Born to Die

“Clear your mind. Let your thoughts flow from you like water. Be as still as the mountains.” India Malakar heard every peaceful mantra ever told by his martial arts masters. Even so, none of these calming chants could keep his blood from boiling or his mind from exploding. His fists were clenched with anger, his teeth bit down hard, and his eyes were full of emotional fire. He didn’t look like a serious monk at that point, but his teenaged years were evident in the lack of wisdom his pose showed.

Then again, since he was standing right outside the entrance of the Jackrabbit Marine Bar with drunken mercenaries laughing their asses off, it was hard to remain cool. These same mercenaries implanted thoughts in India’s brain of them burning his village to the ground while asking where the hell their protection money was. The Born To Die Mercenary Guild may have been protectors at one point, but money was their only creed and humanity was in short supply.

India tried to push the angry thoughts of violent retribution from his mind. He tried to forget the traumatic ghost that filled his thoughts with fiery huts, bloody corpses, and laughing soldiers. The harder he pushed them down, the stronger they came back up. A wiser monk would have made peace with even the closest memories of the past. India was barely out of high school and wisdom wasn’t his best feature. His fists, feet, elbows, and knees, on the other hand, looked like they were ready to do some ass kicking. The pissed off monk took a deep breath in and out (as if it would actually calm him down) and entered the bar without a second thought.

The Born To Die squadron was in full force at the Jackrabbit Marine Bar. With spike armored, camouflage clothed, and rifle-wielding mercenaries cheering her on, the leader of this pact, a giantess of a woman named Jill Henderson, was chugging a glass of beer that was so tall it came up to her waistline. Despite the ample volume of alcoholic liquid, Jill chugged it all like a dam busting open down her throat. The mercenaries cheered as she slammed the tall glass on the bar and ordered the bartender to pour her another one.

Except the bartender wasn’t focused on Jill Henderson’s drinking habits. He was focused on India Malakar’s rage and age. Everyone went silent and stared at the young monk when the horseshoe-pattern haired barkeep said, “Hey there, little guy. Are you sure you’re supposed to be in here? This place is for grownups, not for little kids. So take your skinny ass outside. We don’t want you here.”

Instead of doing as he was told, India shouted at the mercenaries in swear words that were from a foreign language. Nobody could make out what he was saying, so out of sheer ignorance, they laughed at his attempt at hurling insults.

Jill shoved her beer glass off the counter and let it crash to the floor (the bartender couldn’t give two shits about it). She slowly approached the tight-muscled, sash-wearing monk and leaned her massive frame down to his level. She then proceeded to insult India in her own made up racist language when she said, “Aso, aso, aso! Ching-chong teriyaki! Yuki-yuki sooki! Cawpet munchah!” Her “comedy” got a good laugh from her compatriots.

The one person who wasn’t amused was India, who threw a hard slap across Jill’s face with the mercenaries “oooing” in the background. Despite the loud impact, the slap didn’t even cause the seven-foot tall mercenary to flinch. She instead smiled her nearly toothless smile at the little kid and said, “Bitch, you’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing. Here, let me show you how it’s really done.”

In one brutal motion, Jill smacked India across his face so hard that the adolescent warrior was knocked over a table where a mercenary was sitting, who then proceeded to shove him onto the floor. The laughter was even louder and more obnoxious than before.

“Let your actions flow like the river,” said the sagely voice inside India’s head. “Let your enemies come to you. Seek justice, not vengeance. Choose peace over war.” With the kid lying face down on the floor while everyone is laughing at him, it was even harder to allow peaceful justice to take over his mind. This was a stupid idea. India was vastly outnumbered and much weaker than most of the people here.

He tried to crawl on his hands and knees out of the bar, but he felt a stiff boot come down hard on his spine, holding him still and causing him extreme pain at the same time. That boot no doubt belonged to Jill, who stared at the back of India’s head and said, “You ain’t got the balls, son!” The monk then felt beer washing over his pony tailed hair and suffocating him at the same time. And then more annoying laughter boomed over the bar.

