This Has Been a Gracie Films Presentation

 

Serial Contrarian

VERSE 1: SERIAL CONTRARIAN

Listen up, my opinions are the only ones worth having

I’m taking off the kid gloves, we don’t need the extra padding

Your favorite show sucks, it only made a hundred bucks

Your favorite album’s trash, it’s not worth the change and cash

Your favorite food is ass, it takes a million years to pass

World’s first anal stone, it’ll break your tailbone

You can’t walk away from a friendly debate

Or else you’re the one who’s fascist and full of all the hate

 

CHORUS 1: ME

Serial contrarians are no different from the Aryans

We can’t have nice things, ‘cause we’re ruled by kings

Can’t I have five minutes where you shut the fuck up?

I’d probably get five seconds with my kind of luck

 

VERSE 2: SERIAL CONTRARIAN

Audiobooks don’t count, because you can’t see the words

They’re like campfire stories, in case you haven’t heard

I’m not trying to be ableist, that’s why I like AI

‘Cause we all know the dunderheads never score high

 

CHORUS 2: ME

Serial contrarians are filled up with arrogance

Just leave my stuff alone, ‘cause it’s where I call home

Can’t I have a moment so that I can sit and think?

I’m just buying time until you push me to the brink

 

VERSE 3: SERIAL CONTRARIAN

Unpack your bags and get out of the Uber

Did you forget that I’m famous and a powerful YouTuber?

If you break up with me, you violate the First Amendment

Court of public opinion, you’re the obvious defendant

I’ll make a thousand hit pieces and rack up ad money

Until you come back, kiss my cheek, call me honey

You’re more likely to come packing a loaded 45

I brushed up on Algospeak, now my ass is unalived

 

CHORUS 3: ME

Serial contrarians are just techno-libertarians

And now they’re all cancelled for being big assholes

They’ll never change their ways, so it’s time to walk away

With my head held high as I flip the bird goodbye

Serial contrarians are ripping out their hair again

They can keep from turning pink if they’d just see a shrink

But therapy is heresy, at least that’s what they’ll say

So they walk among the sheep and let out a loud bray

Hadag Nahash X Sigmund Freud: Unwanted, But Necessary Relationship Advice

 

Billy Idol vs. the Drama Queen: And the Daytime Emmy For Best Actress Goes to...

 

Larck Fontana, Arguing Wife from "Happy Fun Land"

 

Hughy Casey, Petty Argument Bystander from "Happy Fun Land"

 

Unwanted Relationship Advice, Pt. 1 (Happy Valentine's Day!)

 

Civil Discourse Is an Oxymoron

VERSE 1

It’s not civil discourse when you say, “Get a job!”

And then you play the victim of the online mob

You started jacking your jaw about made up laws

That justify the killing of random dudes chilling

We have the right to exist, it’s what I’ll always insist

I’ll die on this hill when the coppers shoot to kill

Master debating is just political theater

There is no “both sides” to a husband beating her

 

CHORUS

Civil discourse is an oxymoron

When our eyes are fiery like Sauron

When our veins bulge and faces turn red

Lies are force-fed until too many are dead

 

VERSE 2

Military intelligence and jumbo shrimp

Got nothing on a fake badass being a pimp

Except when his hoes are in tactical clothes

They sold their souls for the king they chose

Moderate terrorism and AI art

Across-the-aisle marriages with no broken hearts

Human rights violators who make the best of friends

But when they get dumped, they call it Gen Z trends

 

CHORUS

Civil discourse is an oxymoron

When our eyes are fiery like Sauron

When our veins bulge and faces turn red

Lies are force-fed until too many are dead

 

BRIDGE

If you want to debate my right to live

You have to take it about as well as you give

Otherwise, you’re an Alpha in name only

Got yourself to blame for being empty and lonely

 

EXTENDED CHORUS

Civil discourse is an oxymoron

When our eyes are fiery like Sauron

When our veins bulge and faces turn red

Lies are force-fed until too many are dead

Remember that when you go to bed

And the joy-bringers rent space in your head

And your brain melted from pumping gasoline with lead

Lies and slander are always everything you said

It was never a debate, it was an hour of hate

You forgot your Klan hood and your crucifix wood

You forgot your gas can and cigarette lighter

No more burning crosses, no need for firefighters

Jimmy Kimmel vs. Sean Hannity

 

Bullet With a Name On It

…I’m not a violent person. I don’t carry a gun with me at all times. The last time I got in a fight was in high school. It was a miserable defeat to a guy who mounted my chest and punched me so many times that I got a black eye, numb cheeks, and chewing difficulties. One of the administrators cracked a terrible joke about how I was a lover and not a fighter. I’d expect that kind of humor in the UFC or WWE, but not at school. But I suppose there was some truth in that joke, because ever since that day, I’ve responded to any amount of stress the same way: freezing like Walt Disney eating a popsicle in the middle of a tundra. Fight and flight are gone. Freezing is all that remains. Staying perfectly still and not being confrontational is supposed to be a survival mechanism. But what am I surviving?

 

While I don’t have a violent life or a criminal history of any kind…I have so many violent thoughts swirling in my head. So many people have taken advantage of my freezing response and said whatever the hell they wanted, like the first amendment was made specifically for assholes. No amethyst colors here, just red, white, and blue. I’ve been fat-shamed, called the R-slur, called a pussy for not joining the military, I’ve had slanderous rumors spread about me, and I’ve been accused of laziness when I didn’t want to get a job and go to school at the same time. These people who abused their first amendment rights…they bear the brunt of these violent thoughts. So...many…violent…thoughts…

 

Punches in bunches. Sprawling and brawling. Knees to the face. Kicks to the balls. Maybe a piledriver if I’m feeling strong that day. Hell, let’s go full UFC and throw in a rear naked chokehold. In my brain I’m undefeated, even against well-trained marines and martial arts blackbelts. I justify these victories by saying, “Whose dick did they have to suck in order to get those accolades?” I’m sure they can explain the bruises on their faces, but how will they explain the bruises on the inside of their mouths to their dentist? Dentists can tell what you’ve been up to in the bedroom. Or under the sensei’s desk, wherever you feel more comfortable.

 

But it’s not just unarmed brawling that I fantasize about. Sometimes I’m armed and dangerous. Sometimes I’ve got a big fucking knife. Sometimes I justify those knife victories by saying, “A blackbelt doesn’t give you puncture-proof skin.” Come to think of it…what is a blackbelt good for anyways? Holding up your pants so that we don’t have to look at your Sailor Moon crotchless panties? That kind of intimate wear would never withstand a few strokes from a big ass knife. And neither would your skin. Just hack, slash, hack, slash, an arm there, a leg there, a throat somewhere else, and a glorious bloodbath that will never make me want to shower ever again.

