was dead! Ozzie the Wise made sure of that with a storm of lightning bolts! Loki whined and wailed as the hypnotic voice from beyond continued to haunt his mind.

“Loki-Pokey! Into the coffin room, Loki! I have a treat for you! Come get some din-din!”

The dog pranced and galloped into the coffin room where Harrison’s body was being kept. There it was among rows of beautiful pink wildflowers. There it was among stands of burned out candles. There it was smelling of death and fried meat: Harrison’s corpse resting in a golden casket. He wasn’t moving. He gave no indication that he was alive. But that voice was unmistakable. That grizzly-bear-like voice that was reserved for the sweetest of animals. “Come to me, Loki! Eat something other than dried food!”

Could Loki do it? Did he dare do such a thing to Harrison’s corpse? Yes, he was a dead body that should never have been violated…but his burned flesh reminded Loki of strips of bacon. The saltiness made him drool. The fattiness made him pant and smile. He had stars in his eyes the likes a depressed necromancer and king had never seen before. Could he do it? Loki slowly approached the casket licking his lips. He sniffed Harrison’s burned skin. Oh, that salty stench that only grew more powerful with the increasing loudness in Loki’s head.

He took a bite of crispy bacon flesh. He swallowed it down in a rush. He took another bite. And another. And another. This desecrating act soon turned into a god-like feast. Loki couldn’t stop eating. The meat was so delicious and tender, so crispy and salty, so juicy and fatty. It didn’t take long at all for Harrison’s corpse to be reduced to an empty shell of black bones. For good measure and good flavor, Loki licked the bones clean until their savory benefits were gone. The dog’s tummy was fatter than a hot air balloon. His colon was gassier than industrial smoke.

But more importantly, Loki’s eyes were brighter than Ozzie the Wise’s lightning spells could ever be. The eyes glows bright green while the light in the back of his throat projected red energy. Loki convulsed and twisted, rolling around on the carpeted floor and knocking over some of the flowers and candles. He also knocked over a sacred religious tome that Razor Ripley kept for such occasions. His stomach bulged and his anus blasted.

A shield of thunder enveloped Loki’s body until he had become just like any other experiment Harrison worked on: human-like. His body was no longer his own. His thoughts were at the mercy of spiritual puppet strings. The voice in Loki’s head grew louder until it was the only thought he had. The disgraced King Harrison Gaines had complete control of Loki’s body. He was alive and well once again, back from the dead and hungry for the vengeance he wished the animal society had earlier.

“Loki…you are my vessel…you are my slave…you will do what my worthless human carcass couldn’t do the first time around. You will kill Ozzie the Wise…and you will kill anybody who hurts our cause, whether they come from within Rainbow Ranch or far beyond. You will use my magic. You will obey my commands. And if you’re a good boy…I will give you all the love and affection you deserve in the afterlife!”

Harrison’s wicked laughter echoed throughout Loki’s acid-washed mind, but also blasted out of the dog’s mouth along with drool and magical energy. Vengeance would come whether James and Ripley wanted it to or not. That would go double for the “weak” animals who were “too lazy” to find their own justice after being abandoned on this island.

Covered in Blood

I walk into battle covered in blood

Smelling like ashes, smelling like rum

Looking like the deep fried walking dead

Looking for relief from what’s in my head

I see you on the other side of the street

You could be a mirage from the heat

Or you could be laughing like a jackass

Earning your place among the maggots

I take a bite out of your delicious throat

More pig’s blood to cover me like a coat

Rip out your heart, hell, your whole ribcage

You scream like you’re three years of age

You’ve got some serious pipes for a wimp

Are you sure you don’t belong to a pimp?

If you can feel the pain, you’re still alive

Let’s turn up that shit to a hundred and five

Slurping down your brain through the sockets

Make you fuck your eyes with your own rocket

Pull out intestines and watch the shit flow

Share your corpse with the ravens and crows

The funny thing about this nutritious meal

I get dessert as part of the dinner deal

Who will suffice? Your daughter or wife?

Hell, they left your ass for a much better life

I’ll save my coupons for another day

More satisfying than Mickey D’s anyway

The king of burgers has nothing on this

Sweeter than the redheaded Wendy’s kiss

Pay you tomorrow for a carcass today

My belly is stuffed with violent decay

I burp like a fifteen megaton blast

Nickelodeon slime pouring from my ass

Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight

Try to make it fun, put up a better fight

Burn It All Down

VERSE 1

Mist of black, skies of red

Fires dance inside my head

Make the nightmare come true

Unleash my hatred upon you

CHORUS

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it, burn it, burn it, burn it down!

VERSE 2

Tires stacked around your body

Gagged like a bondage hottie

Strike the match, light the flame

Hell and earth, one in the same

CHORUS

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it, burn it, burn it, burn it down!

VERSE 3

Revenge complete, human meat

Barbecued ribs, pickled feet

Enough to eat, Kentucky fried treat

A heavy price for your defeat

CHORUS

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it, burn it, burn it, burn it down!

