Landon Bryce (Millennium) X Elly Chandler (Chandler & Co): Trauma Buddies, Not Lovers

 

Those are lyrics from "Invisible Sun" by The Police. And yes, the asshole who kidnapped Elly would in fact kill her for a cigarette. Hell, he'd kill her for less.

The Gunman Is Always Right

VERSE 1

A dangerous resolution, it’s just an illusion

The gunman won’t agree to a peaceful solution

Bullets equal power and might makes right

Rifle’s locked and loaded, don’t put up a fight

 

CHORUS 1

He said, “I got the gun

I got the ropes

I’m always right”

 

VERSE 2

His newfound hostages are now his disciples

He’s got a god complex, he’ll be in charge for a while

He makes them sing hymns through their tape gags

Acolytes burning candles for the guy with clips and mags

He could write a bible with the blood of his rivals

That he nailed to a cross in a Jesus Christ style

He could go anywhere and make it his church

Hellfire and gun powder will equally burn

 

CHORUS 1

He said, “I got the gun

I got the ropes

I’m always right”

 

VERSE 3

His rifle has jammed, it refuses to click

So the brainwashed flock kick him in the dick

Punch him in the face until it’s blood he tastes

It ain’t the blood of Christ, it’s dripping with haste

Kick him in the ribs until every bone splits

Kick him in the ass, he’s got never-ending shits

The power dynamic is once again balanced

It’s only fair that the victims get their share

 

CHORUS 2

They said, “You ain’t our god

You’re just a fraud

We’re always right”

They said, “You’re off to jail

The sirens wail

We’re always right”

Chainsaw Channing Lugar

VERSE 1

Channing’s paycheck couldn’t buy him a feast

But he’s got beer and Netflix, at the very least

That’s what he gets for selling power tools

At the hardware store right out of trade school

Last thing he needed was the store to be robbed

What was there to steal? Nails and door knobs?

His nightmare came true at his work one day

“Stick them hands up or I’ll blow your ass away!”

VERSE 2

Robber opened the cash box and collected wallets

An act of patriotism is what he will call it

He needed the money to overthrow the “gum mint”

Buy some big ass bombs and some cool gun shit

He turned his back for a second too many

Just when he tried to squeeze out the last penny

Channing Lugar fired up the chainsaw

Morphed from working class stiff to a pain god

VERSE 3

The chase took place across several blocks

Robber left a trail of urine from his cock

Shit from his ass blew a hole in his jeans

Channing smelled Hooters steak and green beans

Even COVID deniers wanted to wear masks

Breathing human sewage is an unenviable task

Not nearly as bad as blood from the slash

Mutilation by chainsaw, corpse in the trash

VERSE 4

Is Channing Lugar a hero or a killer?

Not a rhetorical question or pointless filler

So many questions from lawyers and cops

They wade through blood and biological slop

Local news called him Chainsaw Channing Lugar

Said, “Hold my beer!” to Jason and Kruger

Going too far only works if you’re rich

Powerful too, not a working class bitch

Charles Goodhorn Is On Your Team, Idiots

Are you looking for adventure? Are you looking for magic? Are you looking for a magical adventure with dragon-slaying and princess-rescuing? Well, put away the Kindle and its charging cord, because you won’t get that from Charles Goodhorn’s brief encounter with gun-wielding bugbears. Who is Charles Goodhorn, you ask? He’s a noble paladin. A righteous warrior. A slayer of everything evil. With every D&D campaign he was a part of, he made it to the eighth level of his profession. He was so close to getting his own warhorse and followers. He could have been the stuff of legends…but not this time. Not even close to this time.

Somewhere in the mid to late-90’s, my brother James hosted an Advanced Dungeons & Dragons with his friends Adam and his own brother whose name I can’t remember, both of whom played bugbears. What the fuck was a bugbear? Well, I didn’t start using the internet on a frequent basis until 2000, so it wasn’t like I could Google it right away. I always thought they were just humanoid bears. Damn, did I turn out to be wrong. James, Adam, and Adam’s nameless brother were in the middle of a session when from out of nowhere, James asked if I wanted to play to. Hell yes, I wanted to play! I got my eighth-level paladin ready for some action, complete with a magical bastard sword and the swagger of a true warrior.