 

But why is it just melee ranged weapons? Why I can’t I shoot a gun? Surely, it can’t be that hard to shoot a gun. It’s like using America Online: point and click. Maybe I’m oversimplifying complicated technology, but remember, it’s my brain, I’m undefeated. If some bozo driving an obnoxiously large truck drives by me and shouts the F-slur, I’ve got a bullet with his name on it. It’s weird to think about, because in order to have a bullet with somebody’s name on it, I have to know that person’s name. Drive-by loudmouths don’t give you their name or any information about them. That’s a big part of what makes them cowards. Not only do they shout their shit, but they drive away before facing any real consequences. Sure, your truck has a badass engine, but can your truck outrun a bullet? Will a V8 engine matter if there’s a bullet in the gas tank? Will all the horsepower in the world matter if the bullet shatters glass and that glass cuts you up? And what good is driving a truck if the driver gets shot and the vehicle flips on its back? Drive-by loudmouths don’t think about these things in advance. Then again, I wouldn’t call anything they do thinking.

 

Violent fantasies are so much fun to have. I love bathing in blood. I love listening to screams. I love the symphonic melodies of bones snapping and organs sloshing. I love listening to my insulters plead for their lives only to lose them anyways. But it’s important to remember that these are fantasies. They don’t exist outside of my brain. If they did, there would be serious consequences. Seeing this many dead bodies would break so many hearts. I’d have my own broken heart as I sit alone in a prison cell with regret on my mind. That’s what you have to remember as you go through life with an imagination: fantasy and reality are not one in the same. That’s why people caution against porn being unrealistic. Porn isn’t designed to tell a realistic story. It has one purpose: to help masturbators achieve an orgasm by any means necessary. If you can’t separate fantasy from reality, you’re already waiting to get fucked.

 

So go ahead and listen to gangsta rap on repeat. Dream of killing your enemies in cold blood. Drink that cold blood like it’s as refreshing as Coca-Cola. Hell, you can even write about some of these daydreams in your stories if you’re an author of some sort. But that comes with its own set of responsibilities. As authors, everything you put on the paper is held in high esteem. Your readers will take everything you say literally and they’ll apply it to their own way of thinking. That doesn’t mean they’re stupid, but they are impressionable. If you’re being held up as an arbiter of truth and you tell a bunch of violent or sexual lies, that’s going to have a bad influence on your readers. Think of all the BDSM rookies who wound up in the hospital after reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Think of all the women who will get pregnant because of birth control misinformation in The Missus, which is written by the same author. You can have your bloody fantasies on paper, but don’t lead your audience astray.

 

If you’re watching Quentin Tarantino movies, don’t duct tape your enemy to a chair and cut his ear off while dancing to 70’s music. If you’re watching WWE television from the 2000’s, don’t simulate sex with a corpse as a way of insulting someone who wronged you. If you’re watching Mind of Mencia and I hope to god you’re not, don’t throw racial slurs haphazardly and then later wonder why you’re being “canceled”. And by the way, cancel culture isn’t real. If you write a shitty story chock full of irresponsible violence and rape, your audience has the right to react in a negative way, because criticism isn’t censorship. Criticism is the other half of free speech.

 

If you must have violent fantasies, reign them in. Don’t unleash them out into the real world. If you’re a peaceful guy in real life, but you have violent fantasies, don’t let anybody judge you for it. Truth is, everybody thinks about violence at least once in their life. At least once, don’t let them lie to you. Nobody’s this candid about their violent fantasies, but we all have them. Some are more mild than others, but they still exist. It’s a normal part of the human experience. Thinking about something is a healthy way to process it. Thinking is the best way to travel. Doing these things in real life will cause so much heartache, for you and your victims. And for the love of god…don’t join the military just because you happen to be good at playing Halo.

Fighting with My Friends

VERSE 1

I got vaccinated, I got educated

I thought that’d be the end, but now I’m fighting with my friends

Every autumn moon to a boiling hot June

I’ve got to defend from my own friends

They call it a debate, I call it pure hate

A never-ending trend is that I’m fighting with my friends

Fight for no reason but familial treason

Let’s not pretend we’re not fighting with our friends

VERSE 2

I take a battle axe to your alternative facts

Hit me ‘til I’m dead, so much for being friends

Blame me for the end, no fences to mend

Covered in blood for fighting with my friends

It’s no use to pretend it’s not abuse

Beat me ‘til I bend, because I’m fighting with my friends

Use your country’s flag as a Molotov rag

Burn the bridges red, can’t go back to being friends

BRIDGE

Dust to dust, ash to ash

In myself I trust, all others pay cash

Sounds like a joke to the outer circle

Laugh that shit up while you burp and gurgle

You don’t know what the fuck I’ve been through

Keep on laughing until your face is navy blue

Fighting with the enemy is one little thing

It’s ten times worse when you’re under someone’s wing

FINAL LINES

Fighting with my friends!

Fighting with my allies!

Fighting the whole world!

Everyone’s a bad guy!

Why

CHORUS 1

Why, Garrison, why?

Why did you leave me alone?

Why, Garrison, why?

Why won’t you pick up the phone?

VERSE 1

Because you came to my turf looking for a fight

After I just worked my ass off all fucking night

Tired and sore, I couldn’t wait to leave your sight

You called me chicken shit, though you weren’t even right

Good friends always carry a butterfly knife

So they can put it in my back, put an end to my life

But all you really did was sever our ties

I won’t accept apologies, because they’re all lies

CHORUS 2

Why, Garrison, why?

Why are you holding a grudge?

Why, Garrison, why?

Why won’t you ever budge?

VERSE 2

After so many years, you showed your true colors

They were brown and yellow, literally no others

Anyone stuck in middle school gym class

Knows that they’re colors left by dogs in the grass

You crawled straight out of the devil’s ass

Goosestepped into infinite with the clones en masse

You got your hand in the air like you just don’t care

The disenfranchised left you with a thousand-yard stare

CHORUS 3

Why, Garrison, why?

What did I do that was wrong?

Why, Garrison, why?

Why can’t you just be strong?

VERSE 3

Real strength doesn’t come from a clip and magazine

Do you disagree? That’s a bad faith fallacy

Real strength comes from knowing when to walk away

From a toxic piece of shit who leads me astray

You could love-bomb me until the apocalypse happens

But that sinking ship has sailed and you are the captain

I on the other hand am the king of my life, dude

Stop swinging from my nuts, what are you, my waifu?

CHORUS 4

Why, Garrison, why?

I need some answers

Why, Garrison, why?

Why can’t I be your favorite dancer?