FINAL VERSE

You did it to yourself and nobody else

You fucked me over, no longer sober

You got your justice, fiery comeuppance

There is no epilogue, stack the bonfire logs

There is no forgiveness, you just witnessed

Your own demise, such a fitting prize

I own your soul, I have total control

I bury your bones under the gravestone

Chicken of the Night

Mikris Nagata crouched in the bushes outside of KFC and peered through the windows with cobra venom in his pupils. His brows furrowed and his muscles tensed with every chicken wing the patrons stuffed in their jowly mouths. Even through double pane glass, he could hear their lips smacking and their tongues clicking off of their palettes. Obese men and women with their costume-dressed children devouring members of Mikris’s own brethren. The sight made the contents of his own stomach swirl around like toilet water. Why subject this massacre to small children? Wouldn’t the pillow cases full of Butterfingers and Reese’s Pieces have been enough? This wasn’t a fast food establishment; it was a graveyard for the overweight.

Every night Mikris hid out in front of this restaurant, waiting for the perfect time to strike. So many people gathered in one place on Halloween night: the opportunity was handled to the chicken samurai on a silver platter. The chairman of the Dread City Rifle and Revolver Club Steve Coleman was there licking the grease off of his sausage fingers while barely fitting into his booth. The manager of this establishment Bill Shane was behind the counter dishing out members of Mikris’s race at a chippy’s price. So much gnashing on dead chickens. So much sadistic enjoyment. So many large bellies. Mikris’s mind raced at a million miles per hour. He had to strike now or this would be another missed opportunity to avenge his people!

The chicken warrior stood up and unsheathed his double katanas, scraping the blades against each other while his beak clamped down in fury. With one shrill war cry squawk, Mirkis bolted towards the restaurant and crashed through the glass wall shoulder first, earning screams from fat little kids and gasps from their monstrous parents. Shards of glass nicked the parents’ skins, but still they stood in front of their little ones as the KFC clientele backed away at the sight of Mirkis swinging his blades and squawking like hell.

“I don’t go to your hospitals and devour your infants,” whispered Mirkis while accusingly pointing his blades at the patrons. “I don’t go to your graveyards and defile your loved ones. I don’t go to your police stations and military compounds and snack on soldiers. Why then would you disgusting people think it’s okay to munch on my species! Why do you think it’s okay to treat them this way in such horrible farming conditions!”

“Don’t listen to him, guys,” dismissed Steve Coleman with a wave of his meaty paw, still holding a drumstick. “It’s just some hippie faggot in a chicken suit. I’ll bet he also dresses in a cow suit before he hits up the Burger King. Or maybe he’ll dress up like a big ol’ potato and harass the guys who make Freedom Fries at McDonald’s!” The patrons chuckled at Steve’s dialogue.

“I assure you, sir, this is not a Halloween costume. And this is not about liberalism or conservatism. It’s about basic human decency. You can’t lock up a serial killer like Jeffrey Dahmer and then eat members of my clan right in front of me at the same time! Next thing you know, you’re going to start using Military Intelligence to find Jumbo Shrimp and eat those too!” belted Mikris.

A shotgun’s pump-handle echoed throughout the restaurant followed by an authoritative Southern voice shouting, “Hold it right there, goddamn it!” It was Bill Shane, nametag, apron, shotgun, and all. With the double barrels pointed squarely at Mikris, Bill said, “If you think you’re going to ruin Halloween night just so you can spread your hippie-dippie BS, you’ve got another thing coming, mister. Now put down them Jap swords and approach the counter with your fluffy feathers of your head!”

Another gun clicked and it belonged to Steve Coleman, the proud owner of a Desert Eagle Magnum big enough to fit in his frying pan-sized hands. “You’d better listen to him, buddy. You’ve caused enough trouble tonight. Don’t make either of us pull the goddamn trigger!”

Mikris chuckled hard enough to shake his waddle back and forth. “You actually think those tinker toys are going to get you guys out of this mess? Give me a fucking break. If you guys had any balls whatsoever, you’d put down the chicken wings and play army boy overseas! Now that I think about it, you’ve got all the oil you’ll ever need in those deep fryers.”

“You want to joke around, motherfucker?” taunted Bill. “That’s right, keep running your mouth. Keep giving me a reason to shoot your ugly-ass head off. If you think what we do to your so-called brethren is bad, I’m willing to bet these fine folks wouldn’t mind dining on your sorry ass right here tonight! Who’s ready for some chicken tonight?!” The patrons cheered their heads off while waving drumsticks in the air like confederate flags.

“Enough!” shouted Mikris as he grabbed a gigantic father of five, held his blades to the guy’s throat, and used him for a human shield. His children screamed and tugged on Mikris’s legs for him to let go, but the chicken warrior wouldn’t listen. “Lay down your arms or he’s a dead son of a bitch! Don’t make me do it! I’ll fucking do it!” Slowly and surely, Bill Shane and Steve Coleman set their firearms down, kicked them over to Mikris when ordered to do so, and held their hands in the air.

Amidst the crying children and confused parents clutching tightly to them, Steve begged, “For God’s sake, can you at least let the rest of these families go? You don’t need to hold them hostage too!”

“You think these little brats are innocent?!” belted Mikris. “These little cannibals are just as disgusting and lazy as the rest of you! They’re going to grow up to be heartless bastards just like their parents, that is if they live past their twenties!” With a crazed look in his eyes, he scoped around the restaurant at all of the crying patrons and said, “You all want me to die too, don’t you? You proved that much when you pointed those guns at me. Well, if you really want to die at KFC…you’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way by eating your ass off!”