Charles Goodhorn, the paladin in question, entered the game…and the first thing the two bugbears do is point their guns at me. Whatever swagger Charles had going into this campaign was completely gone when I, the player, couldn’t figure out how to deal with this situation. I froze up. I scrambled for answers and couldn’t find any. I couldn’t understand why two player characters would want to point guns at me for seemingly no reason. And so, Charles Goodhorn disappeared in a puff of smoke. Adam’s brother wanted to take Charles’s magical bastard sword, but that disappeared too. And then I retreated to my room not knowing why the hell everything happened the way it did.

Even though this session lasted about as long as virgin sex (which I would know nothing about), there is a lot to unpack now that I’m an adult storyteller with a somewhat developed frontal cortex. First of all, let’s ask why. Why would two player characters want to point weapons at another player character, especially when Charles did nothing to provoke them? Aren’t all player characters supposed to be on the same side? Even with differing alignments, surely they could find a way to work together. Maybe that’s what I should have had Charles say: “I’m on your team, idiots!”

Was he, though? Would a Detect Evil check inform him of the bugbears’ intentions? Should characters just willingly trust each other due to their circumstances? Do they have to get along all the time? If not, then why would they not get along? Did these bugbears come with their own emotional baggage? Were they screwed over so many times that pointing guns at strangers is reasonable? 

Or maybe…just maybe, a Google search many decades later would reveal to me that bugbears generally conform to the Chaotic Evil alignment, which meant there was no structure or recourse to what they were doing as long as it meant killing all the good guys. If I had used the Detect Evil skill that all paladins are entitled to, then I probably would have figured this out. But I froze up not knowing what to do, because I thought all player characters had to get along all the time.

But let’s say that Charles knew ahead of time that the bugbears were evil. Surely, he could just cut them down with his bastard sword the minute they got too close. But maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea to say, “I’m on your team, idiots!” Could declaring allegiance to Chaotic Evil bugbears turn Charles into an Oath Breaker, or a warrior who lost all of his paladin powers by virtue of deviating from Lawful Goodness?

But let’s say my Google search turned out to be a bunch of horseshit. Let’s say the bugbears weren’t Chaotic Evil, but they were just distrusting of strangers who suddenly waltzed in on their action. Well…Charles is hardly the only stranger to cross their paths, I’m sure. The streets of every city the bugbears were a part of were most likely packed with strangers. Do the bugbears point their guns at pedestrians crossing the street? How about the bartenders who serve them beer? Or the blacksmiths who forge their weapons? Maybe they should solve their own trust issues before they get thrown in prison for randomly pointing guns at people they don’t know.

If the bugbears weren’t actually Chaotic Evil, why would they want to distrust a paladin, who is notorious for conforming to Lawful Good behavior? If you can’t trust a zealot paladin, who can you trust? A True Neutral thief? A Chaotic Neutral barbarian? How about a Lawful Evil politician? You know, someone who hides behind red tape and charisma while committing the most devious acts imaginable, such as slashing funding for poor people and giving tax breaks to kajillionaires.

But let’s say the bugbears don’t have deep-seated trust issues nor are they Chaotic Evil. Why then would they point guns at a random paladin? Perhaps it had more to do with the setting than anything else. I never did ask James where this campaign took place. If the bugbears were in a monster-infested dungeon, maybe they thought the paladin was yet another monster. Sounds reasonable, right? Well, at that point, it sounds more like a prophecy for Dick Cheney shooting hunters in the face. Apparently, Dick Cheney wasn’t an outlier. There really were hunters in the news who shot distant people because they thought the person was a deer. Charles Goodhorn didn’t have antlers…or tentacles…or vampire fangs…or bat wings…he was just a human knight with good intentions. And yet, he could have been shot in the face because of hair-trigger paranoia.

