Price Tag

CHORUS

Everything you do has a price tag on it

Unlimited freedom? I don’t care if you want it

You step on my neck, I’ll step on yours

Bootlicking gets you nowhere, you’ll always be poor

 

VERSE 1

Far-right minority, what the fuck gives?

What’s it like to have black skin and white privilege?

Enjoy it while it lasts, it can be taken away

By the same guys who think you’re whole culture is gay

The G-word’s a pejorative in their itty-bitty world

They can’t see a spectrum beyond boy and girl

When you and your family are next on the cross

Try kissing more ass, on the advice of your boss

 

CHORUS

Everything you do has a price tag on it

Unlimited freedom? I don’t care if you want it

You step on my neck, I’ll step on yours

Bootlicking gets you nowhere, you’ll always be poor

 

VERSE 2

You work in construction while they’re plotting your destruction

You crack a bigoted joke and expect an induction

Into the Hall of Fame or the Millionaire’s Club

Trying hard to be a dom, but you’re always a sub

Isolate inside a bubble of your own creation

Thinking it’ll shield you from public damnation

Never mind being late to your own Over Party

You’re late to your own trial, too late to say sorry

 

CHORUS

Everything you do has a price tag on it

Unlimited freedom? I don’t care if you want it

You step on my neck, I’ll step on yours

Bootlicking gets you nowhere, you’ll always be poor

 

VERSE 3

So what if you make a million dollars or more?

You’ll waste it on gold chains, diamond rings, and whores

Oops, I meant you when I said the big W

‘Cause it ain’t sex workers who want to cuddle you

Your favorite rich bitch won’t want to do it either

Even if you call your own minority “useless eaters”

You can throw the Sig Heil at any time of the day

Doesn’t change the fact that you’re wasting away

Yeah, I called it a fact, it don’t care about your feelings

Don’t like your own medicine? Don’t rush the healing

Your parasocial followers are in a marriage of convenience

They’ll leave you when they see that you’re a fraud, not a genius

AK Spray Is the Only Way

INTRO

I don’t want stress management skills

I want an AK-47

I don’t want to negotiate with my abusers

I want an AK-47

I don’t want to apologize to angry customers

I want an AK-47

Because AK spray is the only way!

 

VERSE 1

You can call me a cosplay revolutionary

You can say I’m no different from a bloody mercenary

You can call me an edgelord visionary

You can call me undesirable and say you’ll never marry

But all I want is justice, a little bit of substance

To go with the speeches of authority’s reaches

Violence is the language of the voiceless

Desperation is the language of the choiceless

 

CHORUS

AK spray is the only way

To turn every day into Judgment Day

I can play God while you play them like a fiddle

Here’s a rain of bullets to meet you in the middle

 

VERSE 2

Childhood trauma killed all my potential

And they’re the ones with the nerve to call me mental

Blame me for my own pain, do it for their own gain

And all I’ve got is, “I’m fine” when I’m asked if I’m okay

Nothing like a smoking barrel to loosen their lips

World’s easiest confessions, descend the iceberg tip

Even they know the lake of fire’s a one-way trip

Scan their boarding passes, they’re called bullets in their asses

 

CHORUS

AK spray is the only way

To turn every day into Judgment Day

I can play God while you play them like a fiddle

Here’s a rain of bullets to meet you in the middle

 

BRIDGE

When the senators and reps break all their promises

When the Thin Blue Line takes a million hostages

Logic and reason never permeate their brains

But a flood of bullets will, now clean up all the stains

 

CHORUS

AK spray is the only way

To turn every day into Judgment Day

I can play God while you play them like a fiddle

Here’s a rain of bullets to meet you in the middle

It’s just a fantasy and my words are only words

It’s my very best defense from being called a jailbird

But only privilege and riches will get the benefit of the doubt

The womb’s the way in, electric chair’s the way out

Where's My Justice?