One slash was all it took for Mikris to rip his hostage’s shirt off, revealing a set of man tits and a hairy chest and back. “Dear god, that’s some disgusting shit!” the chicken squirmed. “It almost reminds me of what you guys are eating right now! But you know what? It can’t be any worse than those Kit-Kat bars your children have in their pillow cases.” He traced a finger across the man’s shoulder and parted his body hair, much to the wide-eyed horror of everyone around him. “Well, you know how that saying goes: I’m going to open my mouth, close my eyes, and you’re going to give me a big surprise!”

Mikris’s beak was open wide enough for everyone to see his dangling uvula. Drool ran down his mouth and his closed eyes were watering with anticipation. The hostage yelled, “No!” as the chicken warrior leaned his head down to take a nice big chomp out of human flesh. When he clamped down on the meaty treat, it tasted crispy, greasy, and sweet all at the same time. He chewed slowly and savored the flavor while his hostage sobbed like one of his little girls. Such a heavenly treat. Such a symphony of flavors erupting on his chicken tongue. Mikris swallowed his meal and slowly opened his eyes to admire his violent handiwork.

His eyes were bulging out of their sockets when he saw he had instead taken a bite out of a piece of chicken that Steve Coleman held to his mouth. The children pointed and laughed as the avian samurai trembled in horror. He slowly lowered his blades from his hostage’s throat and stumbled backwards with an expression of fright appropriate for Halloween night.

“How does it taste, chicken man?” asked Steve with a wide grin. “You know what you hippie-dippies always say: don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

Mikris was going to come back with snappy dialogue, but his beak convulsed so violently that he couldn’t form a sentence. All he could do was cluck nervously while tears poured down his feathered face and children giggled at him with sadistic delight. He could feel his own brethren sloshing around in his gut and making him just as fat and lazy as everyone around him. This was what it meant to dine on his kind. The phrase “you are what you eat” has never before been used in such a cruel way.

Mikris Nagata could feel the murky sewage in his stomach bubbling while his head felt lighter than the feathers on his body. He stumbled around like a drunken zombie struggling for equilibrium. He could feel the boiling sensation in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs burned like he had swallowed a branding iron. And then, the viscous acid flowed from his beak and drenched Steve Coleman’s MAGA T-shirt and sagging blue jeans.

The children laughed even harder than before, to which Mikris mockingly asked, “You like that?! You fucking like that?! Have some more!” The chicken samurai unleashed a barf storm that covered the entire restaurant and their patrons in sick fluids. A chaotic exodus from KFC saw customers trample over each other, not giving a shit about the small children trick-or-treating that night, just to get the hell away from the foul odor of vomit and shame.

Bill Shane clutched his head in sorrow while his costumers, Steve Coleman included, dashed away from his place of business. There was no way he would pass a health and safety check. His business was sure to get shut down. All he could say to that was, “Why?! I didn’t do anything wrong! All I wanted to do was serve fried chicken!”

Mikris wiped the biological sludge from his eyes and watched Bill pathetically cry over the counter with just a loose grip on the shotgun handle. The chicken warrior weakly waddled over to the manager and yanked the gun out of his hands before pointing it at him with evil intentions. Bill begged, “Please! Don’t shoot me! I’m just a manager! I’ve got a family of my own!”

The chicken warrior locked eyes with the chubby manager and got off on his fear. Mikris pressed the barrel against Bill’s cheek like a hard-on and smiled through the slimy filth on his face. His finger danced across the trigger like a nervous tick. The psychosis in his eyes grew more sadistic and perverse. And then Mirkis broke the shotgun in half across his knee before tossing the weapon to the floor. He placed his wing across the crying Bill’s shoulders and said, “Something tells me your patrons would have thrown up anyways. You’d better get this place cleaned up before the health inspector comes!”

“You’re a hypocrite! You’re a fucking hypocrite!” sobbed Bill with his head in his flabby arms.

“I know I am, Mr. Shane. But I have to admit…it tastes like chicken!”

Dayton Spoke Choir

The ethereal beauty of the choir’s voices haunted Detective Matt McQueen’s mind like a schizophrenic voice. He felt as though he was being lovingly pulled into the center of this heavenly sound, but kept his pistol drawn knowing this was the calm before the storm. He already ventured into the unknown by looking for clues in this dense forest. Every once and a while a spider would land on him and he’d get chills running down his spine before swatting the arachnids away. Those voices. So innocent. So magnificent. They couldn’t have been older than the single digits. What were small children doing all the way out in this secluded nightmare?

Matt took a massive gulp of saliva and wiped the sweat off of his forehead when he found the source of the voices: a broken down church covered in foliage and insects. Another plunge into the unknown. With every one of Detective McQueen’s steps, the choir grew louder and more haunting. His finger tightly wrapped around the trigger, the cop slowly advanced toward the front entrance, which was guarded with little else than a cracked wooden door barely on its hinges. It wasn’t so much the robust structure that kept city folks away; it was the creepiness of it all.

Matt’s eyebrows furrowed and his goateed mouth curled into a dark frown as he kicked down the front door and stormed in on the church screaming, “Freeze! Paulson City Police!” His all-business attitude softened into creeped out jitters when he saw what was inside. He lowered his weapon and asked, “What the fuck?!” He was careful not to drop the pistol, but with his shaky hands, it almost happened.