Hair-trigger paranoia is actually a common theme in movies and books. In the beginning of The Hateful Eight, Marquis Warren asks for a ride from John Ruth’s horse carriage. Because John Ruth is a bounty hunter with a pricy criminal in tow, he points his guns at Marquis and demands to see his hands. John has no idea if Marquis is a criminal, but he won’t take any chances due to the gravity of his situation. Maybe the bugbears had similar gravity in their situations and would rather vet people than let them have access to whatever riches or artifacts they have. That would have been a fair justification for paranoia, but I didn’t know that at the time, because I always assumed player characters were part of a team.

There’s a lesson to be learned in the campaign that lasted about as long as Daniel Bryan vs. Sheamus at WWE Wrestlemania in 2012. Read the room. Make sure you see all the nuances of the situation before making wild assumptions. Charles had no idea why bugbears would want to point rifles at him, but it wouldn’t have hurt to find out. It wasn’t like he could just run up to them and cut them down, which may or may not have made him an Oath Breaker. They had guns, which meant they were in control. The one who has the bullets has all the power, in case you learned nothing from every bank robbery movie ever. Instead of calling them idiots for not seeing his side, Charles could interrogate them a little bit. Why are they pointing guns at him? Who are they? What are their intentions with him? What will it take to convince them to put their weapons down?

While illnesses like cancer and schizophrenia seem to happen randomly, human behavior happens for a reason. Is anybody really acting randomly? Do bugbears just shoot their guns off for no reason? Or do they have psychological issues which force them to do so? Do they have prejudices? Do they have untreated illnesses? Do they have past experiences with people who screwed them over? Do they value protection a little too much in dungeon-crawling scenarios? Would they shoot an innocent prisoner if they thought he was a monster? If so, what would prompt them to act hastily? Psychology can’t be boiled down to one or two actions or thoughts. There’s a whole universe going on in people’s heads. What kind of universe goes on in the bugbears’ heads?

I’ll tell you what kind of universe goes on in Charles Goodhorn’s head: the same as mine: confusion, anxiety, awkwardness, and shyness. I exhibit these traits in Charles because those were the only behaviors I knew as a pre-teen growing up in Chehalis, Washington. Getting inside other people’s heads and expanding character psychologies was an alien concept to me back then. I just wanted to slash some shit up. I wanted to kill the evil sorcerers and collect enough loot to support my Lawful Good churches. I wanted to slay dragons and rescue princesses. I wanted to leave behind a legacy of epic proportions. But if I did any of things as a Gary-Stu, then the legendary status loses all of its specialty.

If I prided myself so heavily on my creativity back then, why wouldn’t I want to expand my storytelling skills and see beyond the black and white? Because in order to do that, I’d have to actually take an interest in the literature middle school and high school gave me to analyze. School books are notorious for being boring, with the exceptions coming few and far between. Even in college, the reading material bored me to tears. I jokingly called Tom King’s book “Green Grass, Running Diarrhea”. I might as well have brought a blanket and pillow with me very time I stepped into Medieval Literature class. Going to school killed any love for reading I had, because the books sucked. It wasn’t until after I left school in 2009 that I started to find books that I liked and became a born-again bookworm.

These Dungeons & Dragons memoirs aren’t just fun to write; they’re learning experiences for my past self, whether it’s something to expand upon or never do again as a writer. Hopefully, young writers won’t make the same mistakes that I did, but if they do, it probably has something to do with the school system failing them. In my case, instead of turning to literary crap, I turned on the TV and watched edge lord shows like The Shield, WWE Raw, Mind of Mencia, and anything else that had offensive stereotypes that I never questioned. I took a lot of work to undo those edge lord tendencies. But if I hadn’t undone them, I wouldn’t be here to teach you these D&D-inspired lessons to begin with. Forget Cancel Culture, because my career wouldn’t have started anyways. Can’t take away a career that never was. Learn and continue to learn, my friends. That’s all I can teach you.