VERSE 1

I used to believe that karma was real

Until I saw my kitty cat under some guy’s wheel

Driver might be partying with chicks and drugs

While his mortal sin was swept under the rug

They say to just let God do his little thing

Assuming he’s not purchased by the far right-wing

They say the best revenge is living well

But I’d rather bust his gut with a shotgun shell

CHORUS 1

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my mercy?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! The gods curse me!

VERSE 2

Justice is only for those with fat banks

And a trillion dollars worth of army tanks

And brainwashed lawyers who’ll shine their shoes

And broadcast their ass-kissing all over the news

CHORUS 2

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s comeuppance?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! There’s no substance!

BRIDGE

When you try to find justice without a badge

By pulling your own trigger, killing them in a flash

They put you in a cage and say it’s all your fault

Because you couldn’t pick the lock on the money vault

When you write a bad check to the justice man

They take away your house so you can live in a camp

It’s just the way the universe is wired to work

Sorry if you don’t have a way to go berserk

CHORUS 3

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my payback?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! There’s no way back!

American dreams are for those who sleep

Forget counting them, you’re already a sheep

You can wake up an emotional wreck and upset

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Silent Warrior, Chapter 10

Scott George could have stayed locked up in his own imagination for a thousand years and he would’ve been happy. Even in a fictional dream, holding Adrienne Simpson in his arms was a warm experience that made him tingle all over his body. But eventually the real world caught up to him and it was time once again to go to Perkins High School a.k.a. hell on earth. Not even fictional escapism could free him from his responsibilities. At eighteen years old, he wasn’t a kid anymore. This shit had to be done.

But instead of catching the school bus and surrounding himself with laughing troglodytes, Scott woke up just before dawn and walked the whole way in solitude. Instead of starving his already pencil-thin body even further, he grabbed two unheated Pop Tarts and nibbled on them gently like a hamster. And instead of looking like a homeless Power Ranger with a rat’s nest for hair, he combed his hair backwards and wore blue jeans and combat boots with his obligatory black shirt.

He toed the line between love and war with his new dress code and eating habits. If he wanted to make his dream a reality, he had to fight for what he wanted. “Heart Shaped Box” by Nirvana wasn’t exactly war music, but the MP3 soundtrack powered Scott through his early morning walk to school. Not one shitty human being bumped his shoulders or cursed him out the whole way. Either that was a good sign or the calm before the storm.

Scott had taken his last hamster bite of breakfast by the time the sun bloomed in the sky and he arrived at school. To his surprise, not one student locked eyes with him or even gave off a hint of a mocking smile. Still, he had a knot in his stomach that wouldn’t stop pounding. He had to swallow hard to keep his Pop Tarts in his stomach, but he finally trudged up the stone stairs and past the front door. So far, so good. A sigh of relief escaped his frosting-covered lips.

“Mr. George. Can I have a word with you in my office,” said Principal Williams, who stood at the entrance with her arms folded, probably expecting Scott this whole time.

“Uh…,” stammered Scott as he looked like a deer in the headlights. “Can it wait until after history class?”

“Are you really that eager to put up with Mr. Simpson for another day? You didn’t seem to mind bailing out on him yesterday when you crept out of detention. What makes you so happy to see him this time around?” Lingering students let out their “ooo’s” and Miss Williams barked at them to shut up and keep walking. She then motioned for Scott to join her in her office before shutting the door behind her and instructing him to have a seat.

Scott’s face was aimed low at his boot laces, studying the various patterns as some kind of excuse to avoid eye contact with yet another authority figure. “Listen, Miss Williams, if you’re going to punish me, do it already and spare me the lecture. I know what I did was wrong and the sooner I get this crap over with, the better.”

Miss Williams lifted Scott’s head with a singular finger underneath his chin and said, “There’s more to it than that, my friend. Skipping detention is a serious offense on its own, but I’m more interested in the whys than the whats. I know about your lack of love with Mr. Simpson. I know this because pretty much every student he has says the same thing about him: that he’s senselessly cruel and doesn’t care one way or another about their fates.”