FINAL LINE

Because I said so, you sick prick

Finding Treasure

 Every last page of the treasure map has led you to this. Gold, glorious gold, beautiful gold, showers of gold…wait a minute…Anyways, now that you’ve found these mountains of lovely gold coins underneath the waterfall, you send your pirate crew to haul it onboard your vessel. As you sail away with the precious treasure, you fantasize about what you’ll spend your newfound fortune on. A much-needed vacation? An elaborate mansion? Women? Lots and lots of women? Men? Non-binaries?

Your mind races at a million miles an hour at the possibilities. And then...your train of thought has been derailed when your ship snaps in two like a twig. You and your crew are left floating around the seven seas like turds in a punchbowl. Yes, you’ve got your treasure after all of this hard work…but even your mighty vessel wasn’t strong enough to store it all. You overloaded your fucking ship and sank the damn thing. Way to go, champ! You truly are a million dollar baby and the seven seas have gotten even choppier with the addition of your salty tears.

Everybody wants to find treasure. Everybody wants to live beyond their means. Everybody fantasizes about the high life. But in the midst of their fantasies, they forget the logistics of undertaking such a quest. It’s like the episode of South Park with the underpants gnomes. Phase one, steal underwear. Phase two...Phase three, profit. The gnomes don’t know what phase two is and neither do the pirate captains looking for treasure.

That scenario I painted for you in the above paragraphs was actually the ending scene for Captain William Kidd from the 90’s fighting game World Heroes 2. He got so greedy for his beautiful gold that he took too much of it and it sank his ship. Captain Kidd is a lot of things in that game. He’s a great fighter, no doubt. He’s got friendly dialogue. Now we can add one more quality to his resume: dumbassery. Is that a word? It probably could be if English snobs are willing to let words like “avast, ye matey” float by without examination.

So…when constructing your story about treasure hunting, you first have to ask what it is your sea captain is looking for. It doesn’t always have to be ultra-heavy gold coins. It doesn’t even have to be multiple items. It could be a magical gem. It could be a weapon. It could be a key to the gates of heaven. It could be a book. If you think Potterheads camping outside of Barnes & Noble takes dedication, you’ve never met a sea captain who searches far and wide for a book of secrets beneath the Atlantic Ocean.

Anything can be a valuable treasure if you put enough stock into it. Even another human being can be considered a valuable treasure. Maybe the sea captain is looking for a sexy siren who when discovered will become his wife for all eternity. Sounds great in theory, but it’s not exactly healthy relationship material if one party has too much power over the other.

Okay, so you know what you want your sea captain to look for. How do they get it? Do they have access to a treasure map? If so, how difficult was it to find? Did they have to wrestle it out of the hands of an orcish army? An ogre bruiser? A sneaky goblin? What about the map itself? Is it just one sheet of paper or is it a fucking novel the size of Webster’s Dictionary? Is the map even in plain English or does the captain need a translator to accompany him on his treasure hunt? Does the translator know how to fight or will they be swallowed whole by a bloodthirsty kraken? If you really wanted to be a dick to your main character, you could have the map come in the form of a thick novel with missing pages scattered all over the world, each of them in a different foreign language. How many times can your sea captain’s patience be tested before they say, “Fuck it, I’ll live on the streets?”

As if finding the missing pages to a treasure map wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass, getting from point A to point B is full of obstacles that grind the captain’s patience down to nothing. I’ve already mentioned bloodthirsty krakens who’ll eat entire armies alive with just one bite, but not before they’re wrapped in the pirate ship’s mast and eaten like Hot Pockets. What about other pirates, though? Surely, you’re not so arrogant to believe you’re the only one who wants the treasure, right? That’s why psychology experts warn You Tube consumers not to fall in love with content creators: because there’s an army of watchers who feel the same way and the chances of you being chosen are pretty fucking slim. 

So who are these other pirates going after your forbidden treasure? Skeletons? Orcs? Zombies? Dragon people? Or maybe they’re just ordinary humans. You can breathe a sigh of relief if the latter is the case, right? Not if they’re armed with AK-47’s and all you’ve got is a measly cutlass. I guarantee you Captain William Kidd wouldn’t stand a chance against Somali pirates. He can only throw the Shark Knuckle and Shark Upper so many times before he’s pumped full of lead. Those fighters in World Heroes 2 never really accounted for firearms, did they?

If the other pirates don’t kick the shit out of you, I guarantee that the oceans and general shitty weather will. Have you ridden on a boat with choppy waves before? I have. I was vacationing in Mexico in 2017 and part of my vacation was riding on a banana boat. Because the waves were rough and heavy, I fell off the damn boat and screamed for help until the lifeguards rescued me. The only reason why I didn’t scream earlier was because my head was underwater and bubbles don’t exactly translate well to above-surface lifeguards. 

If you’re sailing the seven seas, chances are good that you’ll be bounced up and down by the rolling waves. Your crew will be jostled around so many times that some of them may even fall off the ship never to be seen again. And that’s just the ocean. What about the rain? And the lightning? Suppose the only translator you have for your overly-complex map gets struck by lightning and dies? Then he gets tossed overboard by the nasty-ass waves? You talk about being lost at sea? Bitch, you’ll be lucky if you’re ever found again. The Coast Guard ain’t going to save your ass, because if they were capable of doing so, they would have found the treasure long before you ever did.

You know those motivational quotes that tell you to take risks without thinking too much about the consequences of failure? They seem inspirational at first, but overall, it’s shitty advice, especially if you’re a sea captain. You have to think about the risk-reward factor all the time. Is it worth the danger of being swallowed whole by the sea? Is it worth being gutted alive by a skeleton crew’s cutlasses? Is it worth the sleepless nights? Is it worth being so tired that you’re constantly on the edge of having a stroke, heart attack, aneurism, or all three at the same time?

What will you do once you’ve found this sacred treasure? Will you save it for a rainy day (one that preferably doesn’t take place during your travels)? Will you spend it all at once on hookers and beer and be right back to where you started in a week’s time? Will you use the mountains of gold coins to pay your bills? Does your landlord or debt collector even accept gold coins as currency? Suppose your landlord says, “Sorry, we don’t accept Canadian money.” Your ass is out on the streets in a big fucking hurry. But at least you found your treasure! Right?

Even if you as an author don’t plan on writing a treasure hunting story of any kind, this can still be a valuable lesson in thinking things through before you rush into a project. If you improvise everything, you’ll have a shitty first draft and a lot of work ahead of you. If you plan everything in advance down to the finest detail, you’ll still have a shitty first draft, but you won’t have nearly as much work to do. I wish I heeded this advice when I started pumping out first drafts left and right. 