The children’s choir’s lovely voices were tainted by blue jumpsuits and putty-faced masks with blood dripping down from their mouth and eye holes. Each and every one of them had puppet strings attached to their ankles and wrists, strings that lifted their arms in conformist salute when prompted by their leader.

“Matthew, Matthew, Matthew! It’s so good to see you again. Perhaps you’d like to sing some hymns with us.” Detective McQueen quickly turned around with his pistol aimed at the source of the creepily sensual voice: Reverend Laguna Pearman. No longer was he the trusted member of the Paulson City religious community. No longer was he a donor to the poor and an educator of children. All that remained of Reverend Pearman was a wicked smile and a black choir robe with his fingers tapping together playfully.

“Laguna…I trusted you!” shrieked Matt before bull rushing the preacher and slamming him against the wooden wall. Even with the barrel of Matt’s pistol planted firmly in his jaw line, Laguna’s smile never faded. “I went to your sermons every Sunday. I let my child around you. And this is what you’ve been doing this whole time?! Where’s Caylee?! She better be in here or I’ll blast your fucking head clean off your shoulders!”

“Daddy, no!” shouted a little girl from the choir, who came flying toward her father on puppet strings before clamping around his legs tightly. “Daddy, please don’t kill him! He’s going to take us to heaven to see God! This is our mission!”

“You heard her, Detective. Caylee is much happier here than she was at home. She’s not your child anymore. She belongs to Jesus Christ now,” said Laguna, still not wiping that smug grin off his slender face.

“Shut up, you snaky piece of shit!” yelled Matt before pistol whipping Laguna’s breakable face repeatedly. Caylee begged and pleaded with her father while pounding on his legs with those tiny child hands. The rest of the choir levitated in on their puppet strings to pull Matt off of their “master”. By the time the detective was being held on the ground, Laguna’s visage was covered in blood and bone splinters.

“My face…my beautiful face…how could you do this to me? How could you do this to the face of God?!” sobbed Laguna as he dropped to his knees clutching his shattered mug. While some children held a struggling Matt to the ground, others circled around Laguna and hugged him tightly while crying drops of pink tears.

“Is this what you call leadership?!” bellowed Matt. “This guy’s not your master! He’s not anyone’s master! He’s a false prophet with a child fetish and he needs to be locked up forever!”

“Don’t talk that way about my new daddy!” shouted Caylee with tears running down her masked face.

Matt’s own eyes were sore and swollen from the sorrow of watching his daughter being ripped away from him by this monster. Detective McQueen’s heart felt like it was being put through a juicer. His stomach felt like he’d taken a liver kick from an MMA champion. “Caylee, please don’t say those things,” begged Matt with all of his soul.

“I hate you, Dad! I hate you! I belong to God now!” shrilled Caylee with her fists at her side.

“Oh, Matthew, don’t you ever get sick of questioning things you don’t understand?” asked the bloodied Laguna Pearman rhetorically. “Don’t you ever get sick of taking my name in vain? You should be. It’s a mortal sin after all. And you know how we punish sinners in my church, don’t you?” That last line was punctuated by Laguna gently rubbing his calloused hand across Caylee’s trembling back.

“Don’t touch my daughter!” roared Matt as he struggled even harder to free himself from the choir’s grips.

Laguna spit out some teeth before he reached down for Matt’s gun (which he dropped on the floor earlier) and pointed the weapon at the wiggly detective. “Looks like your beautiful daughter isn’t the only one who belongs to God now. Rest in peace, Detective McQueen!” Matt wiggled his foot free and kicked Laguna in the ankle, causing his gun blast to accidentally strike one of his pupils in the chest. The false prophet along with his choir watched in horror as the child clutched his wound and bled all over the floor, dying a slow and painful death.

“No…no, no, no! Why, God?! Why would you take this innocent child from me?!” shouted Laguna as he dropped to his knees and shook his fists to the sky. “We’ve done so much for you! We’ve done everything we could to make you happy! Why, my lord! Why?!”

The shocked children’s grips were loosened by this sudden turn of events and Matt shoved them off to earn his freedom. He spear tackled Laguna to the ground and wrestled the gun out of the preacher’s hands. Despite the knee-bending pleas from the choir, Matt unloaded all six rounds into Laguna’s already shattered face, spreading his brains and skull all over the wooden church floor. Caylee shouted, “No!” as she watched the preacher’s blood run down a tiny crack in the floor.

What started out as a kidnapping investigation turned into a full-on massacre for Matt McQueen. His hands trembled as he held his now unloaded gun still in Laguna’s splattered face. The cop slowly climbed to his feet and finally holstered his weapon when the realization set in at what he’d done. Still shaky, yet firm to the core, Matt declared, “Alright, kids. It’s time to go home to your parents. This investigation’s over. Enough with the Halloween bullshit. Take your masks off and load up in the van outside.”

With their puppet strings loosened and their heads hung low, the children, Caylee included, removed their putty-faced masks. When they lifted their heads again, Matt’s newfound resolve shattered into trembling fear. Their faces were even bloodier than Laguna’s was. Their frowns were contorted beyond their natural limits. Some of their teeth and eyes were missing. They even had abscesses that peeled off parts of their faces to reveal their teeth.