As soon as the Principal removed her finger from Scott’s chin, he asked, “If he’s really that much of a pain in the ass, why don’t you just fire him already? I don’t think there’s a single person in this building who would miss his sorry ass.”

“Duly noted, Mr. George,” said Miss Williams as she folded her hands across her chest. “Trust me, I’d love nothing more than to tell him not to let the door hit him on the ass on his way out. But it’s not that easy. It never has been. Teachers and other authority figures can’t just get fired over disagreements with the students. In other words, you don’t have to be a friendly person in order to qualify for the job. It’s screwed up, but that’s the way things go sometimes.”

A frustrated Scott slapped his own thighs and said, “It’s beyond screwed up, Miss Williams. School is supposed to be a place where kids can grow and learn things. What are they supposed to learn from having a bad teacher? That’s not a rhetorical question. I’d actually like to know the answer to that. Sure, there are bosses out there who never get their comeuppance, but that’s the very thing we should be avoiding when we have the chance.”

“I’m sorry, Scott. It’s out of my hands. What happens to you from this point on is up to Mr. Simpson since he’s the one who assigned you to detention in the first place. If you stiff him again, I’ll have no choice but to expel you.”

Scott folded his arms and said, “That’s right, Miss Williams. Punish the victim. Punish the guy who’s been laughed at for his whole high school career. Punish the guy who has few opportunities to stand up for himself. Punish the guy who actually knows what justice is supposed to mean. I knew it. I have no fucking allies in this school. Nobody really does. That’s why they’re acting out the way they do.”

“There’s no joy in this for me, Scott,” said Miss Williams as she leaned forward in her chair. “Even with students who deserve punishment the most, there’s no happiness in dishing it out to them. I also know what justice is, but I’m also wise enough to know that justice doesn’t always get served. Whatever Mr. Simpson has planned for you as punishment for ditching him yesterday, you’d better follow through with it.”

“Got it,” said Scott while sarcastically nodding his head. “Any other dreams of mine you want to crush while you have me here?”

“No, not particularly. But in order to make one of them come true, you have to endure a little bit of the suck for just a few minutes.” When Scott formed a confused look on his face, the Principal explained, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but there’s a video of you being circulated on You Tube. It has thousands of hits already and the comments are cringe-worthy at best.”

Reality smashed Scott in the stomach with a sack of bricks. He bent over in his seat and fought like hell to suppress vomit. Principal Williams rushed to get a trash bucket underneath his face, but after moments of intense breathing and body pulsations, it turned out Scott didn’t need it. He leaned back in his chair with pinprick feelings in his face and chest. He swallowed more saliva and it tasted like warm, bitter tea. Tears barbecued his stinging eyes as he struggled even harder to keep himself together.

“You already know about it, don’t you, Scott,” said Principal Williams with a hand on her student’s shoulder. The two of them hugged it out while Scott’s fiery tears bathed the Principal’s suit jacket. “You don’t have to tell us any more about it. We know who filmed that video.”

Scott broke the embrace and shouted, “So what?! You said yourself justice doesn’t always get served! So what the fuck are you going to do to that bitch-ass Alan Young?! Does he get to slip through the cracks or do only teachers get preferential treatment?!”

“If you’d stop bawling for a moment and see for yourself, you’d have the answer!” Miss Williams retorted while pointing her finger towards her office window.

Scott’s waterworks were cut short as confusion took over. Miss Williams pointed again and again until he pulled himself together and humored her this one time. His eyes widened as he watched two police officers talking to Alan Young. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, but whatever it was, it couldn’t have been friendly. The two cops spun Alan around and slammed him against the wall while cuffing his thick wrists behind his back. Straggling students screamed in horror at what they were witnessing. Even Alan himself couldn’t help but shed a few tears as he was being hauled away.

