Ronald Reagan: Dead For Decades, But Reaganomics Are Still Alive, Unfortunately

 

S.K.I.P.

VERSE 1

Jeffrey Dahmer, mmm-mmm, good!

He ain’t got a damn thing on a Klansman in a hood

Henry Lucas, equal opportunity

He never met a cop who didn’t give himself immunity

John Wayne Gacy, crawlspace hotel

The IDF’s Abrahamic, but they slithered out of hell

Richard Ramirez, stick it in and out

You can count on brainwashing to keep you in doubt

 

CHORUS

Serial Killers In Power!

SKIP, SKIP, SKIP, SKIP!

Mr. White Power gets all of his flowers

Mr. Red Pill gave them on his free will

Mr. Capitalist keeps pumping black mist

Serial Killers In Power!

 

VERSE 2

Alex De Large, let’s have a nozh scrap

Still got a lower body count than an ICE trap

Jerome Johns, Master of the Spinneroony

But the stories on the news are the real horror movies

Lucy Butler, touching and teasing

Couldn’t kill more people than unvaccinated sneezing

All they need to do is cut off federal funding

And congratulations, they’re the next Ted Bundy

 

CHORUS

Serial Killers In Power!

SKIP, SKIP, SKIP, SKIP!

Mr. White Power gets all of his flowers

Mr. Red Pill gave them on his free will

Mr. Capitalist keeps pumping black mist

Serial Killers In Power!

 

VERSE 3

You wouldn’t give launch codes to Phil Garrido

He’d bomb everyone and anyone who has a pink burrito

You wouldn’t let Ariel Castro in the treasury

He’d spend the money on girls, tell them, “Pleasure me!”

You wouldn’t let Kyle Rittenhouse have a bazooka

But an AR-15 is good for Senor La Puta

The orange monster told you all who he was

You surrendered your souls, ‘cause in murder you trust

 

CHORUS

Serial Killers In Power!

SKIP, SKIP, SKIP, SKIP!

Mr. White Power gets all of his flowers

Mr. Red Pill gave them on his free will

Mr. Capitalist keeps pumping black mist

Serial Killers In Power!

 

OUTRO X2

True Crime never goes out of business

We got a monopoly, we all bear witness

The solution is right there in front of your face

Yet you stick it out there, give the leopards a taste

Fitness Guru

INTRO DIALOGUE

You’re not a fitness guru; you’re a eugenicist!

 

SATIRE POEM

I make my salary by burning all my calories

Showing off my ribs, telling fatphobic fibs

Juicing up my biceps, overworking triceps

Got some ten-pack abs, not pinch of flab

 

Why stop there? Let’s erase your autism

And your personality that you got with it

Sell stories about your expendability

Based on corporate greed and your disability

 

“Don’t even bother with the COVID vaccine”

Said the pin cushion who was a heroin fiend

You believe every word, just look at my face

Innocent like an angel from the “Master Race”

 

Take my advice, pay no mind to my voice

What disease do I have? It’s Dealer’s Choice

I never smoked a cigarette a day in my life

Still sounds like I wear a Columbian Necktie

 

I got more wrinkles than crumpled up paper

It started as a baby and I hoped it would taper

Started in the womb, wait, now I remember

I was totally alive then, like Jesus in December

 

Now I got a job fucking up my last name

Drag it through the mud, make it take a walk of shame

Black sheep doesn’t describe me at all

‘Cause if I lived on a farm, my voters would suck my balls

 

So next time you see me on the television

Listen loud and clear, ‘cause there is no intermission

No bathroom breaks even though I’m full of shit

Here’s my healthcare plan, it’s a total money pit

Government efficiency is kind of my jam

Effective at what? Making suckers fall for scams?

Fork over your dough as you die really slow

Make the oligarchy richer, fuck the Average Joe!