“Sorry, Daddy. We warned you!” whispered Caylee. The choir formed a circle around the shivering Matt before jumping on him and chewing at his flesh. The detective’s screams were muffled by the blood pouring out of the hole in his throat. His eyeballs squished and squashed inside the maulers of the deformed children. His blood was slobbered up off the ground and his flesh was ripped and shredded. The final munch came when the evilly smiling Caylee devoured her father’s exposed heart like it was a juicy steak. All that remained of the detective were his bones and small pieces of slashed skin.

As the children lapped down the final pools of blood and chewed the last of their meals like animals, one of them asked, “Hey, Caylee! What should we do with Master Pearman’s body?”

The little brat’s grin never washed away from her bloody face when she said, “We’ve already had our supper for the evening….but we haven’t had dessert yet! Come on, everybody! Sing with me!”

As the choir carried the lifeless body of Laguna Pearman away from the church, they sang in their most innocent voices, “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!”

Chunky Puffs

That Crescent Moon Party was some badass shit. Lots of drinking, lots of dancing, lots of fucking, and not one werewolf in sight. And then Nick Savage wondered why the hell he was tied to a barbecue rack out on the beaches with a spitfire underneath him. He wondered why the hell he had a golden delicious apple in his mouth like a ball gag. The biggest question of all was why were two chubby cannibals with afro hair and grass skirts looking on at him with the most romantic eyes. They made Nick shiver like a naked Eskimo when they licked their fat lips.

In the end, none of those questions mattered to Nick. All he had to do was get the hell out of this contraption before daybreak. With his vampire fangs, he chewed through the apple and swallowed it whole, giving off an obnoxious burp after enjoying his snack. He looked at the confused cannibals with a crazy smile and said, “Well, you know what they say: an apple a day keeps the doctor away. So as soon as the two of you are done checking each other’s prostates, I’d like it if you’d untie me.”

The cannibal on the left started screaming in a tribal language while his friend was holding him back. During their petty argument, Nick could hear them call each other Soa and Tufu. He laughed like an evil clown while the one called Soa angrily asked, “What’s so funny, you pathetic little creature?!”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” said Nick. “I just didn’t think my night was end with me getting eaten alive by two idiots named Soda and Tofu. I suppose that can’t be worse than Gwyneth Paltrow naming her daughter Apple, but hey, who am I to judge?”

Soa was even more aggressive with his thrashing and tribal screaming, but Tufu was there to hold him back. As soon as Soa calmed down, his cohort pulled him aside and the two of them talked in their native language out of ear shot of Nick.

“Hey, retards!” Nick shouted. “If you’re going to try and eat me, do it already! I have a nice juicy ass that you could nibble on. Or if you’d like an even bigger slice of meat, flip me over and I’ll be happy to help.”

Soa and Tufu came back with a gigantic pot of brown gravy with a ladle inside. While Soa was rubbing his hands together and smiling deviously, his friend drizzled the brown sauce all over Nick’s bare chest.

“Wow, that looks appetizing,” said Nick. “You know, if you feed me some Taco Bell, I could do the same thing to the two of you in about half an hour.”

Tufu slammed the pot of gravy down on the sand and pinched Nick’s cheeks together with his massive thumb and fingers. “You want to be a smart ass, little man?” said Tufu. “Keep talking. We’re still going to devour every square inch of your pathetic little body!”

“Every square inch?” asked Nick sarcastically. “Including…you know…those places? This wasn’t exactly how I envisioned getting laid tonight, but if you two want to lose your virginities that bad, I guess there’s nothing I can do.”

Tufu raised his meaty fist in the air and brought it down upon Nick’s mouth. The vampire spit out a fountain of blood in his captor’s face. The two cannibals grinned evilly at their prey while Soa said, “I think our meat needs to be tenderized. We’ll see how tough he really is. Punch him again! Knock those disgusting fangs out of his smart little mouth!”

The second time Tufu went for a punch to the mouth, Nick chewed through the cannibal’s hand and started drinking his blood. While Tufu screamed, Soa tried to pry the vampire’s fangs off of his cohort’s hand. Instead of releasing his alligator grip, Nick took one last bite at his captor’s wrist and swallowed the hand whole. Tufu fell backwards and rolled around in pain while blood squirted from his stump like a volcano.

While Soa knelt beside his friend to try and stop the rapid bleeding, Nick thrashed and struggled in his bonds. He could feel the ropes coming slowly apart with every jerk and twist. Tufu shouted at his partner, “Never mind me! The little bastard is trying to escape!”

Soa looked into Nick’s eyes with fire, fury, and tightly clenched teeth. As the vampire wriggled around, the cannibal picked an axe off the ground and slowly marched toward his victim. Soa drooled so much that he was aggravating the fire underneath his victim. Nick hollered as the rising flames scorched his bare back and burned holes in his blue jeans. The tribal warrior raised his axe and roared like a lion as he brought it down for one death blow to the gut.

While the rising flames turned Nick’s back crispy, they also weakened his bindings. As the axe came down, the vampire hastily brought his now liberated knee into Soa’s hand and caused him to drop the blade into the fire. While Nick’s back was completely blistered and red, the last few ropes were weak enough to break easily. He jumped off the barbecue rack and got in a rapid fist fight with Soa.