Disneylodeon

“Good morning, members of the press and those of you watching at home. My name is Albert G. Briscoe and I’m the CEO of Disneylodeon Productions. As many of you have already seen in the mainstream media, certain allegations have been levied against me and my organization. I’m here to tell each and every one of you that these allegations are far from true. Our mission here at Disneylodeon is to provide quality entertainment the whole family can enjoy, none of which includes exploitation of any kind. Our actors and production crew are treated fairly and equally. They are paid livable wages and they work in a comfortable environment.”

“Bullshit!” shouted a Hungarian-accented man before cocking his assault rifle. The journalists in the audience scattered about like cockroaches, screaming and cowering against the wall. “Shut up!” the terrorist shouted. “Shut the fuck up!” No screams, only quivering lips and whiny moans.

The only one who wasn’t screaming or running was Albert Briscoe himself, who remained seated at the stage behind his table and microphone. His middle-aged face told the perfect story of guilt and stoicism. He brushed his silver hair back and said, “I bet the shareholders aren’t going to like this.”

The Hungarian pulled his trench coat hood back and revealed his long bearded, bald headed mug to the CEO of Disneylodeon. “The shareholders aren’t going to like shit. But they’re the least of your worries, Mr. Briscoe. Right now you’re looking down the barrel of an AK-fucking-47. If you don’t give me what I want, you’re not going to be looking at shit with a face full of slugs.”

“Who are you?” asked Albert with his hands folded and his attitude calm.

“Vladek Bathory,” the gunner answered. “That last name should sound very familiar to you, Mr. Briscoe. My daughter was the lead actress on one of your shows. I’ve seen just about all I want to see of her in those slutty outfits and bare fucking feet.”

Holding his hands up defensively, Albert said, “Listen, Mr. Bathory, I don’t have that much control over my own directors. I’m just a corporate guy. If you have any grievances against my directors, you should take it up with them.”

“Such a perfect portrait of leadership, throwing your own guys under the bus like that,” said Vladek as he stalked closer to Albert. His hawkish eyes pinpointed on the CEO’s throat, which just engulfed an eight-ball sized lump of saliva. “You’re not fooling anybody. You can sweet talk these journalists all you want, but I want something a little more.” Vladek edged close enough to point the barrel right against Albert’s nose. “You’d better own up to your sins, boss man.”

“Look, Mr. Bathory, I just told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Albert with progressively fast speech. “This is out of my hands. I just do corporate work, that’s it.”

“So basically what you’re telling me is that you’re about as useful as steak sauce in India?” asked Vladek rhetorically. When Albert’s face became too frozen in fear to speak up, the gunner smashed the barrel across his nose and splattered blood all over the microphone. The CEO screamed and held his jacket sleeve against the wound, drenching it in a flood of violence.

Vladek grabbed Albert’s tie and yanked him by the neck over the table, sending him crashing to the carpeted floor coughing and wheezing. The Hungarian pressed the barrel against Albert’s cheekbone and belted, “If you’re really that fucking useless, I have no reason to keep you alive!”

“No, wait! Wait! Don’t shoot me! Please don’t fucking shoot me!” begged Albert with a nasally voice. “I can get you the producer who was in charge of your daughter’s TV show! I just need to access my phone, that’s all!”

“Bullshit!” snapped Vladek before smashing the butt of his gun against Albert’s cheek, causing even more pathetic screams of pain. “Like I’m going to let you just call the police and have this all be for naught! You think I’m a fucking idiot, Mr. Briscoe?! Huh?! You think you’re going to get off that easily?! Nobody’s coming to save you or your precious journalists! The TV and radio signals are jammed, including the cameras in this fucking studio! You’ve been talking to a brick wall this whole time!”

“Please don’t shoot me! I have a wife and daughter at home! They need me!” pleaded Albert with his hands together prayer style.

“Oh, now wives and daughters are important to you!” yelled Vladek when he pressed the barrel against Albert’s throat. He could feel another lump going down the CEO’s gullet and pressing against the gun. “They weren’t important to you before, but now that they’re yours, they’re suddenly bigger than Jesus fucking Christ himself!” Vladek leaned into Albert’s heavily panting face and whispered throatily, “Let me ask you something: are your wife and daughter into the kind of perverted shit you put on television? Does your wife like bare feet? Does your daughter like showing off her sexy soles to complete strangers on TV?!”