Nowhere to Live

CHORUS 1

Government benefits were slashed in half

Homelessness doubled, it’s simple math

Paper white politicians say they’ll clean up the streets

While they rest comfortably in linen sheets

Nowhere to live, nothing to give

Nowhere to die, nothing to try

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

VERSE 1

It’s never been about shit on the sidewalk

It’s about outlining more bodies in chalk

It’s never been about screaming at thin air

It’s about naysayers too brainwashed to care

It’s never been about who’s smoking the crack

It’s about looking for new ways to attack

It’s never been about saving taxpayer money

But keep laughing it off like it’s so fucking funny

CHORUS 1

Government benefits were slashed in half

Homelessness doubled, it’s simple math

Paper white politicians say they’ll clean up the streets

While they rest comfortably in linen sheets

Nowhere to live, nothing to give

Nowhere to die, nothing to try

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

VERSE 2

A dollar bill can go for a thousand miles long

A hug and a smile can keep humanity strong

New laws to pass can kick greed in the ass

Need a closer look? Just go touch some grass

Look around at the world that you’re living in

Not everyone can take a Maserati for a spin

Not everyone can eat a steak dinner at night

It ain’t the answer to pull those boot straps tight

CHORUS 1

Government benefits were slashed in half

Homelessness doubled, it’s simple math

Paper white politicians say they’ll clean up the streets

While they rest comfortably in linen sheets

Nowhere to live, nothing to give

Nowhere to die, nothing to try

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

VERSE 3

The empathy and sympathy are long gone

The psychopathy and hatred are so damn wrong

This is how we treat those below the elite

We laugh at the paper shoes on their feet

Society is a bitch ball gagged by the rich

If you dare try to snitch, you’ll lay in a ditch

This is what it means to have a heart so cold

Piss the people away like they’re urinary gold

CHOURS 2

Division continues to be slashed in half

Prejudice has doubled, it’s simple math

So much for cleaning up the city streets

It was never a system that was easy to beat

No one to love, no shelter above

No one to embrace, just another dirty face

No one to love

No one to love

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

How Much Longer? Wait Your Turn...

How much longer until this is over?

When my thoughts are clear and sober?

When the voices leave my mind forever?

Please tell me that the answer isn’t never

Wait your turn like a good little boy

Wait your turn to unhear the noise

Like a rainstorm, it’ll eventually pass

Until then, enjoy your kick in the ass

How much longer until I can leave?

Until making a cure has been achieved?

Until authority will no longer deceive?

Hopefully soon is what I can believe

Wait your turn like everybody else

We’re in this together, our moment of hell

Don’t be tempted by the church bells

Don’t forget about the ones who fell

How much longer until permanent peace?

Until the madness of the world will cease?

Until people come before the economy?

Until we can skip this whole tragicomedy?

Wait your turn like a model citizen

What makes you so goddamn different?

Don’t let your selfishness get in the way

Of America living on for another day

How much longer until I can rest my head?

And not have to worry about being dead?

Maybe that’s the only logical conclusion

Maybe I shouldn’t give into delusions

Wait your turn, you’ve got a long way to go

When your time will come, nobody knows

Get to work on your precious purple prose

Work until the day that your breathing slows

I know it’s cruel and it just isn’t fair

All I can tell you is to grow a brass pair

You never signed up for military life

But the truth cuts deeper than a bowie knife

Screw your harshness, screw your indifference

Screw your so-called melodic dissonance

I’ll be back in true form one of these days

Until then, your welcome is long overstayed

I’m the landlord and the rent is now due

Don’t act like this just came out of the blue

I’ll kick your ass out of my mind so fast

You’ll be too far back in the prehistoric past

Punished For Nothing

VERSE 1

The rift between crime and punishment

Is the rift between democracy and government

A slap on the wrist for a child rapist

A lifetime in prison for the drugs taken

Beaten and tortured for freedom of speech

What lessons are we supposed to teach?

That you’re fucked no matter what?

Unless you’ve got over a billion bucks?

CHORUS

Punished for nothing! X4

VERSE 2

Protesting peacefully in a crowded street

Pepper spray burns like hellfire heat

Bones broken by a pair of booted feet

A life sentence for daring to question

The authority that screwed you over

No punishment for the country’s owners

Administrative leave for those who smash

The skulls of innocents who’re treated like trash

CHORUS

Punished for nothing! X4

VERSE 3

White man, black man, what’s the difference?

One is automatically declared innocent

The other is treated like he’s second class

Yet we refuse to acknowledge the racist past

Calling the cops for doing mundane tasks

Sparing those who kiss the authority’s ass

One nation under fraud, justice for none

It’s all just a joke to you, all in good fun

CHORUS

Punished for nothing! X4

FINAL VERSE

They always tell us to not break the law

But even innocents can have a broken jaw

Even a jaywalker can eat a fucking bullet

The American Dream has been stolen

Nation of Genocide

VERSE 1

Summer sun, waterless desert

Dead bodies resting forever

A nation built on oppression

Let’s hear your confession

Not a bunch of what-abouts

You’re worthy of the shouts

Graveyard on your conscience

Relax in your highest office

CHORUS

Nation of genocide!