The two warriors smashed each other in the face so many times that they bled and bruised instantly. Fists turned to elbows. Elbows turned to knees. All eight limbs were being used to smash the shit out of each other and the resulting bursts of blood built up the fire even more.

The tickle of fire caused Nick to jump into Soa’s arms. Though slightly dizzy, the cannibal looked bloodily and romantically into his victim’s eyes. Nick looked at his tormentor the same way. When both men leaned in to take a bite, it was the vampire who clutched a hold of the cannibal’s jugular vein and drank blood like he was doing a keg challenge at a frat party. Soa’s body became as limp as a noodle, thus signifying his death.

After treating his victim’s blood like an open bar, Nick stumbled around clutching his chest while saying, “I don’t feel so good. I think I’m going to…I think…Jesus Christ…” He coughed violently before dropping to his knees and eventually plopping down on the sand chest first. The coughing became softer until he could no longer move.

Tufu, who had scrambled off to the side with a pile of leaves covering his stump, had finally gotten his bleeding under control to where he was no longer screaming in pain. He looked down at the lifeless Nick Savage with heavy breathing and clenched teeth. Little by little, he trudged over to the corpse while on his knees and started ranting under his breath.

“What’s wrong, little man?” said the last remaining cannibal. “Did you drink too much? Did you have a heart attack? That sucks for you. Too bad there’s nobody out here to give you CPR. I’d give it to you, but your mouth smells like shit and I don’t want to taste it. If you want a kiss so badly, give it to one of your gothic vampire boyfriends!”

Nick began to stir ever so slowly as he reached his hand for his chest once again. “Please…take me to the hospital. I’m having a heart attack. I’m dying!”

“Oh, you’re going to die alright. There may be a crescent moon out tonight, but that doesn’t mean I’m going home hungry. Crescent Moon Party? How insulting is that? We would have hunted your kind down no matter what the skies forecasted!”

The vampire breathed weakly and looked at Tufu with a confused expression. “You’re…you’re a werewolf?”

“Surprise, surprise, little man!” said Tufu with a hearty chuckle. “Just because I don’t walk around with fur everywhere, doesn’t mean I can’t chow down on your disgusting body anytime I want. I’m sick of waiting around for a full moon! If Mother Nature doesn’t give me what I want, I’ll just take it from her filthy, rotting hands!”

A tired smile formed across Nick’s face as he said, “Thank you, Tofu. Thank you…for giving me Soda as a delicious meal…and for showing everybody here what idiots you werewolves really are. Crescent Moon Party? Give me a fucking break. We’re not scared of you. On the contrary…” The suddenly healthy vampire floated in the air and aligned his feet with the sand to stand upright. “You should be scared of us!”

Tufu looked around in the fiery light and saw that Nick’s vampire friends were surrounding him in a circle. The trench-coat donning creatures of the night licked their lips and bore their fangs. Some of them started touching their own bodies in a sexual manner to signify how hungry for blood they really were. A fat-ass like Tufu would feed them well.

“No…no, no, no! This is ridiculous! I’ve been set up!” shouted the fearful werewolf.

“You’ve been set up alright, Chunky Puff. Let me ask you a question: who’s the real cannibal around here? Creatures of the night, dinner is served!”

"The Silence of the Lambs" by Thomas Harris

BOOK TITLE: The Silence of the Lambs
AUTHOR: Thomas Harris
YEAR: 1988
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Psychological Thriller
GRADE: Pass


Newest FBI recruit Clarice Starling is thrown straight into the line of duty when her latest assignment comes in the form of capturing an elusive serial killer nicknamed Buffalo Bill. To gain insight on Bill’s whereabouts, Clarice must visit an insane asylum and have frequent chats with another serial killer, Hannibal Lecter. The more the two of them talk, the more Clarice realizes that Hannibal is playing mind games with her instead of helping her track a serial killer. He becomes increasingly stubborn when a Tennessee senator’s daughter is taken by Buffalo Bill and the victim only has a week to live, give or take, before she’s officially murdered.

Serial killing is disturbing enough on its own. Thomas Harris managed to make the villainous act even more disgusting with the addition of Buffalo Bill and Hannibal Lecter. Buffalo Bill’s claim to infamy is hunting down random women and peeling their skin off like a banana before leaving them floating in the swampy river. Hannibal Lecter isn’t any more of a humanitarian since he cannibalizes his victims with a side of fava beans and a glass of wine. These two serial killers act as though their frightening habits are normal everyday occurrences. What’s that? Peeling the skin off of a big breasted woman to make a vest? Why not act nonchalant about it? Feeding an unwitting former patient the remains of a cannibalistic supper and having that patient develop anorexia afterwards? Nope, nothing wrong here.

Luckily for the victims of both serial killers, the FBI doesn’t quit. In fact, the methods and science behind every investigation would lead me to believe that either Thomas Harris is a former investigator or he spent tireless hours on research. Either way, he makes putting the reader’s trust into Clarice Starling and other investigators that much more believable. No stone is left unturned from what clothing stores the victims shopped at to where the insects in their throats came from to what kinds of wounds Buffalo Bill is inflicting on his opponents. This brand of science reminds me of what Abby Sciuto and Ducky Mallard do on “NCIS”. But this book was written in 1988, so Clarice Starling didn’t have the benefit of Google, GPS trackers, or quick access to facial recognition software. She had to do all of this the grueling old school way.