One of the biggest criticisms I’ve ever received (aside from having too many saggy jowled dogs and fat male villains) was that I don’t take authority and culture into account when creating my worlds. I’ve often been asked, “Where are the cops?” My logical answer would have been that I want the MC to get the credit for the victory, not the cops. If the cops can solve everything, why have a story at all? Fair point, but the cops and authority figures still matter in every story. Or maybe the country is 100% anarchy and everybody solves their own damn problems. No matter what the case, it’s good to establish these things so that they’re clear to the reader.

But just because a fine eye for detail is required for any writing project, doesn’t mean you have to explain every…little…thing to the reader. There are some obvious parts of your world that you can trust your readers to form pictures of by themselves. Your book shouldn’t be overly long explanations sandwiching the crucial action and drama of your story. That shit just gets boring after a short while. I’ve DNFed books that took too long explaining everything, case in point, the first Game of Thrones book. The author wouldn’t shut his yap about the details of the characters’ clothes and histories, so the action suffered because of it. I would argue that Empress Theresa is the worst offender when it comes to over-explaining things. Then again, Empress Theresa is the worst offender no matter what category you’re talking about.

Finding a nice balance between over-explaining and not thinking at all about the extra details is paramount to a readable book, whether you’re writing about treasure hunting or not. Treasure hunting is just one genre that deserves this middle ground. It could also be true of contemporary dramas where the world-building details are the same as what we experience in real life. So maybe when Captain William Kidd washes up on the shore, he can build another pirate ship and only take half the gold this time around. And then he’d have to find a way to convert that gold into modern day money. If he really was the devious pirate he claimed to be, he could start his own pyramid scheme with that amount of gold. And then when he finally gets taken to court, he can bypass prison altogether and wind up in the safety of a nut house, because no modern day human being talks or dresses the way he does unless it’s Halloween. See? Details matter!

The Babylon Killers

VERSE 1
He takes award-winning pictures of sensual snacks
It’s the locker room photographer Rutherford Jax
Exposing your flaws with just one snapshot
Micro dick and two cherries are all you’ve got
Sell your dark secrets to the highest bidders
Your mother, your father, and your babysitter
Your boss, your woman, and the public at large
The highest prices are all that he’ll charge

CHORUS 1
It ain’t no mystery wrapped up in a thriller
No sock puppets here, just The Babylon Killers!

VERSE 2
Every time you call journalism a mental disease
You have to get passed Miss Emerald Ruiz
A hit piece that knocks the air out of your lungs
Emasculates your balls, soprano songs are sung
Whether you’re a racist, a sexist, or worse
Your own words and actions are your own curse
Canceled for waving your confederate flag
Savaged everywhere for calling gay people “fags”

CHORUS 2
Your slurs and your whining are newspaper filler
No brainwashed zealots, just The Babylon Killers!

VERSE 3
If the right to fight is still haunting your dreams
Let me introduce your ass to Matthew Scream
You can throw the first punch for no price
When he throws one back, grab the bag of ice
Knees to your gut and boots to your nuts
Teeth to your neck, such delicious blood
Fingers in your eyes, you can tap out or die
Who’s the snowflake now? Go have a good cry

CHORUS 3
No lies for a prize, just some hard truth spillers
No boot lickers here, just The Babylon Killers!

VERSE 4
You’re a keyboard warrior with multiple personas
You’d say and do anything as long as you’re noticed
You’d break the law while flapping your jaw
You know we’ll fight back, it’s the final straw
Use your own bullying tactics against you
Until there’s nobody left to defend you
You’re a sad little lad who’s clearly gone mad
All because you couldn’t hack it, too damn bad

CHORUS 4
You’ve got sock puppets, but you’re an army of one
We’re The Babylon Killers, until the job is done
You’ve got nothing left but some ashes and tears
I’ve got The Babylon Killers and nothing to fear
And nothing to lose, not even a little snooze
Fucking with me is not a road you want to choose
If you gave up your campaign of venom and rage
You’d have something better than a crappy page

Cancelproof

VERSE 1
You can’t take away what you never gave me
I’m resigned to the fact that nothing can save me
I never sold out because I had nothing to sell
Nobody ever noticed when I was burning in hell
You never heard my name until I made the mistake
You never heard the sound of my cold heart break
You think my ass is over? It never even started
Nobody even cared when I joined the departed

CHORUS
Over my head, I’ve still got a roof
I can still be numb, I can still be aloof
Can still be the one who knows the truth
Lay down your arms, because I’m cancelproof

VERSE 2
A one man army against the whole fucking world
I’m clutching my machete, you’re clutching pearls
The battle will be over in just a tiny little while
When somebody else doesn’t conform to your style

CHORUS
Over my head, I’ve still got a roof
I can still be numb, I can still be aloof
Can still be the one who knows the truth
Lay down your arms, because I’m cancelproof

BRIDGE
A bible thumping troll is nobody’s friend
An alt-right sadist feels brave after hitting “send”
Did you think I was buddy-buddy with you?
Get fucking real and tighten your loose screw

VERSE 3
Fighting with you is like pulling out teeth
Acid reflux is much more enjoyable to me
I’d rather be water-boarded five hundred times
Than go toe-to-toe with the internet slime
Nobody changed their minds after the war
We’re still pissed off, still rotten to the core
Why don’t you shut up every once and a while
Instead of spitting out that conservative bile

EXTENDED CHORUS
Over my head, I’ve still got a roof
I can still be numb, I can still be aloof
Can still be the one who knows the truth
Lay down your arms, because I’m cancelproof
You shoot like a drunk and drool like a goof
You should be the one who’s not cancelproof
You shout racial slurs, call gay people poofs
You’ll never in your life become cancelproof

Crippled

“Where the hell is the goddamn delivery boy?” asked Joe Herzog as she laid in bed with ice on her swollen knee. The ice did a tremendous job of numbing her pain. Getting pissed off over a late breakfast burrito did not, as evidenced by her hissing noise. “Why does the damn tournament have to be a week away? This is horseshit! All that work for nothing!” She pounded her mattress and sent another jolt through her leg. “Damn it!”

Figuring it wasn’t a good idea to wait in bed for the delivery boy, Joe wrapped her knee in a heavy black bandage and hobbled out of the bedroom wearing just a white T-shirt and blue sleeping shorts. Every hop had her mumbling, “Ouch!” in a low, grumpy voice. Anybody who made it to the finals of a martial arts tournament only to go down with an injury would be grumpy as well.

Her tiny gnome body made looking at her hallway of trophies and medals a chore. Twisting her neck backwards just to look at second place accolades made her shake her head in disgust. “This is bullshit…this is fucking bullshit…” She resumed mumbling, “Ouch!” as she hobbled down the hall of shame and into the living room.