I’ll never choose your side!

Nation of racial pride!

My free speech will not hide!

VERSE 2

Business deals, cheap entertainment

Marginalization and detainment

Dungeon torture, decapitation

Welcome to the murder nation

CHORUS

Nation of genocide!

I’ll never choose your side!

Nation of racial pride!

My free speech will not hide!

BRIDGE

You can call it social progress

I call it blood and gore offence

The only reason you hold office

Is filthy money in your pockets

VERSE 3

Not a nickel or the thinnest dime

You won’t get a penny of mine

Not a quarter with a buffalo’s ass

Your economy must collapse

EXTENDED CHORUS

Nation of genocide!

I’ll never choose your side!

Nation of racial pride!

My free speech will not hide!

Nation of ignorance!

Defend your values with vigilance!

Nation of Armageddon!

A fake smile is your secret weapon!

"Preacher, Vol. 6: War in the Sun" by Garth Ennis

BOOK TITLE: Preacher, Vol. 6: War in the Sun

AUTHOR: Garth Ennis

YEAR: 1998

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Horror

GRADE: Pass

Reverend Jesse Custer, Tulip O’Haire, and Cassidy’s search for God continues in the Arizona desert, where the Grail leader Herr Starr and an entire army are waiting for them. Herr Starr’s rise to power within the Grail has been a long time coming, complete with backstabbing, politicking, and rubbing shoulders with the highest authorities. With complete control of this Christian shadow society, Starr’s power hungriness won’t end until Jesse Custer and the Patron Saint of Killers are both finally dead and buried in the desert sands. Will nuclear missiles, tanks, and machineguns be enough for these two powerful entities?

Yes, the Grail is a fictional religious entity that controls all of the world’s governments and corporations. But despite being fictional, their portrayal is brutally honest when it comes to how power is traded across entities. Conspiracy theorists would go nuts with this kind of material. The Grail moves the money, they keep world leaders under their thumbs, and they do it all in the name of God. Ordinary people don’t have access to that kind of power, so all they can do is protest peacefully and most of the time it’s not enough. If you’ve ever thought there was something out there holding you down and keeping you from advancing, this is the comic book for you. It won’t give you the strength you need to carry on, but it’ll be otherwise entertaining and slightly educational.

Another thing I enjoyed about this graphic novel was the continuation of the storyline between Tulip and Cassidy. If you remember from Volume Five (Dixie Fried), a drunken Cassidy confessed his love for Tulip behind Jesse’s back and that made Tulip despise the Irish vampire for it. While I won’t say how this storyline continues (you know, because of spoilers and all), it will reach its climax by the end of the book. Hearts will be broken, anger will be felt, and everybody comes out of it with sadness in their souls. Maybe your own heart will break alongside the three characters.

Of course, I’d be remised if I didn’t mention just how brutal and messed up everything in this comic book is, the violence not being the deadliest among them. Anybody can shoot a tank cannon or drop a missile with the press of a button. But can you dine on flesh like it’s Taco Tuesday? Can you make the strangest requests to prostitutes imaginable? Can you dive into an eight-hundred pound man’s belly and cause him to throw up? Can you stomach the inbreeding that goes on to keep the “true savior’s” blood pure? Can you listen to New Orleans tunes if they’re unintelligibly sung by a teenaged boy with a grossly deformed face? Garth Ennis has a vivid imagination and he’s not afraid to use it when penning copies of Preacher. That’s what I love about his work.

Another awesome volume of Preacher is in the books. Everything that made the previous volumes great is neatly packaged into this one as well. It makes me want to finish the final three volumes, which is what any book should be doing in the first place: making you hunger for more. Preacher is one of my all-time favorite comic book series and for that I’m giving this volume a passing grade. I anticipate more greatness in the volumes to come.