But we know that Clarice will be okay in the end because the reader will recognize her as a strong character. She’s been though a lot in her life and most of her trauma is brought to light in her conversations with Hannibal Lecter. In addition to having a brain full of nightmare fuel, she also has to put up with authority figures not believing in her at first, which is natural for a green agent, but even more so for a woman. This is a woman with a lot to prove and when she finally puts two and two together, it was the result of hard research and a tough mind. She’s running on fumes, but every mile counts for something. She lets nothing go to waste and she never will. If you still doubt her by the end of this novel, then you’re a hard son of a bitch to please.

Silence of the Lambs has gained a reputation over the years of being disturbing and frightening to even the toughest of minds, especially now that there’s been a movie made out of it. Hannibal Lecter’s name gets used in just about every conversation about psychopaths and murderers. Hell, he was even used in a joke on “Whose Line Is it Anyway?” when the Scenes from a Hat prompt was “Things you don’t want to hear after eating dinner.” With a twisted mind and a college professor’s knowledge of what he’s writing about, Thomas Harris has created a masterpiece and a legacy that will last for generations to come, probably in the form of PTSD or schizophrenia.

Ottie-Doo

The Skull Hammer Cult walked the Earth in search of the ultimate paradise and somehow landed in the backwoods area of Paulson City. Their official church was an old schoolhouse from the 1800’s, a one-classroom compound with broken pieces of wood holding it together and stale red paint coming off in flakes. There used to be a beautiful golden bell at the top of the steeple, but it had since been replaced by the symbol of the Skull Hammer Cult, which was an iron skull minus a jaw with a sledgehammer going through its cranium.

Inside this official church, children ranging from little ones to teenagers were sitting in their desks praying and dancing around like creepy little puppets, waiting for their master to return. Randy Fender, the cult master in question, dredged through the front door carrying what appeared to be a dead cat. Its mouth was bleeding and one eye was hanging out of its socket. Instead of being frightened by this, the children’s eyes lit up like Christmas bulbs as they clapped their hands happily at their masters arrival.

Randy, dressed in a smelly blue mechanic’s jumpsuit and a black demon mask, approached the center of the schoolhouse and laid the dead cat on the altar, its rancid corpse making the ugly Skull Hammer symbol even worse to look at.

Mr. Fender looked among the children and said, “Do you see this? This, my brothers and sisters, is what we’ve been looking for this whole time. Not just a source of tonight’s delicious meal, but this wicked creature holds our key to salvation. This cat is imbued with magical powers, powers that once possessed can make us stronger than we’ve ever been. No mere mortal shall stand in our way to paradise. Wait no longer, children. Take the first bite!”

The hypnotized children waved and wiggled their fingers over the cat’s corpse, as if to anticipate how this magical feast will taste to their young palettes. And then the cat’s body began to glow in a mystical purple aura, which made the little ones even more excited than they already were.

They were forced to take a few steps backward, however, when the cat corpse came to life and stood on all four paws. After letting out a long-winded yawn and popping her eyeball back in its socket with her fuzzy paw, the kitty looked around the schoolhouse to see what all the hubbub was about.

“Yes! This is exactly the proof we needed!” shouted an exhilarated Randy. “I knew I picked the right one! I knew it the minute I laid eyes on this poor tortured pussycat!”

The cat gave a confused look and said, “What the hell are you talking about, you whack job? I’m not a poor tortured pussycat. I’m the kitty sage Ottie-Doo. Call me Ottie for short.”

“Wow!” said one of the children. “She can talk!”

Randy grabbed the kid by the back of the neck and sternly warned him, “Remember what I said when I first met you: don’t speak until spoken to, little one!”

“Put that boy down, you monster!” yelled Ottie before she waved her paw and threw a green lightning bolt at Randy Fender’s hand, the sharp pain causing him to yelp and let go.

“So, you’re not only a magical kitty who can talk, but when you do talk, you’re a total smart-ass! I don’t like your attitude, little kitten. These children know better than anybody what happens to little smarmy-mouthed wise-asses in my Skull Hammer Cult. Children? Show this precious feline what I’m talking about!”

“Wait!” shouted Ottie. “Do you children really want to listen to this man? Look at him! He’s less than human! I’m a dingy old cat myself, so that’s saying a lot! Seriously, what do you young ones see in this disgusting man?!”

No response from the children, only wild red eyes and drooling mouths. Randy said, “You were saying, little kitten?”

“Do what you wish to me, demon man, but no harm shall come to these children!” threatened Ottie-Doo.

The kids laughed in throaty, monstrous voices as they closed in on the kitty with their arms stretched out like zombies. The witch kitty floated in the air with pink stardust fluttering underneath her. The kids stared in awe as she flew around the schoolhouse showing off her magical powers. Her biggest trick yet was forming a ball of orange electrical and fiery energy in her paws and chucking it at Randy Fender’s demonic face.

If the cocky cult leader wasn’t wearing a mask, he would be showing off his creepy confidence as he grabbed a nearby child and used him as a human shield. The magical ball exploded the small child, but not into blood and guts. Instead the little boy turned into a pile of maggots, worms, and beetles. It was a sight that made Ottie-Doo watch on in shock and horror as she floated near the ceiling.