“It’s not like that, Mr. Bathory! You’re blowing this way out of proportion!”

“I’ll blow your head out of proportion if you don’t give me a confession!” To show he wasn’t fucking around, Vladek pulled out his smart phone and mounted it on the end of his AK-47. “Stand up, dickhead! Move!” Albert quickly obliged, allowing his nose to drip slowly and painfully. “Now then…with the whole world watching and not just your fucking shareholders…I want you to look into my phone and confess that Disneylodeon is a pervert’s paradise. You’ve got foot fetishes up to yin-yang, you’ve got naked teenagers parading their bodies around, and you’ve got producers and directors getting their jollies off in the background!”

Albert stared down on the floor and took a huge breath, slowly bringing his bloodshot eyes to Vladek’s phone to make the announcement the whole world has been waiting for. “My name is Albert Briscoe…I am the CEO of Disneylodeon…our directors and producers…are a bunch…are a bunch of….I can’t do this…no, wait, wait, wait!...Our directors and producers are foot fetishists and pedophiles. It’s plain to see in the TV-G shows we air on our network…But even more apparent than that…is the raging bulge in Vladek Bathory’s pants!”

“What the?!” shouted Vladek as he looked down at his crotch to see there was indeed a large mass forming.

The lengthy tube steak snapped in half upon contact with Albert’s swift loafer-wearing foot. The Hungarian dropped his assault rifle and doubled over in pain while screaming like his daughter would have in the same situation. Albert rushed to grab the assault rifle and pointed it at the wounded terrorist. “You see that, everyone?!” Mr. Briscoe shouted. “That was an example of the many feet we like to put on the air! And now for the first time in the history of this company, Disneylodeon’s programming will be rated TV-MA for violence! Lots and lots of VIOLENCE!”

That last word was punctuated with Albert unleashing a barrage of bullets into the now bloody and splattered body of Vladek Bathory. The life juices splashed all over Albert’s Armani suit, but the bulging rage in his eyes suggested that was the last thing in the world he was angry over. Journalists stormed out of the building screaming and crying while a familiar face came running inside to kneel by her fallen father.

“Daddy!” the teenaged actress shouted. “Daddy! What happened?!” She cradled her father’s shattered skull in her arms and rocked back and forth while bawling like a baby.

“Who do you think you’re calling daddy, young lady?!” shouted Albert as he pointed the assault rifle at the actress, who gazed up at him with flooding eyes and quivering lips. “From now on, baby girl, you’re going to be calling ME daddy! And if you think your hypocrite ex-father was good with a gun…you should know…I don’t shoot blanks either!” Albert winked at the end of that last sentence before chuckling evilly at the sorrowful girl on the ground.

“You’re a monster, Albert!” sobbed the girl as she wiped her tears and snot away with her bare arm. “You’re a goddamn monster!”

“Monster? Really?” said Albert. “This isn’t about being a monster, honey. This is about business. This is about the American way. And right now…business is booming! When you see your father in hell, be sure to tell him I said thanks for making my shareholders happy!”

Chicken of the Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fire and Fury

Ronis Wakizashi chewed his breakfast steak and savored every juicy bite before the heavenly meal slid down his throat. It had been a while since he’d eaten at The Buffalo Brunch. Catching his latest criminal called for a celebration: tender sirloin steak, fluffy scrambled eggs, butter-drenched English muffins, and crispy hash browns. Ronis ate his meal without regard for the contents tangling into his scraggly beard or splattering on his bulletproof vest and blue jeans. He even managed to get a bite of scrambled egg on his cowboy hat, which took some serious talent.

His beautiful breakfast was interrupted at the sounds of heavy breathing from across the restaurant. Among all the patrons, the female navy sailor with the jittery hands and splashing coffee cup got his attention. Her breathing patterns included some slight squeaks. Ronis stared at her for a while then shook his head in annoyance before digging right back into his breakfast.