Resting across her tree stump table was a blue karate dress, one she wouldn’t be wearing again for a long time. Joe wiped away a singular tear with her finger before hobbling and cursing towards the table. “I should probably just set this damn thing on fire. Besides which, who the hell wears a dress into combat? It ain’t like…” She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror and frowned at what she perceived to be a lack of beauty. Joe sighed and sat down on her eiderdown couch. “I’ll get rid of that damn dress some other time. Goddamn knee injury…”

All Joe wanted to do was close her eyes and relax until her food got here. The throbbing and pulsating of her knee kept her eyes wide open no matter how comfortable she tried to make herself. And then…there was a knock on the door. More like a feverous pounding that got louder every time Joe tried to ignore it. “That better be my food or else I’m jamming this good for nothing leg up someone’s ass.”

The pounding of both Joe’s heart and front door resumed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” She hobbled over to the rune-covered entrance, where the pounding grated on her ears some more. “I said I’m coming, damn it! This better be good!” Reaching for the doorknob on her tippy-toes, she almost fell over as she swung the door wide open. “It’s about damn time! Uh-oh…”

It wasn’t a delivery boy. The only food this man was carrying was in his wide gut, about three hundred pounds worth. The scaly orange skin, the dragon-like face, the rotund frame, and the jeans held up by suspenders. A cold sweat broke out over Joe’s face as she fell backwards, giving her a better view of “The Chiropractor” Bargon Sevili. The moniker was silly to her until she remembered that amateur wrestling was his strong suit. She swallowed a lump and said, “Bargon…wha…what are you doing here? The finals aren’t until next week.”

Bargon leaned his drooling face down and said in a deep, raspy voice, “Yes, I know!” He slathered his tongue across his already slimy lips. “Sweet gee-nee girl! Lovable midget pie! Love muffin! Come here and let me…”

Joe screamed in terror before he could finish his cutesy-wutesy sentence. She scrambled to get back up on one leg, but kept falling over and sending more shockwaves through her crippled knee. Her clutches and whiny screams didn’t earn enough sympathy from Bargon to get him to wipe his smile off of his face. In fact, his deafening footsteps on the stone floor made Joe’s head throb worse than her knee.

Instead of trying to get up, Joe crawled across her filthy stone floor using just her elbows to drag her little body. Bargon took his sweet time in approaching his opponent, though the thudding of his boots didn’t help in giving Joe any comfort. She crawled so quickly that cuts and bruises formed on her arms. She swung her bedroom door open and crawled some more.

With adrenaline flooding her system like a biblical disaster, she endured even more scrapes as she hurried over to her wooden chest. She nearly popped her arm out of her socket reaching for the latch, but open it she did. Joe stood up on both legs, her sense of urgency allowing her to numb out her knee pain. The faster she dug through her belongings, the louder the footsteps pounded. Her hands shook as she fiddled with a metal object and some tiny shells.

She loaded the shells into her single barrel shotgun as fast as she could, though not without having to pick them up after dropping them repeatedly. “Guess who, sugar britches!” Bargon taunted in his saccharine ogre voice. Joe didn’t give a shit about her knee anymore. She stood terra firma in the center of her room locked and loaded, her bruised arms still trembling with fear.

The minute Bargon kicked the door open and said, “Ta-da!”, Joe pulled the trigger. She needed this easy victory over someone who was supposed to wait until next week to fight her. She needed to be in first place for once in her life. But the shotgun jammed and blew her backwards, sending her crashing through her glass window and into the grass. Shards ripped at her flesh. Her arms were embedded with glass. Her knee pain flared up to infernal levels. Little droplets of blood stained the grass beneath her. She whined and cried like the second place loser she was.

Even on soft grass and dirt, Bargon’s footsteps grew more obnoxious the closer he got to his victim. He had to squeeze his wide ass through the broken window, but he arrived at his destination all the same. He held the shotgun over Joe’s blood-covered face and snapped it over his knee. He discarded the broken pieces and dusted his hands off like it was nothing. Leaning his head down so that he could be eye-level with Joe, he said, “Give me your knee, you sweet piece of pumpkin pie!”

“Oh god…Oh my god…Please, just get it over with. Anywhere but the knee. Literally anywhere else!”

Despite Joe’s pathetic begging, Bargon indeed grabbed her by the injured leg, causing her to cry out in agony. After picking off a few pieces of glass and getting even more ocular juices out of Joe, he asked, “Are you ready, little darling?”

“…As ready as I’ll ever be…” whimpered Joe as she covered her face with her scarred arms.

“Good, because this is going to hurt like a bitch!” Bargon made good on his promise. He yanked on the injured leg and had Joe yelling in a high pitched, demonic tone.

It did hurt like a bitch. It was the most agonizing thing Joe had been through. But the best part about it? It only hurt for a few seconds. And then the pain was gone. Was she in heaven? Was St. Peter already opening the pearly gates for her? No, she was still on planet earth outside her home. She uncovered her face and wiggled her leg. No pain. She knew the injury was still there, but she didn’t feel like dying afterwards. “You…you really are a chiropractor? Um…uh…thanks?”

Bargon grabbed Joe by her shirt and leaned in so that they were nose-to-nose. His breath radiated with skunk odors, probably due to him not brushing his fangs in a long time. “I don’t need your thanks, Joey-Bowie. All I need from you is to be one hundred percent in the finals next week. That way, when I beat the living piss out of you, there’ll be no excuses. No knee injuries, no glass shards, no bullshit. If you lose to me and get second place again, you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself. You got it?” He threw her against the grass and said, “See you next week, sugar plum” before blowing her a kiss and walking away.

Any gratitude Joe felt for her opponent twisted in the wind when she noticed a foil-wrapped burrito sticking out of his back pocket. “Hey! That’s my breakfast, you asshole!”

Bargon pulled the burrito out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and took a massive bite out of it. With a full mouth, he said, “It’s my breakfast now! Besides, if you want to beat me in the finals and be a winner for the first time in your mediocre career, you’ve got to eat better than this. You’re getting a little chunky around the belly. See you soon!”

As the demonic ogre walked away, Joe clenched her fists and stood up, her knee staying pain free the entire time. She wasn’t thinking about burning her karate dress anymore. She wasn’t looking at her second place accolades with scorn. After a morning like this one, Joe Herzog had all the motivation she could ever want. She would train as hard as she damn well could. She would pump more iron, run more laps, and beat the training bag like it owed her a breakfast burrito.

With her muscles bulging and the shaky adrenaline morphing into raw anger, Joe shouted out, “You should have killed me when you had the chance, you fat pig! I’m not just going to beat you in the finals! I’m going to destroy your career! You hear me, Bargon Sevili?! You’re a dead motherfucker!” Joe raised her fists to the sky and let out a primal scream to anyone who would listen, letting them know that motivation was not an issue anymore.