"King and Maxwell" by David Baldacci

BOOK TITLE: King and Maxwell

AUTHOR: David Baldacci

YEAR: 2013

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Crime Thriller

GRADE: Pass

Sean King and Michelle Maxwell are a pair of former Secret Service Agents turned Private Investigators who take on a teenage military brat named Tyler Wingo as their latest client. Tyler is told by the Army that his father, Sam, was killed in combat overseas, but he still receives text message and emails from Sam despite this. Sean and Michelle’s snooping around gets them into hot water with the government as well as a vengeful former soldier named Alan Grant. The two private detectives unlock a conspiracy theory that could get both of them killed, or worse, sent to Guantanamo Bay for violating national security. That’s a risk both are willing to take if it means giving Tyler Wingo the peace of mind he deserves.

David Baldacci’s decades of experience shine through in his writing to where even the most oblivious readers can see it. The fast pace, which is a hallmark of any thriller or mystery, is one of the most enjoyable parts of the book. The knowledge of rules and regulations when it comes to dealing with the government? Check. The frustration the detectives feel of putting together scattered pieces of a massive conspiracy puzzle? Double check. Villains and heroes who both know what the hell they’re doing? Triple check. This novel is foolproof when it comes to tying up loose ends and making sure nothing is based on the author doing guesswork. This is a well-crafted mystery that makes perfect sense when the reader gets closer to the end.

Another detail I’d like to applaud is how the clear villain in all of this, Alan Grant, has a sympathetic side to him, thus making him three-dimensional. Villains shouldn’t be evil just for evil’s sake. This poor bastard had parents who committed suicide because of their part in a corrupt military scandal in Iran. Fast forward to the events of the novel and that’s a lot of time Alan Grant had to think about how to plan his ultimate revenge. He served in the Army, so he has combat training down to a science. But fighting in a war that traumatic can only add fuel to his already volcanic fire. If Alan’s suppressed anger was a weapon, it could easily be a nuclear missile. He appears calm and collected in front of his wife, kids, and father-in-law. But inside, he’s hurting so badly that he’s borderline insane. Right or wrong in his actions, there’s no denying that Alan had a raw deal. I can’t hate the guy even though he’s a disgusting villain.

The final part of this novel that I enjoyed had more to do with personal satisfaction rather than overall impact on the story. As part of his revenge plot, Alan Grant buys a broken down radio station and has it completely remodeled. By the time the project is finished, the building has a strong internet signal, satellites and electricity everywhere, security traps that kill upon triggering, soundproof acoustics, and an overall clean feel. I’m a closeted home improvement junkie, so watching all of this take place gave me my fill. I never like to see abandoned buildings get left behind and not used ever again. I can imagine things like abandoned grocery stores becoming heavy metal arenas. I can picture a former Taco Bell building being transformed into a geek store. Hell, in my hometown of Port Orchard, the Blockbuster Video on Mile Hill became the new location for Taco Bell. That’s pretty damn cool in my book. So in addition to writing badass thrillers, David Baldacci might very well be a home improvement nut too. I like that!

King and Maxwell is a quick and satisfying read from cover to cover. It’s action-packed, intelligently-crafted, and character-driven. What more could you ask for in a mystery thriller from a legend in his field? I wouldn’t mind reading other books from the King and Maxwell canon if they’re anywhere near as good as this one. Hell, I might have to branch out into other canons Mr. Baldacci has delved into over the decades. The passing grade this book receives is well-earned!

Where to Invade Next

MOVIE TITLE: Where to Invade Next
DIRECTOR: Michael Moore
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Political Documentary
RATING: R for language and nudity
GRADE: Extra Credit

As America falls behind in education, healthcare, employment, and overall happiness, Michael Moore sets sail to “invade” countries by “stealing” their ideas on how to run society so that he can bring them back to America. In Finland, there is no homework in school. In France, childhood nutrition is of utmost importance. In Italy, taking eight weeks of paid vacation is the law of the land. These, among other stress-relieving ideas, were originally American ideas, but somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten how to use them. Mr. Moore’s positive attitude toward bringing change to his home country with these now European ideas makes the educational experience that much more fun to watch on screen.

While Michael Moore was shooting footage in Italy, he said something that set the tone for the entire movie in terms of positivity and stress-relief: “I’m here to pick the flowers, not the weeds.” In other words, while he acknowledges that life isn’t perfect in these other countries, they at least got some things right. By “picking the flowers”, Mr. Moore is highlighting all of the positive things about these countries to give the people of America hope for a better day. The overall theme we’re dealing with is happiness among the citizens. When citizens are happy, they’re more productive, they’re more educated, and they learn to take care of each other in a civilized way. In Norway for example, the prison system focuses on rehabilitation and not revenge. They have only a 20% relapse rate while vengeful America has a whopping 80%. Holy shit!