Jill grabbed India by the scruff of his neck and threw him out onto the street with such force that he rolled several feet. “And stay out!” yelled the giantess warrior before getting back to her night of partying.

With India lying in a pile of garbage bags and newspapers, this would have been the perfect time to tap out and cry the night away. Wallowing in self pity and mourning the loss of his villagers and family seemed reasonable considering it was one versus all from the very beginning.

But then a strange feeling came over Mr. Malakar. The trash bags he was lying in happened to be stuffed full of shredded paper from an office building, which felt remotely like his own comfortable bed. This feeling of softness took him back to his childhood years when peace, love, and understanding were easier to achieve. Drinking his mother’s milk, playing around with his father, getting pushed in a wheelbarrow by his older brother…and then the feeling of harmony washed over him once more.

“Are you still here?” said a mocking female voice. India slowly opened his eyes to see Jill Henderson towering over him with her fists clenched and brows furrowed. The monk must have been passed out for hours, because the sun was now underneath the horizon and the moon and stars were out.

Despite the rude awakening, India still had that feeling of calm wash over him from sleeping in softness. His calmness would be tested once more when Jill pulled out the rifle that was slung over her shoulders and cocked it with the intention of finishing off the stalwart monk.

“You know something, my little Kung Pao chicken shit?” said Jill. “I haven’t had this much fun toying with someone in a long time. Usually when me and my men are out on a mission, we have to kill a whole bunch of moronic civilians before we have any fun burning shit to the ground. But now playtime has taken on a whole new meaning for me. Now that your pathetic villagers are rotting in the ground, I just have one question for you, little man. Where do you want me to shoot you: in the head or in the chest? Maybe I’ll blast your tiny dick off first.”

Jill expected that string of insults to rile up the little teenager. Instead he smiled the most beautiful smile his overly whitened teeth allowed. India said in a calm and cool voice, “You don’t understand, Miss Henderson. I don’t need vengeance. I need justice.” With one well-placed kick, he snapped Jill’s leg in half and caused her to accidentally fire her rifle in the air. The surprised mercenary dropped to the ground clutching her torn knee and screaming in agony.

India slowly picked himself up and dusted himself off. He looked around and saw that the other mercenaries in the Jackrabbit Marine Bar had gone home for the day. This couldn’t be more perfect. He picked up the rifle off the ground and said, “Only a coward would ever use one of these!” He broke the weapon over his own knee and discarded the remains in the pile of shredded paper where he was sleeping.

Jill’s broken leg was causing her to roar like a wounded bear. She tried to calm herself with quick raspy breaths, but they did nothing to ease the pain. They did allow her enough room to speak, though: “Go ahead! Kill me, you little prick! You got what you wanted! Now do it! Kill my ass!”

India leaned his face into his opponent’s and said, “You’re wrong, Jill. I don’t have what I want. Like I said, I want justice, not vengeance. Killing you would free you from your punishment of having to think about all of those innocent people you’ve murdered, many of them members of my family. I don’t want your life. I want your career and your thoughts!”

India made a peace sign with his first two fingers and then in one fluid motion ripped out both of Jill’s eyes. Her screams and howls were raised a few octaves as her sockets were bleeding profusely and her broken leg was still killing her. India took a look at the eyeballs in his hand with scorn and then squished them in the palm of his hand.

As soon as Jill was able to listen, India had only one thing to say to her: “Your career as a murderer for hire…is over!”

The Broken Skull Mercenaries

TEAM NAME: The Broken Skull Mercenaries
TEAM MEMBERS: Andrew Bradley, Mitch O’Connor, Jill Henderson, and Mattie Dent
OCCUPATION: Mercenaries
CANON: Garden of Evil


For those of you who actually read Garden of Evil back in 2012/2013, to clear up any confusion, Andrew Bradley, the unofficial leader of this team, used to be named Andy Bryan. His name was tweaked because I already have enough characters in my archives with the last name Bryan (Mario, Wade, Tina, Chris, etc.). I just thought I’d throw that disclaimer out there for those who really are concerned, which might be a small number of people, but they’re people nonetheless. Anyways, on with the show!