Learn to Lose

You’re still talking, still just yapping

Verbal masturbation, endless fapping

You can’t go undefeated forever

Your chances of winning are never

Learn to lose your arguments, buddy

Mudslinging became too damn muddy

You’re proven wrong time and again

Yet the conversation never really ends

You’ve got an army of straw men soldiers

Your childish tactics get older and older

Being loud is not the key to victory

But the key to friendships ending bitterly

Know when to shut your filthy pie hole

Lose gracefully, don’t cry your eyes cold

One of these days, they’ll drop the hammer

You’ll rot in the slammer, never again yammer

You’re fighting a battle you cannot win

As you wait for your sentence to begin

Defying the odds is not your strong suit

Especially in a cage with a hairy brute

What will it take to get through to you?

A body full of bruises so black and blue?

Is it a lifetime membership in the ICU?

Or a permanent home underneath the tomb?

I guess some people don’t want to change

Never improve their lives, stay deranged

I guess you can’t rehabilitate those types

A bullet to the skull, an end to your life

If you truly believe in reincarnation

Come back with an attitude of elation

Be grateful for your second chance

Or in hellfire is where you’ll dance

Learn to lose before you can’t turn back

Know your place in the hunting pack

Obligations

Running away from your obligations

Won’t put an end to the conversation

The topic’s been brewing for a while

Never mind approaching it with style

You must attack the problem head-on

Even if it starts to feel morally wrong

You don’t have to have the answers

You’re a team player, not a freelancer

Help each other come to a conclusion

Don’t spend so much time in seclusion

Don’t confuse the act of cooling down

With running away and skipping town

You can do this, it’s a phone call away

Don’t put this off for yet another day

Three words, eight letters, say it loud

Before the hatred comes back around

Don’t let a small misunderstanding

Become your downfall, a stiff landing

Pick up the phone before it’s too late

Before the silence has sealed your fate

Escape From Chehalis

***ESCAPE FROM CHEHALIS***

“You’ve escaped from New York! You’ve escaped from Cleveland! But this is LA!”

Yes, that is a direct quote from the movie “Escape from LA” back in the 90’s. But I have to ask: is it really that hard to escape from Cleveland, Ohio? Well, if I had a hard time escaping from Chehalis as a teenager, then the answer must have been yes. It’s true. With my screenwriting skills at the time, I could have written a movie called Escape From Chehalis. Actually, it wouldn’t have been very exciting since all I had to do was move to an apartment in Bremerton and go to school in Silverdale. But hey, as long as the best part of Chehalis is leaving, let’s explore some other routes I considered. Those of you who know about my Chehalis past know that I was bullied in high school, so getting out of that toxic town was good for me. But what if I needed an earlier exit? What high school dropout careers could I have embarked on to give me a parole from that rightwing dystopia? Well…

***ARENA OF DEATH***

It’s probably no surprise that I had an extreme fascination with death back in 1999/2000. I wanted to rent the first volume of Faces of Death, but the video store clerk wouldn’t let me because I was only fourteen at the time. It’s unbelievable…video stores actually existed back then! It would have been so nice to see one of my movies on the shelf, particularly an idea I had called Arena of Death. I could drop out of school, grab a camera, and film a bunch of gory fight scenes in an abandoned building. That’s basically what Arena of Death was supposed to be: an ECW-esque tournament where the winner…uh…actually, I hadn’t figured out a prize for the winner yet. If only I had a working video camera and friends who would volunteer for this movie. Oh well.

***BOUNTY HUNTER***

As a result of my verbal bullying, I got in a lot of fights and I won most of them simply by throwing one strike. I didn’t need a KO victory or even a TKO. Just one strike and it was all over. Having this kind of Goldberg-esque undefeated streak under my belt (which is easy to obtain in Chehalis), I actually considered a career as a bounty hunter. No shit! Just go around Washington state bringing criminals in with my fists and feet of fury. Hell, there was even a time when I considered entering a tough man competition; that’s how confident I was in my minimal fighting skills. Little did I know that most of the bounty heads might have carried guns or knives, neither of which I had in great supply (even though I one time asked for a gun for Christmas).

***EXTREME CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING***

Yes, I did mention ECW earlier in this blog. Yes, being the “tough guy” I was, I thought a career in that wrestling promotion was the right move for me, as opposed to finishing school in Chehalis. That’s basically like saying, “I’d rather get cut open with razor wire or power bombed through a fiery table than go to school in Chehalis”. Haha! But seriously, ECW was a huge source of creative fuel for me back in the day (before they closed their doors permanently in 2001). Weapons were fair game, anybody could beat up anybody, blood was liberally splattered everywhere, and hardcore legends were born. Although, verbal bullying could never prepare me for actual broken bones and slashed skin. Plus, ECW was based in Philadelphia, so if I couldn’t afford a video camera for Arena of Death, I damn sure couldn’t afford a plane ticket across the country.

***FLORIDA***

Yes, it’s true, folks! Back in 2000, my mom got a job offer in Florida and I was secretly hoping that she would get it and get my ass out of Chehalis. Boy, you talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire! Knowing what we now know about Florida, that’s basically like trying to get away from Jeffrey Dahmer by hiding out on John Wayne Gacy’s crawlspace. I didn’t care about politics in the year 2000, but I probably should have since Florida is as red as ECW bloodbaths. School shootings, racist murders, Carl Hiaasen novel scenarios, natural disasters, crocodiles, good god!

***GUITARIST***

From 1996 to 2001, I practiced on an acoustic and later an electric guitar with the hopes that I’d be as good as David Gilmour from Pink Floyd. Starting my own rock band was the surefire way to get out of high school and I’d be doing something I loved. Except for one thing: I didn’t love playing the guitar. It was hard. It was fucking hard! Moving my fingers across the frets with lightning speed wasn’t my cup of tea, which is funny since I can do it just fine when I’m writing things on a computer keyboard. I would often play really slowly with the top string and only my middle finger holding the frets. Configuring my digits into chord positions was too much to handle and I eventually gave up that potential exit from Chehalis. Any more mediocrity and I’d have to smash my guitar to pieces like Billie Joe Armstrong did at the iHeart Radio Festival in 2012, when Green Day’s stage time was cut short.