The sailor’s breathing deepened as tears flowed from her eyes ever so lightly. Ronis slammed his fork down on his plate and gave her another annoyed look, but she was too pumped on nervous adrenaline to notice. Even the waitress had to ask the sailor five or six times whether she wanted a refill on her coffee before she snapped out of her trance and said yes.

Ronis watched as the waitress poured coffee into the sailor’s mug. The navy soldier finally snapped when a splash of coffee burned her fingers. She shot up and let out a lengthy blood-curdling scream while shaking the burn out of her hand. The waitress apologized relentlessly and scanned the restaurant for other patrons staring at her, to which she gave them an awkward smile.

The sailor pulled a knife from her belt and wrapped one arm around the waitress’s throat. When the hostess screamed, the navy soldier snapped, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch! If I hear so much as a pin drop in this fucking place, I’ll carve your ass up from ear to ear!”

The waitress’s wailing was reduced to childish whimpering and a stream of heavy tears. Everybody stared at the knife-wielder, including Ronis, who kept a steady grip on his shotgun underneath the table. The Sheriff even had the nerve to keep eating his breakfast, gnashing a piece of English muffin with those smelly teeth of his.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing, old man?!” screamed the sailor. “Breakfast is over! Now you all are going to listen to me before I slash this bitch’s throat!”

“I don’t think so, you stupid whore,” said Ronis with a scarily calm demeanor. He stood right up and pointed his shotgun at the sailor, who proceeded to press her blade tightly against the sobbing waitress’s throat. “Put the knife down, navy chick. You’re not going to win this fight. I’m the one with the shotgun and all you have is a little tinker toy. Are you ready to give up or do I have to splatter your brains all over the table?”

“You want to shoot me?” the sailor stammered. “You want to kill my ass? Go ahead! Anything’s better than living with this shit inside my brain! You’d be doing me a favor!”

“Alright, I get it,” said Ronis halfheartedly. “You’re a soldier who saw a whole bunch of nasty stuff overseas and now you can’t get it out of your mind. Hell, if I went through half of what you guys go through every day, I’d be messed up in the head too. Put you’ve got to put the knife down. Carving up that sweet thing isn’t going to give you relief.”

“No, it won’t,” admitted the sailor in a somewhat calmer voice. “But it’ll make people listen. You know why people like to show up at political rallies with cardboard signs? Because they want to be heard. And now I want to be heard too. If I didn’t have this knife in my hands, you’d be sitting there finishing your goddamn breakfast.”

“You got my attention, princess,” said Ronis. “Now tell me what you want. I ain’t got all day. You’re right: I do want to eat my breakfast, so make it quick.”

“Please!” begged the waitress through horrified tears. “Don’t make her angry! Just give her what she wants so that we can all go home!”

“Shut the fuck up, you skinny bitch, this ain’t any of your goddamn business!” Ronis shouted. He returned his attention to the traumatized sailor and said, “Now, you have the floor. Say something and say it fast. Otherwise, my trigger finger’s going to get really itchy. Are we clear?” No response. “Do you want a microphone and a stage or what? Talk, damn it!”

“You want me to talk?” asked the sailor. “Fine, let’s talk. After all, if I don’t say anything, I’ll just be another statistic on a government chart. I’ll just be another homeless bum on the streets who can’t find a goddamn job. Yeah, you think you know what I’m going through? Of course you don’t. You can sleep easy at night without having to worry if you’re going to die in your dreams. You don’t have to think about exploding land mines or gunfire blowing out your eardrums or your supervisor not giving a shit either way! I don’t want to fight this war any longer. I want to know what true comfort really is.”

“And you think you’re going to get true comfort by slashing a waitress’s throat?” asked Ronis. “There are only two kinds of comfort that will get you: sleeping easy in a six-by-nine cell or sleeping easy in a coffin. In the end, it doesn’t matter if your message is right or wrong. What matters is that you’re putting people in danger with your reckless behavior.”

The sailor’s facial features softened to a contemplative expression, generating silence between her, the captive, and Sheriff Wakizashi. It was a calming silence for all parties involved, but it was really just complacency when the sailor shouted, “Reckless behavior my ass! You haven’t seen shit yet!”