There’s also a history lesson to be learned when it comes to American culture and it was highlighted in Michael’s trip to Germany, where the people take responsibility for their Hitler-tainted past and ensure it never happens again. In America, a country built on Indian genocide and black slavery, it took a few centuries to reinvent slavery and deny racism in the process. After the civil rights movement, black people and other minorities had equal rights. Years later, drugs marketed to the “urban folk” became illegal and minorities started getting locked up left and right. Many of the products we use today are thanks to free labor from the prison system. It’s disturbing as hell and Michael Moore has no problem shining a bright neon light on the problem.

Focusing on happiness and being taught history are both excellent traits to have in a movie, but the one thing that changed me as a human being was suddenly having the urge to travel to and maybe live in other places outside of America. I’ve been on vacation to Canada and I loved every minute of it. But what about Germany? What about France? What about Denmark? Now that I know what exactly is out there, the travel bug bit me like an alligator in the Florida Everglades. Yes, it would mean having to sit on a plane for hours on end, but I’m sure arrangements could be made ahead of time to make crossing the ocean bearable. Maybe there are airlines with beds instead of seats. Maybe I could book a private flight. Maybe I could take a cruise ship across the water. Rekindling my interest in culture and history was something that needed to happen since I’d been out of college since 2009 and I wasn’t taking in enough creative fuel.

Of course, there are going to be some Negative Nancies and Debbie Downers out there who will call Michael Moore’s cinema “bullshit”. I’m sure he’s heard that insult several times throughout his long and illustrious career. Hell, some directors tried to make entire documentaries slamming Michael Moore and his “scare tactics”. To those conservative critics who are so quick to judge, I have three words for you: “Look it up”. Get online and find out just how serene and peaceful Norway’s prison system is. Google just how much respect women have in Iceland since the worker’s strike in 1975. If you’re still steaming mad about what Mr. Moore talks about in his movies, maybe you should go to Italy and take an eight week vacation from work. Feel the stress and unhealthiness slipping away from your pain-wracked body!

Psychophobia

VERSE 1
“You haven’t helped out society as of late”
I’d rather give nothing than a firestorm of hate
You blame the disabled for all of your problems
You blame the tax code for draining your wallet
You’re as bigoted as the evil men in white hoods
Talk about society? You’re no fucking good
Look into the mirror when you cast your stones
In your house of glass and your throne of bones


CHORUS
White hoods, green suits, black battle boots
Your retard jokes suck and they’re far from cute
Psychophobia is as real as it fucking gets
Yet you’re the one who is fucked up in the head


VERSE 2
A big paycheck goes to the kid with autism
Your hatred and anger creates the wrong schism
Medical visits for the man with schizophrenia
A new liberalism for the new millennium
Comfort and love for the chick with depression
This is when you show your worst aggression
The tea bag is a symbol of ableist ignorance
Paying income tax turns mice into militants


CHORUS
White hoods, green suits, black battle boots
Your retard jokes suck and they’re far from cute
Psychophobia is as real as it fucking gets
Yet you’re the one who is fucked up in the head


VERSE 3
Bullies and criminals come in all shapes and sizes
Injecting their venom into the hearts of the wisest
Keeping people down while you still climb higher
Aiming your pistol and then squeezing to fire
You know nothing about what the fuck it’s like
To be eaten alive by the demons inside
I’ll take my handouts and swallow my pills
While you continue to bitch about the bills


EXTENDED CHORUS
White hoods, green suits, black battle boots
Your retard jokes suck and they’re far from cute
Psychophobia is as real as it fucking gets
Yet you’re the one who is fucked up in the head
Let’s fit your ass for a warm straightjacket
Keep you in the darkness of a cell that’s padded
All that “free shit” sounds pretty damn good, right?
Think about that and have yourself a good night

Scarecrow Justice

Living out in the middle of nowhere had many benefits. For the Cobra Strike Militia and their top hit man Edward Bell, it meant freedom from federal agents. But even the motorcycle-riding assassin knew that such liberties were at risk. Something had to be done to make sure certain government officials didn’t make it to their elections. For such “urgent matters”, there was a pistol with a silencer at the end of it stowed in the duffel bag in the side car of the motorcycle, along with other kick-ass toys of destruction.