“You can’t save these children, witch cat,” said Randy. “They’ve been converted to my minions a long time ago. So many tearful parents are wondering right now if they’ll ever get their children back. Maybe they will someday. But then again, when your body is loaded with parasitic creatures, would any parent want you back in the first place?” The evil cult leader laughed his head off.

The louder and throatier Randy laughed, the angrier it made Ottie-Doo. Her fuzzy paws were curled into fists of fury and her old lady teeth were cracking underneath her jaws. A cyclone of blue lightning and wind encircled her as she prepared for her next magic spell. Randy was already one step ahead of her when he knelt down to peel back a floor board and pulled out a gigantic battleaxe, which was also glowing with blue energy.

“Just to show you how far gone these children are, Miss Ottie-Doo, let me show you just how much they’re willing to sacrifice to make me stronger!” With that said, Randy held out the glowing battleaxe and one by one the children dissolved into a puddle of worms. The worms crawled all around Randy and were gathering around the metal axe, the blade absorbing their spiritual essences. This horrific sight struck even more fear and doubt in the heart of Ottie-Doo as her magical energy was dwindling and she was sinking to the ground below.

She hung her elderly kitty head feeling like a failure to these poor children. Then again, if they were made of worms and maggots, maybe their childlike forms were merely a mind game. So many thoughts raced through her mind as she tried to wrap her head around what this Randy Fender asshole was doing.

She couldn’t take too long to think, however, as she dodged out of the way in the nick of time when the blade came crashing down. Big Randy swung that battleaxe like a berserker, shattering every piece of wood he hit into sawdust. Ottie bounced around and dodged every single shot. She even found herself running along the walls just to avoid getting slashed with this magical weapon.

“You’re gonna die, bitch! You’re gonna die badly!” screamed Randy when he took off his demon mask and revealed the face of a hideously scarred and tattooed psychopath. The sight of his hideous face made Ottie curl up into a ball of fear as her eyes leaked with salty tears. She didn’t feel like she could fight such a monster anymore. He was too big, too fast, and too monstrous. Ottie was just an elderly cat who literally slept like a corpse.

Randy charged over to a cornered Ottie with the blade held high. With one final swing, he was going to break this “annoying” cat into a million pieces. But just as the blade came crashing down, Ottie had one last hope for victory. Randy’s attacks were relying solely on reckless momentum. Therefore, Ottie used telekinesis to use his own momentum against him. Instead of cutting through the elderly witch kitty, the axe took a magical detour into Randy’s stomach.

The cult master never saw this coming behind his own rage. The spirits of dead children were flying out of his body and out of his axe while the ultra-evil Randy Fender melted into a puddle of maggots and worms himself. The parasites dissolved into little puddles of blood and the last of the children spirits flew away into the night sky. With just one small opening, Ottie-Doo ended this battle.

But at what price? Those kids were beyond help. Whatever Randy Fender did to them would put a strain on the parents forever. All Ottie could do was tuck her head and meow softly to herself. She won the battle, but lost the war.

Just when she was about to spend this evening in a crying slumber, she felt a gentle touch on top of her kitty head. Ottie looked up and saw one of the spirit children smiling a beautiful smile at her, just like all children should. In no uncertain terms, the child spirit had only one thing to say to her savior: “Thank you!”

"The Collection" by Bentley Little

If Stephen King considers you to be a great horror writer, take that honor with pride. Bentley Little was skillful enough as an author to receive such an honor. And why wouldn’t he? His anthology of short stories known as “The Collection” is just one example of how dark and screwed up of a place his mind is. No matter which one of the stories you’re reading, you’re always guaranteed extra time trying to clean yourself off in the shower. Absolutely nothing is off limits to Mr. Little when it comes to plot devices, be it child molestation, chainsaw slashings, degenerate crazies, religious sacrifices, or, one of my all time favorites, a bunch of zombies dressing up in Revolutionary War outfits and scaring the crap out of a guy named Mike Franks. That last item comes from a story called “The Washingtonians”, where George Washington is revealed to be a cannibalistic psychopath whose cherry tree story turns out to be him raping small children and hence, taking their cherries. If it sounds over-the-top and somewhat giggly, it’s because it is. If you really want to know what the hell goes on in Bentley Little’s mind, by all means, go to his home in Arizona and ask him…that is, if you can find him. Mr. Little made himself a tad bit difficult to locate. You know who else was hard to locate? Ted Kaczynski also known as the Unibomer. The Unibomber loved to live in the woods and build his destructive devices. And Bentley Little? Well, he loves to live in seclusion and build destructive stories that’ll have you swallowing Xanax like candy. And Bentley has the shaggy beard to prove it. If you’re not already creeped out by this somewhat hyperbolic comparison, then don’t let me stop you from buying a copy of “The Collection”. But I must advise you: if the thought of Mr. Little being compared to Ted Kaczynski in terms of physical image gives you a nervous and cold stomach, you probably won’t make it passed the first page of the book, where religious whackos nailing people and animals to crosses will be the first thing that haunts your mind like a schizophrenic voice. Who knows? Maybe once you get passed the first chapter, you’ll need someone to turn the pages for you since your arms will be trapped in a straightjacket! Just saying!

　

***DOMESTIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Garrison, quit laughing like a crazy person!”

-My niece Reina-