The soldier raised her dagger and forced a shriek out of the waitress as it came down with a quickness. The waitress bowed down on the floor with her ears covered after Ronis pulled the trigger, knocking the sailor to the ground and freeing the server from captivity. The waitress still screamed bloody murder while the other patrons watched in wide-eyed shock and horror.

Ronis, without a hint of remorse, trudged over to the waitress and the sailor’s body with his cowboy boots clicking against the brick floor. He fished several five dollar bills out of his jeans pocket and dropped them on the waitress, who looked up at him with puppy dog eyes and more hysterical sobbing. The Sheriff said, “There’s your tip for putting up with all of this bullshit. I’m proud of you.” No response. “What are you waiting for?”

The waitress scooped up her “gratuity” and ran out of the restaurant in a big blubbering hurry, which was amazing since she wore high heeled shoes the entire time. Ronis looked coldly at the sailor’s prone body and said, “You can stop acting now. That was just a beanbag shot.” The sailor slowly regained consciousness after acquiring a huge purple bump on her forehead. She tenderly touched the bruise and winced in pain after the slightest poke.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” asked Ronis.

“Julie Clay. Seaman Julie Clay,” she said in a dizzied hush.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sheriff Ronis Wakizashi. I should be taking you to jail right now to serve a long ass sentence. But I’m not going to.” He knelt beside her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “That tough guy talk was just to see how far you’d really go. Intimidation has always worked for me in the past. It didn’t work with you, so I had to shoot you with that beanbag. Sorry about that. You really did have something to say and you weren’t going down without getting your voice out there. I admire that. You really are the dictionary definition of a soldier, Miss Clay.”

“What happens now?” asked Julie. “Do I need to turn around and put my hands behind my back?”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Clay. The handcuffs are a precautionary measure and I never leave home without them. The beanbag gun was optional. I don’t like shooting people when I don’t have to. My father was shot during a traffic stop, not by a crook, but by another cop. I’ve had to live with that shit for a long, long time. I wouldn’t know what comfort was if it came up and bit me on the ass. So I joined the force hoping I could make a difference with just this beanbag gun. But you, it’s not too late for you to make a difference. Hell, you’ve done a lot already with your military career. But before we can turn the clock back, you have to come with me.”

Julie’s breathing got progressively heavier as she held her hands up together and whispered, “Get me out of here. I don’t care where we go from here, just get me the hell out of this place.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t care where we’re going, because I’m not taking you to jail. Jail is for people who have nothing but evil and negativity in their hearts. You’ve got something more than that. I’m taking you to the hospital to be treated. You can’t walk around town with this kind of violent force. I know you don’t mean to do it. I know you don’t want to do it. So come on, let’s get you out of here,” said Ronis before hooking the handcuffs around Julie’s wrists and gently pulling her up.

As the two of them walked slowly toward the exit with Ronis’s arms draped over Julie’s shoulders, she asked, “Why are you doing all of this for me? I almost killed someone and you’re giving me an easy way out.”

“There’s nothing easy about any of this, Miss Clay,” said Ronis in a gentle voice. “But just because your road to recovery is a long one, doesn’t mean that the US Department of Justice has to be an oxymoron.”