It was the perfect day for riding through the countryside. The sun was shining brightly upon the cornfields. The only thing breaking the silence for Edward Bell was his bike engine, which was purring like the machinegun he kept in his duffel bag. Unfortunately for him, it was also popping and banging like one. Soon enough, the motorcycle was slowing down and all Edward could say was, “Goddamn it!” when he pulled over to the side of the desolate road.

Such colorful language continued to pour from Edward’s mouth like a flood of obscenities. He loved his motorcycle and couldn’t stand to watch it break down, especially since the time window in between assassinations was getting thin. He ripped the duffel bag out of the side car with his muscular, tattooed hands and unzipped it before searching through its contents for repair tools.

A middle aged white guy with a gray ponytail and black paramilitary gear fixing his bike on the side of the road would have looked suspicious to a lot of people. Edward would have had the solitude he needed if it hadn’t been for the sounds of throaty whispering coming from the cornfields. He stopped turning the wrench on his engine and looked around with a “What the hell?” expression on his bearded face. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back to work with the wrench.

And then the throaty whispers were getting louder. Edward was starting to think he was going insane. He stood up with his monkey wrench held like a weapon and looked around to see where the noise was coming from. He couldn’t find the source and his heart began to beat loudly in his chest. He wiped a cool sweat as it trickled down his forehead into his eyes. The anxiety continued to build as those angry whispers were tormenting him like an acute case of schizophrenia.

“Where the hell are you?! Show yourself! I’ve got enough guns in my bag to rip your ass to shreds! And I love shooting my guns! I don’t give a damn what the government says!” And yet when he was searching through his duffel bag to find his silencer pistol, he was fumbling with it even though it was in plain sight. When he finally had a good grip on it, he felt a hand made from straw grabbing his shoulder from within the cornfields.

Edward had nearly pissed himself as he screamed and crab-walked backwards in blood-chilling fear, leaving his guns to the mercy of whoever grabbed him. Instead of a “Yankee fed”, it was a living, breathing, gossamer and straw-covered scarecrow with a carved pumpkin for a head. His carved eyes were glowing bright orange and his elongated teeth were drooling with blood. He also had several large spiders crawling all over his body and he didn’t even care.

As Edward Bell’s heart beat even faster and his sweaty body rained with salty fluids, he tried to sound brave when he threatened the hideous monster before him when he said, “You stay away from my gun bag! I have the right to have those!”

“Relax. Take a deep breath. I don’t want your pathetic little guns,” said the scarecrow in a demonic whisper. He crept like a zombie across the road with Edward continuing to scoot backwards in underwear-shitting fear. “My name is Cackle-Puss. Laugh at my name if you want, but I’m not going anywhere until I get something from you. It’s something I’ve wanted since you began your career as a hit man.”

The militia assassin was able to calm down long enough to question the legitimacy of Cackle-Puss’s monster status. He stood up, dusted his flak vest and camouflage pants off, and said, “What a damn minute here! There ain’t no such thing as ghosts! This is all a bunch of hocus pocus bullshit! There ain’t nothing stopping me from sticking my boot up your straw ass right now, bitch!”

He marched up to the scarecrow to do just that before Cackle-Puss shape-shifted into someone Edward recognized right away. It was the politician he was sent to kill: John Merton, Democrat of Paulson City. “Do you really want to kill me, Mr. Bell? Is a 12% tax on cigarettes really going to limit your freedom that much? Would you really take me away from my wife and children over something as stupid as politics? I’ve been in this game many times, but you’re the first who wanted to kill me over it. I’m a father and a husband. You have no right to…”

Before the hallucination of John Merton could finish his sentence, Edward took a swing and clocked him in the jaw, knocking him to the ground with a puddle of blood in his wake. The hit man arrogantly chuckled to himself as he knelt down and pulled the politician’s hair to show his face. Except it wasn’t his face anymore. Cackle-Puss had morphed into a beautiful young blond woman and had a pregnant belly to go with the new form.

The woman said, “Why would you do this to me, Edward? I was your wife for ten long years. We were going to have a family together. You started getting drunk every night and then you killed me and our son. I wanted to leave you, but you wouldn’t let me. Why, Edward? After all these years, why?!”