“Invasion of privacy, cyber harassment, you name it, this kid has done it all in that one video,” said Miss Williams. “If the other kids can pay attention to a stupid video, then they’ll damn sure pay attention to Alan’s arrest. He needed to be made an example of, Scott. Sooner or later, Mr. Simpson will get his. I can’t tell you when or how, but the domino effect is already in place.”

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Scott’s tearful smile seemed genuine instead of looking like a psychotic killer. He spun around and embraced Principal Williams once more while thanking her over and over again in a high pitched squeal. Feeling awkward, the authority figure returned the hug ever so slowly and noncommittally. “You’re welcome, Scott,” she said. “Please let go of me and get back to your classes. I believe second period is about to begin anytime soon.”

Dancing with Mary Jane

“Justice will find you!” With blood in her lungs and a slowing pulse, those were the last words of Tara Greenlee after being gunned down by Officers Frank Hennessy and Sylvester James. Her head dropped to the sidewalk and her mouth expelled a puddle of life juices. Everyone around her recorded the scene on their cell phones. Some of them screamed in horror. Others burst into a waterfall of tears. Frank and Sylvester laughed at all of them and rubbed their eyes in mockery. All of this violence over a bag of medical marijuana, which Sylvester was dancing around with and flashing in the faces of bystanders.

Because Tara Greenlee’s killers were on-duty cops, they didn’t get the death penalty or even life in prison for their heinousness. They were suspended with pay for a whole month. There were factory workers, teachers, grocery store clerks, and others who worked their asses off their entire lives without getting so much as a day off. In Paulson City, if you were on the police force, all you had to do to enjoy a month-long vacation was brutalize civilians.

How would Frank and Sylvester spend their vacation? They could have gone on a Caribbean Cruise. They could have gone mountain climbing in the Rockies. They could have sat on their asses on a Florida beach. But since Tara Greenlee’s “contraband” was still in their possession, they had other ideas of how to kill a month quicker than they killed her.

The “festivities” would take place at Officer Frank Hennessy’s house, particularly in his living room where the flat screen TV hung on the wall and a bowl full of potato chips was resting on the marble coffee table. Frank was already stuffing his pudgy, bearded face with chips when there was a knock on the door followed by, “It’s me, Sylvester!” Frank answered the door and the two corrupt cops high-fived and hugged each other like their bromance was much more than that. Frank was especially cheery when his skinny buddy flashed the bag of Mary Jane they had unlawfully taken from Miss Greenlee.

“So, what are we watching tonight, my friend? Are we gonna go all out and watch The Matrix? Maybe we should watch a Tim Burton movie or something. Or how about that Pink Floyd movie!” said a giddy Sylvester James.

“I got something better than all of those,” said Frank. He pulled a DVD out of his collection called “The Best of Both Worlds”, the container showing naked hermaphroditic women drooling for sex.

Sylvester clapped his hands and laughed like a little kid in a toy store. He bounced his way to the couch and allowed Frank to put the DVD in the player. The two rogue cops began rolling up little marijuana cigarettes as the “hot action” was being shown on the video screen. As soon as Frank pulled out a Zippo lighter and lit both of their joints, the two cops sank into the couch like quicksand. With dopey red eyes and drooling smiles, they watched the porn movie with fluttering in their hearts for the double-organ actresses.

The first twenty minutes of the movie revolved around Sylvester and Frank sitting crouched forward to hide their “little problems”. They laughed like donkeys as they smacked each other with couch pillows and jokingly called each other “fags”. The fun and festivities came to an abrupt halt when Frank relaxed in the sofa and started seeing the porn starlets in a much different way.

One of the naked women’s skin started necrotizing into a black and red lava mix. She grew fangs that looked like little daggers as they hung down to her bottom lip. Red scaly dragon wings sprouted from her back. A brown hairy tail sprouted as well. Her fingernails grew to the size of Freddy Kruger’s blades. When she screamed at Frank, she sounded like a grizzly bear ready to maul its helpless prey.

“Dude, is this some good shit or what?” said Sylvester, who at this point looked less like a mop-haired beanpole and more like a fire-eyed zombie with blue skin.