"The Woman" by Jack Ketchum & Lucky McKee

Whenever a child or teenager is accused of being “uncivilized”, they normally go to a manners class or an etiquette seminar. Having said this, it makes for a burning question as you pick up a copy of “The Woman”. How exactly is blowing out somebody’s eardrum with gunfire supposed to civilize a savage huntress? And when I say savage huntress, I’m not talking about that bikini clad lady that Raquel Welsh played in 10,000,000 BC. The woman in question is a lot more hideous and monstrous than that. Her face is distorted into a caveman caricature. Her muscles make a juicing bodybuilder’s look like pebbles. She has more dirt on her than a redneck’s truck. Her breath can knock out her opponents faster than a Travis Browne superman punch. Despite having all of these nasty features working against her, she still manages to become a sex object to the family trying to “tame” her. Actually, only the patriarch, Chris Cleek, is trying to tame her. The rest of his family is downright horrified, with the exception of Chris’ teenaged sociopath son, Brian. Would you like a clear portrait of what this fucked up family is like? That way, you’ll have a better idea of what kind of people are holding this cavewoman hostage. Chris Cleek is the patriarch and has a mean streak as wide as the scars he puts on his women’s faces. Brian Cleek is every bit as nasty and perverted as his father. I’d even dare say he’s a chip off the old block. Darleen Cleek is the youngest daughter and doesn’t even know what’s going on half of the time. Belle Cleek is the matriarch and has a hard time standing up to her man’s insidious behavior. In fact, she joins in on it during her moments of weakness. And then we have Peggy Cleek, the oldest daughter with a bun in the oven and a defensive demeanor. I won’t say who the father of Peggy’s child is, but if it’s not obvious to you at this point, it’s probably for the best. There you have it, folks. A fucked up family versus a fucked up tribal warrior. How is this going to end? Not very well, I’ll guarantee you that. If you want more, you’ll have to purchase a copy of this book and see for yourself why I gave it five stars on Good Reads. It’s fast paced (just like any suspense book would be), it’s disturbing as hell (also like any suspense novel would be), and when you wake up tomorrow morning, you’ll be drenched in your own sweat and piss (do I really have to say it again)? Need anymore reasons? Didn’t think so.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“So take your necklace off and put a fucking noose in its place!”

-Sworn In singing “Hypocrisy”-

Obnoxious Characters

Obnoxious characters are not always fun to read about, but they are the most necessary. While it would be nice to have every single character in a story be relatable and charming, it’s not true to the real world. These obnoxious characters can be anybody from a screaming street preacher to a psychopathic child molester. The world certainly has no shortage of people who fit these archetypes. When we’re their victims, we don’t see any need to relate to them on a personal level. When bank robbers are holding victims hostage, the victims’ first thought isn’t going to be, “I wish they were more charming” or “They must be hurting on the inside.” Their first thoughts are probably going to be something like, “Please get us out of here!” or “Will someone shoot these assholes in the head?!” But then you have something called Stockholm Syndrome, where a captive learns to depend on his kidnapper in a relationship akin to romance or family. Even then, when the victim is free, they’re going to be doing summersaults and back flips when they finally return to their original families. It’s a harsh reality that we have to live with sociopaths, but it still is reality. Of course, there’s also the argument that when someone reads a book or goes to a movie, they’re engaging in escapism. People like to go to The Hobbit in order to visit a world of dragons and fantasy, something they wouldn’t otherwise get in their current reality. But even then, there will still be characters that you root for and characters you’re rooting against. In the case of The Hobbit, you cheer for Bilbo Baggins and against that one-armed orc warrior whose name escapes me. But what if you have a story where everybody is capable of being a villain? Then who do you root for? It wouldn’t be completely out of line to wish that a meteor would come crashing down from the heavens and shatter the bones of everybody in the story. It’ll never happen, but sometimes the bad guys get away with whatever they’re doing. In the Saw series, the Jigsaw Killer gets away with murder every single time. And yet, it still counts as escapism because there’s an element of fantasy in these gory movies. In the end, it comes down to which side of the fantasy-reality spectrum you’re on. If you don’t care who wins in the end, then you’re siding with reality. If you always want the good guys to win, then you’re a little closer toward fantasy. But no matter which side you find yourself on, obnoxious characters will always exist whether you want them to or not. Lord knows I’ve had to put up with Ari from NCIS for a long, long time. And the heel version of Michael Cole from the WWE? He got jammed down our throats every night one of those shows was on the air. If you expect justice in every single story you immerse yourself in, you’re going to be sorely disappointed sometimes.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“And the world spreads its legs for another fucking star! ‘Cause I am the all-American antichrist! I was made in America and America hates me for what I am! I am your shit! You should be ashamed of what you have eaten!”

-Intro to “Rock n’ Roll Nigger” by Marilyn Manson-