***SUPER FINAL FANTASY***

Before settling on a career in screenwriting, my childhood dream job used to be creating videogames and one of them was Super Final Fantasy. I was in love with Final Fantasy VII and VIII, so naturally I wanted to give my own shot into creating a game in the series. My main character was a shotgun-wielding, trench coat-wearing teenager (don’t look for themes here) named Sage Gannon, who was out to avenge the death of his coal miner father. Guiding his path would be the fluffy blond haired swordsman Minra Durandose (if Cloud and Squall had a love child, it’d be Minra). The token female love interest (I didn’t know it was wrong!) was a bikini-wearing mystical goddess named Siren, who used a combination of seduction and harp playing to lull enemies into defenselessness (again, I didn’t know it was wrong!). Development was going swimmingly until Squall appeared in my head as a schizophrenic voice and told me to, “Write [my] own shit and stop copying other people.” Thanks, Squall. Great advice from a guy who can’t figure out how to trust people.

***UNDERTAKER***

Remember how I told you all I had a weird fascination with death? Well, try not to read too much into this, but I actually considered a dropout career of burying dead bodies at the local cemetery. Before you ask, no, I wasn’t planning on murdering my bullies and giving them their own graves. I’m not that sick. Hehe! No, being an undertaker is a legitimate career. And when I say undertaker, I’m not talking about the WWE wrestler who at the time was doing a satanic cult storyline. Yes, digging holes is physically exhausting for someone as small I was back then, but a paycheck is a paycheck and a lack of high school hostility is just that.

***CONCLUSION***

You’re probably reading all of these potential career choices and are worried sick about me. You’re probably thinking that I’m living in the past and refusing to let go of my demons. You couldn’t be further from the truth. My most recent blog entries have been about my childhood follies, so this one is no different. I’m glad I finished school and became an indie author. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Knowing what I now know about schizophrenia and autism, I most likely wouldn’t have survived these alternative careers. Every career has its own set of assholes and friendly people. Running away wouldn’t have solved anything. No matter where you go, you take your baggage with you. Only through claiming responsibility and seeking help can you overcome your problems. I’ve overcome my demons and I’m better for it. It took a long time to do, but it happened. Live your life without regrets. If you must delve into the past, find things to laugh about, not things to kick yourself over. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“So you think you’re a Romeo playing a part in a picture show. Take the long way home. ‘Cause you’re the joke of your neighborhood. Why should you care if you’re feeling good? Take the long way home. But there are times that you feel you’re part of the scenery. All the greenery is coming down, boy. And then your wife seems to think you’re a part of the furniture. Oh, it’s peculiar. She used to be so nice. When lonely days turn to lonely nights, you take a trip to the city lights. Take the long way home. You never see what you want to see forever playing to the gallery. Take the long way home. And when you’re up on the stage, it’s so unbelievable. Oh, unforgettable how they adore you. But then your wife seems to think you’re losing your sanity. Oh, calamity, there’s no way out. Does it feel that your life’s become a catastrophe? Oh, it has to be for you to grow, boy. When you look through the years and see what you could have been. Oh, what you might have been. If you’d had more time. So when the day comes to settle down, who’s to blame if you’re not around? Take the long way home.”

-Supertramp singing “Take the Long Way Home”-

Lionize

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Lionize Entertainment’s fiftieth anniversary of the Lion Cup Tournament! My name is Andrea Lovell and I am the CEO of Lionize Entertainment! We’re going to have a fucking fun night of blood and death tonight!”

Hearing his boss echo those words throughout a coliseum full of roaring fans made Dargoth Destroyer sick to his stomach and set his aching brain on fire. The barbarian warrior firmly believed Andrea only had her job because she looked like a million bucks in a short skirt and high heels. She was easy to fantasize about, but hard to love.

Dargoth was too busy loving his own wife and kids back home. He loved them so much that he would rip the limbs off of any opponent who dared stand in the way of a paycheck and beat them to death like little bitches. With his wrecking ball muscles and volcanic temper, he could do just that to pretty much anybody.

Then again, so could Dargoth’s opponent for the evening, Zeal Cottonwood. The rotten-smelling, blue skinned zombie towered over the barbarian with a skyscraper height and muscles that might as well be registered as deadly weapons (even the small and insignificant ones). Zeal stared down into Dargoth’s eyes with neon-colored madness and smiled with rusty-nail teeth.

The barbarian, having already had visions of blood and brutality locked forever in his brain, refused to give even an inch of trembling to this undead beast with greasy long hair. The two opponents were so laser-focused into each other’s menacing eyeballs that they tuned out the crowd and Andrea Lovell’s nails-on-a-chalkboard voice completely.

It wasn’t until Miss Lovell, who sat at her golden throne in a skybox above the coliseum, snapped into the microphone, “HEY!” that the two combatants gave her their undying attention with wicked glares. “Are you two ready to put on a hell of a show for these rowdy animals?! Give ‘em hell!” Rowdy animals became the understatement of the year when the beer-drinking, T-shirt and jeans wearing crowd’s cheers bored into the combatants’ eardrums like a power drill. Even Zeal Cottonwood couldn’t help but grunt lightly at the sudden explosion of volume.

“Ready to get your ass whipped, little buddy?” growled Zeal in a monstrous tone. He leaned his sour milk-fragranced face in closer and whispered, “Between you and me, I wouldn’t worry too much about that wife of yours. I hear she’s banging the shit out of a hotter version of you. That lucrative contract of yours is going up her nose and in her G-spots!”

Zeal’s demonic cackle prompted the angrily trembling Dargoth to head butt his opponent in the nose. Both men clutched their noggins in pain and groaned minimally, but Dargoth was the only one between the two who staggered after such a brutal move. Zeal chuckled, “Is that all you got, little man? No wonder your wife’s sleeping around. That spaghetti dick of yours couldn’t satisfy a bitch like her anyways!”

Dargoth’s fiery adrenaline was smothered in kerosene, causing the hefty barbarian to spear tackle Zeal’s gut so hard that the seven-foot zombie flipped in the air like a pancake and flattened to the ground like one too. The barbarian’s muscles tightened as tough as steel with every brick-like punch he threw at the zombie’s already decrepit face. Teeth flew everywhere, pimples popped like grenades, blood splattered across the dirt floor, but through it all, Zeal never lost his smile and Dargoth’s hands reddened with electrified pain.

Zeal Cottonwood pushed Dargoth Destroyer in the air with his booted feet and nipped up in time to catch the smaller warrior in a military press. The audience “oooed” and “ahhed” like a herd of sheep while Zeal did strength training repetitions with Dargoth’s 300 lb. body. The barbarian tried to rake and punch at his opponent’s eyes, but the zombie wouldn’t relent. He tossed the smaller opponent across the dirt arena and caused him to bounce up and down along the way, forming bruises the size and disgustingness of rotten tomatoes.

Everything in Dargoth’s body felt as though he had been stepped on by Godzilla and rubbed across the asphalt. Yet the mental images of his beautiful wife and his two sweethearted daughters sent a rush of hot lava through his veins. This kind of money would keep them fed forever.