Frank was hard-pressed to disagree with his partner’s statement. “Yeah, man. That bitch had some good shit on her. I love the war on drugs!”

The demonic woman got on all fours and crawled out of the television set, shattering the coffee table upon making her arrival. She let out another beastly roar, which caused Frank to wet his pants and Sylvester to laugh like a fool. “Come on, man, this shit ain’t real! It’s just a hallucination!” said Officer James, who then got his whole head bitten off by the frightening woman.

Frank was crawling over the couch arm and screaming in terror while Sylvester’s headless body squirted a fountain of blood in the air. The demon woman licked her lips after sloppily masticating what was left of her victim’s dome. “Mmmmm, delicious!” she said in a throaty voice before roaring again.

Officer Hennessy crawled on the hardwood floor and let out panicky groans. The demonic woman jumped in front of him and revealed her true face. She now had the scraggly dark hair and bloodshot eyes of Tara Greenlee. Frank got into a fetal position and cried like a little bitch. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for what I did! Just please, leave me alone!”

Tara grabbed Frank by his white shirt’s collar pulled his face close to hers, smiling like a skeleton with slimy dental hygiene. “It’s too late for atonement, my friend!” she said in her growling voice. “You took something from me that I fought for since I was a little child! That marijuana was for breast cancer! I was about to make a full recovery when you and that bloody piece of garbage over there shot me in cold blood!” Tara was breathing deeply and grunting in between cadences.

Tears were dribbling down Frank’s cheeks as he kept saying, “I’m sorry!” over and over again. Tara smiled her sick smile at him and chucked him halfway across the room, where he crashed through his desk and screamed with a mixture of fright and pain. The monstrous avenger pointed at Frank Hennessy and laughed while taking pictures of him on a smart phone she produced with her magical powers. She even rubbed her eyes sarcastically and said, “Boohoo!” with even more mockery.

The irony wasn’t lost on Frank, who in his moment of crippling pain and grueling tears felt around for something he could use to defend himself. It was then he remembered the desk was where he kept his pistol. Tara continued to horse laugh, but Frank would have the last word when he found his pistol and opened fire.

Every bullet hole that pierced Tara’s skin let out a volcanic eruption of blood and organs until the whole living room floor was flooded up to Frank’s ankles (now that he was standing on wobbly legs). He limped and trudged through the murky flood until he saw Tara on her knees screaming and crying in agony. “You little bitch!” yelled Frank before he jumped on her and rained down relentless fists upon her horrifying visage. Her cheek bones, nose, and teeth were cracking and splitting with every hard shot. Frank even held Tara’s head under the blood flood in an attempt to drown her. After a while of kicking and bubbling, the demon stopped moving.

Frank, ignorant of the pain he felt crashing through his own desk, held his arms up in victory and shouted, “Yes! How does that feel, you little skank! Nobody screws with the Paulson City Police! Nobody! We’re number one!” He repeated that last line over and over again until the pain finally caught up to him and he passed out on the bloody floor.

A bright new morning was shining its sunlight through Frank’s windows. The rays felt like little flamethrowers against his eyes. His head was thumping like a bass drum. He coughed violently as he woke up for the day. After rolling on his back and slowly opening his eyes, he saw his fellow police officers looking down on him and confirming he was alive.

The cops pulled Frank to his feet and he suddenly got a better view of what was going on around him. No demons. No fangs. No claws. No dragon wings. The only blood stain in the whole living room was the one left behind by Sylvester, who was being carted away on a gurney with a light blue blanket draped over his corpse.

“Franklin George Hennessy? You’re being placed under arrest for the murder of Officer Sylvester Kenneth James. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to legal counsel. If you can’t afford a lawyer, one will be provided to you by the state. Do you have any questions about these rights?” said one of the cops while Frank’s hands were being cuffed behind his back.

Frank did have a question and it was a good one too: “What the fuck just happened here?!”