The hit man was now terrified once again as he shakily released his grip on his ex-wife’s hair. He looked down at her pregnant belly and saw a bloody wound in place of their unborn son. Edward Bell backed up slowly on wobbly legs and breathed heavily. Soon that breathing became angry. His brows furrowed and his fists clenched when he said, “This is all a trick! This is bullshit! Magic doesn’t exist! Not in my world! You think you’ve got one over on me, Cackle-Puss?! Don’t insult me, you sick bastard!”

He was about to bring his combat boot down on the morphing scarecrow’s face, but stopped midway through when there was yet another transformation. It was a little Basset hound with a bruised body, bloody jowls, a slashed ear, and a shaky body. The little guy whined and pleaded with Edward, who in turn started trembling in fear as he dropped to his knees and allowed tears to form in his eyes.

“Hey there, little guy,” said the assassin with a quivering mouth. “I didn’t mean to do all that nasty stuff to you. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was never anything personal. You believe me, right?”

Edward reached his bloody hand out to try and pet the battered puppy, but then Cackle-Puss transformed back into his scarecrow form and the militia nitwit got a bite from the pumpkin-head’s bloody fangs instead. Edward backpedaled and howled in pain while clutching his chomped hand. He fell back on his ass while Cackle-Puss stalked him slowly with fiery eyes and a malicious smile.

“So that’s your answer to everybody you’ve killed. It’s never personal. It’s all part of the job, right?” said the scarecrow. “Because little doggies are a threat to your freedom. So is your wife. So is your unborn child. And so is a politician who also happens to be a family man. How many more must die before you’re satisfied with your ill-gotten constitutional rights? How many guns must you fire for the sake of freedom? How many more? How many more? How many more?!”

Cackle-Puss kept repeating that last question, but in the voices of everybody Edward Bell killed along his path to a free America. The paramilitary soldier clutched his skull and rocked back and forth in schizophrenic agony. He couldn’t stand these voices. He couldn’t stand the fact that Cackle-Puss was right. So he made yet another excuse for himself when he jumped to his feet and threw a flying kick at the scarecrow’s pumpkin head, knocking it off his shoulders.

The head was still screaming in pain, but the body was kneeling down while the spiders and gossamers were fading away. Still in berserk mode, Edward Bell finally pulled his silencer pistol out of his bag and fired several rounds into Cackle-Puss’s body. And then Edward pulled out an automatic rifle and peppered it in bullets. And then he pulled out a shotgun and blasted the hell out of the spiders and gossamers. He pulled out every gun in his bag and emptied it on the scarecrow while its pumpkin head pleaded for mercy using the voices of Edward’s victims.

In the mess of spider corpses, bloody straw, and broken cobwebs, Edward knelt down and raised his fists to the sky before letting out a barbaric war cry. Cackle-Puss’s head, which was still alive, was watching this scene in horror and still sobbing in the victims’ voices. The hit man picked up the pumpkin head and stared into its devilish eyes. “Where’s your bag of magic tricks now, you sick son of a bitch?! Where’s your necromancy?! Who are you going to change into now?! Huh?! You think you’re fucking tough?!”

The sounds of police sirens filled the air and Edward turned his head around to give an evil look at the red and blue flashing lights coming his way. Cackle-Puss laughed at him and said, “How many more, Edward? How many more?”

“How many more? I’ll take them all down in a blaze of glory! And you, Cackle-Puss…you’re just another casualty in the war on America!” said Edward before punching the pumpkin head and getting blood and brains all over his hand. He chucked the monster head aside and picked up another shotgun he kept in his bag. “Let’s do this shit!” He pumped the gun ready to go.

Except there would be no suicide by cop this afternoon. Those weren’t cop lights coming his way. Those were ambulance lights. All the guns in the world couldn’t keep Edward Bell from finding himself in a straightjacket in a padded cell while repeating the words of Cackle-Puss. No one believed his scarecrow story. They believed his antigovernment rhetoric even less.

A man of Edward’s insanity possessing that many guns would be even bigger campaign fuel for John Merton’s election. Edward Bell affected change alright, but not in the way he would have liked. Being in a mental institution for the rest of his life wasn’t exactly a desired outcome. The worst part about it? He gets visitation hours every night. His only visitor? Cackle-Puss, bringer of scarecrow justice!