It would give the daughters an education they wouldn’t have dreamed of having in the ghetto neighborhood. It would give his wife a life of happiness and stability. If he didn’t get up and fight at this very moment, they would think of him as a failure and they’d most likely die from hunger in such a downtrodden economy. It was such a distasteful way to make money, but in Dargoth’s mind, there was no such thing as too much hard work.

By the time the barbarian heaved his clumsy ass off the ground, he peered up through bloodshot, dirt-covered eyes to find Zeal had a live chainsaw roaring to life in his hands. There were weapons scattered everywhere on the bloodstained ground from staves to swords to axes. Dargoth picked up an axe in his sore hands and then in a surprise move broke it over his knee to send a message: “Weapons are for pussies! If you want to fight like a pussy, I’ll treat you like one, Zeal! Come on, bitch!”

The gargantuan zombie rushed towards Dargoth swinging his power tool like a deranged samurai while Dargoth egged him on with a “come at me” hand gesture. The chainsaw blazed and buzzed all around the barbarian while the muscly warrior dodged and cartwheeled to safety despite losing a lock of his own sweaty hair.

Dargoth saw his opening when he ducked a decapitation attempt and went for a hard uppercut to the jaw. Zeal staggered backwards in dizziness and dropped his weapon. The barbarian continued to pummel his opponent with hard-hitting, rapid fire strikes that connected with thuds, cracks, and explosions. The primitive warrior tucked his head underneath Zeal’s crotch and hoisted the hefty warrior on his shoulders before slamming him down on his back with a shotgun blast thud. Even more cracks and bursts echoed throughout the arena as did the obnoxious cheers of both the audience and Andrea Lovell, who sat at her throne mockingly clapping for her independent contractor. “Finish him, Dargoth! Finish him now, you sick son of a bitch!”

The barbarian stared at the scantily clad, leggy CEO with cyanide in his eyes and iron in his gritted teeth. Winning the Lion Cup Tournament would guarantee him all the money he wanted for his family, but he would still be locked in a contract that put him in danger with every match. His body ached twenty-four-seven. He threw up his meals nightly. If he got the chance to go home at all, he would look like a monster to his family and scare them off. Maybe Zeal’s harsh rumors of infidelity would be completely justifiable at that point (if they were true). Surely, there had to be other ways of making lucrative money with his skills. Maybe there was…

Dargoth’s iron will wouldn’t be broken. One more death to go. Just one more. His target was in plain sight. The Lion Cup and everything that came with it would be his forever. He glanced at the live chainsaw and heaved the heavy machinery over his head with the intent to rip and shred. The audience roared and bellowed for Zeal’s bloody and disgusting death. He was just laying there ready to be dissected. Dargoth smiled a sadistic smile and approached Zeal with slow movements while the zombie rolled around and groaned in horrific pain. And then…the barbarian tossed the chainsaw like a boomerang.

But instead of grinding zombie meat, he chucked the whirring blade at Andrea Lovell so many feet in the air. The CEO gasped in horror before tucking and rolling out of the blade’s path. The audience gasped as well at the sight of the chainsaw embedded in the golden throne still buzzing.

After straightening her hair and fixing her skirt, Andrea stood back up with a queen’s posture and glared with hellish hatred at the menacing barbarian. She picked up the microphone and sneered, “So that’s how you plan on getting out of your contract, huh? By killing me?” Dargoth nodded and the audience booed him with plenty of bass in their voices.

The CEO scolded, “It’s a good thing your children are being well-educated with all of this money, because their daddy is the biggest dumb shit to step in my coliseum! Sure, you can kill me and rob me of the rest of your earnings, but you won’t be solving a damn thing, my friend. Ever heard the phrase power vacuum? Without me, all of your worst enemies will be gunning for my position. If you thought fighting to the death for my entertainment was bad, try fighting for the power I wield on a day-to-day basis. You already know what ISIS looks like. Try and picture the Lionize Entertainment version of ISIS! My corporation will last until the end of time, but your misery will be forever, just like your contract! You didn’t think this one through very well, did you?!”

Dargoth clenched his fists so tightly that his bloody fingernails dug into his palms and he didn’t give a shit about the pain. He didn’t want to admit it, but she was right: cutting off the head of the snake would create a hydra, not a corpse. A contractual slave like him couldn’t even dream of the power it took to run a whole corporation. What havoc had he brought upon himself? What danger did he put his beloved family in?

As he contemplated the consequences of his “easy way out”, Dargoth felt a tight presence squeeze around his torso until his body was pencil thin. His head turned purple, his veins grew to the size of tunnels, and his ribs were cracking like Rice Crispies. He peeked up and saw that Zeal Cottonwood was the one squeezing like a motherfucker, much to Andrea’s laughing delight. She even chimed in, “Squeeze harder! Pop him like a pimple! Make him suffer!”

Listening to that wasp-like voice sent Dargoth into rampage mode when he stomped on Zeal’s foot with the force of a jackhammer and head butted him in the jaw. The barbarian staggered around in dizziness and rasped for oxygen, but the zombie had released his grip and stumbled backwards himself.

As soon as Dargoth’s lungs no longer felt like he swallowed a battleaxe, Zeal went for an overhead strike. Dargoth ducked underneath and transitioned behind the zombie with an arm choke. The barbarian squeezed with enough force to pop more pimples and blood vessels on Zeal’s face. He even loosened a few rotten teeth. But the minute the zombie’s eyeballs popped out of his head, his brains leaked onto the floor and he was limp as Dargoth’s “spaghetti dick”.

As soon as Zeal plopped over dead, Dargoth Destroyer raised his fists to the sky to declare victory. The audience roared like jungle cats in approval and high fived each other while chanting Dargoth’s name. Even Andrea gave him a little golf clap while saying into the microphone, “I hope your wife is watching!”

Indeed she was watching. From the comfort of her soft, silky-sheeted bed, Mrs. Destroyer watched the violence with a satisfied, teary-eyed smile on her face. “Thank you so much, my dear! Thank you!” The other man who was grateful unwrapped the towel from his muscular waist and climbed into bed with her with a silver tray of cocaine in his hands. The wife smiled lovingly at her paramour before rolling up a dollar bill and snorting sweet candy right up her slender nose. The paramour snorted some too before the lovers got it on underneath the sheets.

Little did they know that from the crack of their bedroom door, two teary-eyed girls watched the whole thing. The daughters hugged each other tightly and smeared their salty eye fluids across their Winnie the Pooh pajama sleeves. “I miss daddy,” one of them whispered to the other while a night of hot cocaine-laced sex was unfolding before them.