Vote With a Flamethrower

VERSE 1
If you can’t stand the way this place is
Burn it down, douse the flames with piss
Mark the graves with a pile of ashes
Mark the living with fiery slashes


CHORUS
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Vote with fire!
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Pyrocratic justice!


VERSE 2
The glass ceiling is coming down on us
While the fortunate ones lick their lips with lust
Cash is worthless if it’s burning to pulp
Let’s torch this shit and get out of this cult


CHORUS
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Vote with fire!
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Pyrocratic justice!


VERSE 3
The apocalypse was a long time coming
There is no sense in turning and running
The rebel souls have fire in their hearts
They’d love nothing more than tearing shit apart
The rage was building up for hundreds of years
We tried to extinguish the fires with our tears
But in the very end, all ashes look the same
When they’re caught up in a whirlwind of flames


HOOK
Fear, hatred, zeal, and sorrow
There truly is no tomorrow
All they had to do was knock off the bullshit
Now all that’s left is a smoldering lava pit
Could things have really been different for us?
Depends on the voices we could actually trust
Insulting debates are no longer a must
The world we know is burning into dust!


EXTENDED CHORUS
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Vote with fire!
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Pyrocratic justice!
Vote with a flame thrower!
Vote! Vote!
Breathe in the smoke!
Vote with your heart’s desire!
Vote! Vote!
Watch the world catch on fire!

Why Are You Laughing at Me?

VERSE 1 I wrote a story from cover to cover
For every one of the literature lovers
My imagination ran wild with fantasies
Autographs for those who are asking me
Making it rain hundred dollar bills
All because I had some mad skills
Then the red ink dried on the page
The word “reject” sent me into a rage


CHORUS 1
Tell me why! Why are you laughing at me?!
Tell me who! Who should I try to be?!
Tell me what! What the fuck is your deal?!
Tell me how! How should I fucking feel?!


VERSE 2
I worked up the courage to ask her out
Cleared my mind of any possible doubt
Calmed the butterflies in my round tummy
Waiting for a kiss so romantic and yummy
She laughed at me alongside her plus one
Goddamn, that’s just so fucking fucked up
She could have said no and it’d be over
She made me curse myself for being sober


CHORUS 1
Tell me why! Why are you laughing at me?!
Tell me who! Who should I try to be?!
Tell me what! What the fuck is your deal?!
Tell me how! How should I fucking feel?!


VERSE 3
I’m not a clown and my life is not a circus
You’re the joke, your opinion’s so worthless
It’s amateur night at The Laugh Factory
It’s your turn to curl up in dreaded agony
How does it feel to be under the microscope?
How does it feel to lose every ounce of hope?
You wore my shoes and walked the green mile
The pain is all yours via the laughs and smiles


CHORUS 2
Tell me where! Where is the justice in this?!
Tell me when! When will you end this shit?!
Tell me now! Give me your final answer!
Too late now! Give up, you laughing bastard!

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!

Shivo Black

NAME: Shivo Black
AGE: 46
OCCUPATION: Demonic Prison Guard
CANON: Tower of Hell


Prison can be a scary place for anybody, whether they’re a small time crook who forges checks or a heavy hitter who rapes children across the country. The Tower of Hell was no different, especially when Shivo Black was the head prison guard. It was a bad enough place with the fear of being raped by demons, beaten by orcs, forced to eat sewage that somehow passed for food, and stuffed in an tiny cell with someone who wants to beat the shit out of anyone he comes across.

And then you have Shivo Black: a seven-foot tall demon with bull horns, muscles, and a nasty attitude. You think he abuses his authority every now and then? You think he grabs people by the neck and pops their heads like pimples? You think he sits on people’s chests and snaps every bone in their bodies? You think he grabs five guys at a time at their necks and ankles and pulls them apart like flies? You’re damn right he does all of these things! You know why? Because he’s a sick evil fuck, that’s why! He’s a villain of the very worst kind! He does all of this under the guise of justice. Because as we all know, prison is a place where criminals can become better members of society. I rolled my eyes so many times on that one that I might as well go bowling with my brain cells.