Garden of Evil started out with two scientists combing through the mercenaries’ permanent records and being scared out of their mind by what they say. Aside from the fact that these mercenaries had scars all over their faces along with bad haircuts and bad dental hygiene, they’ve also been involved in a number of mass murders (long before they met and became mercenaries). Other charges included rape, torture, kidnapping, human trafficking, and drug distribution. All of these charges rolled up into one would send a normal human being to prison for a sentence that lasted a millennium.

But instead, being stranded on Mars with a bunch of bloodthirsty dinosaurs would be a better answer for these psychotic pariahs. They thought they were going there for a fruit plucking mission to sustain earth’s food supply. Hell, they even laughed about it because the mission assignment had the word “fruit” in it, which is also a homophobic slur. But once their ship touched down on Mars’ surface and the mercenaries got out, their ship flew away on its own and pretty much left the four criminals to their own devices.

If there was ever a time for good teamwork and unconditional cooperation, this would be it. The dinosaurs are fucking huge and fucking nasty. They consider tiny humans like The Broken Skull Mercenaries to be breath mints. While Mitch O’Connor is down with the idea of watching each other’s backs, Andrew Bradley becomes a selfish leader and is willing to sacrifice his own teammates to ensure his safety. Apparently, Mr. Bradley isn’t quite used to the fact that he’s stranded on Mars forever and isn’t going back to earth anytime soon.

Because of Andrew’s arrogance, Mattie Dent and Jill Henderson become his sacrificial pawns and die saving his life. Jill and Mattie are no angels, but they clearly deserved better treatment from someone they’ve worked with for many years now. Mitch O’Connor wasn’t going to have any of it, though. As soon as Mitch discovered that the “fruits” were actually quick-acting steroids that gave humans a fighting chance against dinosaurs, he took them all for himself while Andrew was left to die on the ground with a fractured spine. Jill and Mattie had already been killed, so it was too late for Mitch to save them. But in his mind, living on Mars and psychotically slaughtering a bunch of dinosaurs was his idea of paradise. Turns out dinosaur meat tastes like chicken.

Garden of Evil made for some badass science fiction. There was lots of bloodshed and lots of high-octane action. But unfortunately, gratuitous violence is not an automatic recipe for success unless you’re watching WWE or UFC. In the world of literature, Garden of Evil would have been laughed at by snot-nosed editors around the world. Not only are The Broken Skull Mercenaries far from sympathetic in their villainy, but the pace of the writing doesn’t keep up with all of the hardcore violence.

I’ve gotten better at writing faster-paced stories, but I’d still like to have something to do with these four insane criminals. That’s why if they get used again, they won’t be the protagonists since there’s absolutely nothing the readers can relate to. After all, my target audience for these four isn’t the entire roster of a super max prison. If they’re going to be characters in my stories, they have to absolutely be antagonists. They’re Complete Monsters whom I’m pretty sure everybody wants to see die brutal deaths. Well, I’m all about customer service, so if they’re going to die, they’re going to die…but not without a blood-soaked battle! Dun-dun-dun!

　

***POLITICAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“The FCC (Federal Communications Commission) decided all by themselves that radio and television were the only two parts of American life not protected by the free speech provisions of the first amendment of the constitution. Why did they decide that? Because they got a letter from a minister in Mississippi. Reverend Donald Wildmon heard something on the radio he didn’t like. Hey, Reverend! Did you know that there are two knobs on the radio? One of them turns the radio on and off and the other changes the station. Imagine that, Reverend, you can actually change the station. It’s called Freedom of Choice and it’s one of the principles this country was founded upon. Look it up in your local library, Reverend, if you have any left after you’ve finished burning all the books!”

-George Carlin-