Mean Businesses

It seems as though every time someone enters a job that involves celebrity status of some kind, there’s always somebody telling them that whatever they’re getting into is a “mean business”. I can understand why someone would say those words about MMA, wrestling, or any other athletic activity: there’s a lot of testosterone flying around and raging criticism is bound to happen. But why exactly would something like literature or movies be considered “mean businesses”? Let’s be honest: it doesn’t take a whole lot of hateful aggression to read a book or to watch a movie. I’ll tell you where the term “mean business” comes from. It comes from the idea that just because we live in a democratic society, it automatically grants us the right to be a verbal bully. In America, that right is documented under the first amendment of the constitution. Freedom of speech is good to have, but when the mediums we love turn into “mean businesses”, that’s when things get out of control quickly. If you need proof, just watch an episode of TMZ. They’re always getting a chuckle out of a celebrity being too fat for her bikini or saying something slightly off-color. If you need further proof, look no further than the Sunday morning newspaper, where a critic will rip a book to shreds in more ways than one. When did it become acceptable to be spiteful people? I will admit that I get caught up in the moment as well when it comes to joining the “mean business” politics. In fact, I’ve been very vocal against the Republican Party for their role in the current government shutdown going on. It’s well documented that I receive disability payments and food stamps due to my schizophrenia and autism. What everyone here may not know is that my mother works for the Environmental Protection Agency and is the biggest source of income my immediate family has. Naturally, I was furious with the Republicans, but only because lives are on the line during a government shutdown. I don’t really see how someone writing an awful book constitutes the right to be an asshole about it. I wasn’t a big fan of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”, but I would never under any circumstances dance on Stiegg Larsson’s grave because of it. The first amendment has way too much room for abuse. Isn’t that right, Fred Phelps? All I’m asking from the celebrity sphere is, can we all just calm the fuck down for the first time in our lives? I’m not saying you have to wear yoga pants and yell out “Namaste” every time somebody passes you on the streets. I’m just saying that killing a Twilight fan for being of the wrong side of the Jacob-Edward spectrum is a TAD bit extreme.

　

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call two gay Vikings?

A: Leif partners.

"Nowhere To Run" by CJ Box

After reading “Nowhere to Run”, you have to wonder to yourself which one is worse: hearing dueling banjos in the middle of the forest or hearing something played on a pink iPod that was stolen off of a random woman’s belongings? If you answered the latter, you were probably quivering in your snakeskin boots at the presence of Camish and Caleb Grim. And why wouldn’t you? They’ve been slashing tents, butchering elk, and vandalizing property all over the park that Joe Pickett has to investigate. Not only do the two brothers appear to be the ones who did it, but they’re not going down without a fight. And when they fight, they use the most vicious tactics a hunting bow and bone-crunching traps can provide. Good luck, Mr. Government Man, I mean, Mr. Pickett! As long as we’re wishing good luck to a guy that’s been referred to as a “government man” (much to his chagrin), I believe it’s time to fill you in on what CJ Box appears to be about. In terms of political acumen, it would seem that Mr. Box is a mirror image of Carl Hiaasen. And why wouldn’t the former be? He lives in Wyoming and walks around in a cowboy hat all day long. It’s not a huge secret that Wyoming is a hotbed for conservative politics. A lot of those politics show through in CJ Box’s writing, particularly as it relates to much later in the book where government corruption runs rampant. The woman that Joe Pickett is looking for up in these mountains was said to have been a diehard Ayn Rand fan. The Grim brothers weren’t much different when asked about their political stances. As a hardcore liberal and even more hardcore socialist, I should be upset that one of my favorite books has this kind of agenda attached to it. The truth is, I’m not. I’m not shocked that a cowboy from Wyoming thinks differently from me. My only advice to readers of his books is to enjoy them for their quick pace, intelligent writing style, and three-dimensional characters all across the board. I even dare say that I could learn something from Mr. Box as it relates to my own writing. Then again, whenever I compare myself to someone else, I usually end up hating what I’ve written down. Short moments of low self-esteem are a small price to pay for learning how to write from one of the best in the business: CJ Box.

　

***CONCERT QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“So as everyone here knows, Mr. Randy Blythe is free and well. We’re going to do this next song for him. Because no one gets left behind!”

-Ivan Moody from Five Finger Death Punch-