When the warden, an even more sadistic fucker named Dr. Steve Naraku, had business to attend to, Shivo Black had the Tower of Hell all to himself. And when the real overseer, King David Said-Matrix, wanted to have an overview of what the hell was really going on in that prison, the noble king almost had a stroke. He had the entire prison converted to a REAL rehabilitation facility and Shivo Black’s fate was unknown at that point. He was the victim of Aborted Arc Syndrome, where he was eliminated from the storyline without the audience really knowing why. Then again, what kind of vicious warrior would ever try to get in the face of someone like Shivo and live to tell about it? Without a ladder, no less.

All of this deadliness got me thinking that Shivo Black shouldn’t be a supporting villain. He should be the main antagonist of whatever story he occupies. He has all of the qualities it takes to be a lead villain: overpowered, overbearing, ruthless, and dominant. There isn’t one person in the Tower of Hell franchise capable of taking this gigantic motherfucker out on their own.

Kevin Demonic and his necromancy? Fucking forget it. He’d be lucky to take one step into the battle and live for the next one. Kon Shou? Even an abominable undead warrior like him who’s the same height as Shivo can’t go far with a broken spine compliments of you know who. Minra Cottonmouth, some bounty hunter who doesn’t have his shit together, do you really think he and his chain whip can strike enough lashes into Shivo to knock his ass over? No chance in hell.

Taking down Shivo would have to be a team effort and that team would have to have a lot of people on it. It might take an entire army to weather the storm of Shivo Black’s fiery assault. And he just might be a prison guard in his next story. Prison is an evil place no matter what side of justice you’re on. Some countries do justice better than others, but if Shivo was a part of the American system, even jaywalkers would either turn to a puddle of blood and splooge or they would become mass murderers on their first day of freedom.

But suppose Shivo was randomly thrown into a modern drama story instead of a fantasy one like Tower of Hell was. Could he still be a demon? Probably not. Could he still act like one? Hell yes. Modern drama or fantasy world, if Shivo is allowed to guard a prison full of psychopaths and small time offenders, he will bend them into shape with little effort on his part and a lot of rage. But what exactly will those shapes be? Pretzels? Spirals? L’s? As an ultra-intimidating villain, he can do all of those things. I’ll have to be sure to put an M rating on whatever story he’s assigned, though.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Have you seen Luke Harper’s teeth? It looks like his tongue is in jail.”

-Jerry “The King” Lawler-

Cheaters

TV SHOW TITLE: Cheaters

CREATOR: Bobby Goldstein

YEARS ACTIVE: 2000-present

GENRE: Reality Television

RATING: TV-14 for language, sexual content, and mild violence

GRADE: Mixed

Deep in the heart of Texas, the Cheaters Private Investigators go undercover as they try to catch their clients’ significant others cheating on their relationship with other partners. Each “story” starts with the client giving a brief description of his or her relationship issues and then the PI’s go on a camera stakeout of the cheating partner’s whereabouts.

After seeing the footage of infidelity, the client then is given the choice to confront his or her cheating paramour, to which they always say “yes”. Every confrontation is nasty, violent, and laced with censored swear words.

Let’s face it, the confrontations are the only real reason anybody watches the show. We like action and WWE and UFC won’t always come through for us. Unlike those two organizations, the fights on Cheaters aren’t even close to being graceful or athletic. Sometimes it’s a slap fight. Sometimes drinks are thrown. Most of the time, people just roll around on top of each other and throw haymakers.

It’s not Jackie Chan cinema, but it’s entertaining to watch nonetheless. It’s even more entertaining when these fights end up in the favor of the clients and not the cheating bastards he or she is confronting.

But sometimes it doesn’t always work out for the client and he or she gets an undeserved verbal or physical beat down. The reason this show gets a mixed grade is because the injustices happen way too often. One example is with the Trevor Olson case, where Trevor was really skinny and his girlfriend’s lover Sean was this hulking behemoth. Guess who won the shoving matches while having an over-inflated ego about it? That’s right: Sean.

The most infamous example of romantic injustice was with the Lily Santiago case, where the cheating husband shouted curses at her and the female paramour beat the crap out of her on live TV. Despite the mountain of evidence Lily had against her husband in a potential divorce case, the husband still had a massive ego and was still verbally abusive, which led me to believe he might have won the case.

Another issue that needs to be touched on is the revolving door of hosts for the show. First it was an unexciting bore named Tommy Grand. And then we had Joey Greco, who was full of puns, delightfully condescending to the cheating party, and protective and valiant toward his clients. Joey was such an awesome host that he got to do the show for a little over a decade before his hosting duties were turned over to Clark Gable III.

No, you didn’t read that wrong. The grandson of famous actor Clark Gable is now doing an unsophisticated piece of television called Cheaters. During the first season he did, Clark raised his voice and was generally annoying to listen to. The following seasons, he was too laidback and had no passion for his duties whatsoever. Maybe instead of asking “Scooby-Doo, where are you?!”, we should pose that question to Joey Greco.

In spite of the mixed grade I give this show, I continued to watch it with religious zeal. It was my Saturday night ritual: watching Cheaters with my best friend Susan as the two of us make fun of the dumb characters. We also like to poke fun at the commercials for Belviq that come on during the show, where the actors seem overly confused about their eating habits and then all of the sudden have an overactive social life after taking the pills.

This WAS our Saturday night ritual and then for some reason, Joe TV, a local Seattle channel, decided to stop showing Cheaters. My Roku won’t come through for me either. To say I’m having Cheaters withdrawal is an understatement. Come back, guys! Come back! I’ll raise your grade to Extra Credit if you do! I promise! Scout’s honor, even though I’m not a Boy Scout.

"Flight" by Sherman Alexie

For those of us who grew up with a difficult past, it’s easy to get lost in the anger and that anger can often beget violence. Such is the case for half-Irish, half-Indian teenager known only as Zits (because of his poor complexion). His Indian father left him when he was just a baby and his mother died of cancer when Zits was only six years old. Ever since then, Zits has been bounced around from foster home to foster home with nothing but rage boiling inside of him. The burning hot anger gets too be too much and with the guidance of another troubled youth only named Justice, Zits comes within moments of shooting up a bank full of strangers. Before he can actually pull the trigger, the Indian youngster gets sent back to various moments in time in which the people he inhabits had to make violent choices as well, from nineteenth century Indian warriors to corrupt FBI agents. In each of these moments, Sherman Alexie is doing what a book critic once said he did all along, which was break our hearts and make us laugh at the same time. The laughter comes from the pop culture references and snappy dialogue, all of which coming from the narrative mind of Zits. The heartbreak takes the form of various deaths and tragedies that the people Zits wakes up as had to endure. Killing another human being isn’t nearly as easy as our angry consciences make it out to be. Yes, we can be angry enough to punch someone out or shoot someone into oblivion, but after the fact, it becomes hard to live with. Committing violent acts isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. It’s not relieving. It’s not therapeutic. It’s hurtful. Pain begets pain. Anger begets more anger. Blood doesn’t wash away no matter how much dish soap you use to scrub your hands with. Only a cold-blooded mercenary could ever live with himself after committing murder. Zits is not a cold-blooded mercenary. He’s just a kid who was dealt a crappy hand. And now he’s imagining dealing a crappy hand to complete strangers in return. The blood, the tears, the heartache, is it all worth it? If it’s still worth it to you after you read Flight by Sherman Alexie, you missed the point entirely. Life isn’t an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. It’s not even a Jason Statham movie. It’s a cycle of violence that tears away at us until there’s nothing left. Think about that for a minute, if you have the stomach for it.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Shawn Michaels claims to be this great Christian who loves everybody and then he goes out and shoots innocent animals with a high-powered rifle.”

-Jim Cornette-