Incelbordination, Chapter 4

Oswald wiped the rainy weather from his face long enough to see another reason to cry his eyes out if he so chose: Antero Magnus with a book of matches. Clearly, a compromise had to be made. Or did it? “Why the fuck do you keep following me everywhere I go? Are you some kind of lost puppy dog or some shit?” In a brazen move reminiscent of last night, Antero swiped the ready roll from Oswald’s hand and lit it himself before taking a few puffs. “Excuse me?!” said Oswald with big red eyes. “That’s not yours to smoke! I need that shit for my depression!”

Handing the marijuana roll back to its rightful owner, Antero spit out a cloud of green and said, “Let me ask you something, Oswald. How many times have you puffed the shit out of that roll and found permanent happiness afterwards? The answer is zero, because as powerful as that shit is, it’s only a temporary fix to a much bigger problem.” The incel took a seat next to his charge and patted him on the shoulder. “You already know what the bigger problem is, don’t you?”

Taking a puff and spitting out an even bigger cloud than his lungs would allow, Oswald said, “Yeah, I know what it is. It has something to do with a weirdo in a trench coat taking hits of my Mary-Jane. Seriously, what could you possibly see in me? I’m not what you’re looking for. I don’t blame my insecurities on other people.”

“Which is precisely why you punched a muscle jock in the dick and why you ran away from a smooth-legged English teacher.”

Wide-eyed yet again, Oswald exclaimed, “Dude! You’ve got to stop following me everywhere! That’s fucking creepy!” Antero chuckled and removed his sunglasses, revealing those horrifying cyan-colored eyes. “Ah! Put your glasses back on! Put ‘em back on!” screamed Oswald while shielding his face with his hands.

“As you wish,” said Antero before complying with his “friend’s” request. “But I must warn you, there are scarier things in this world than weirdly-colored eyes. There’s a conspiracy against us. And when I say us, I mean you, me, and every other Supreme Gentlemen who’s had the deck stacked against them their whole lives. We don’t look like the normies. We don’t talk like the normies. We don’t wear the same kind of hats they do either. That bothers them. So what do they do? They commit social genocide.”

“Okay, okay, okay, this is getting fucked up,” said Oswald with his hands raised. “Social genocide? You’re using the G-word to describe not being able to get laid? How in the hell do you…”

“I don’t expect you to understand right away,” said Antero while readjusting his sunglasses. “Some lessons take longer to learn than others. But to answer your question, the G-word isn’t all about getting laid. Anybody can get laid. Surely, there are enough sex surrogates and prostitutes to go around. It’s love that we seek and can never find. We give it all away and none of it is returned. A simple thank-you would be enough for some people. Me? I want a little bit of interest with my investment.”

Oswald’s mouth became O-shaped at the statement he tried so desperately hard to digest. Antero dug through his own trench coat and pulled out his wallet. “You know what? I can tell you’re not convinced just yet. That’s okay. College is a time for learning, right? Well, you’ve got a lot to learn about the way the world works against us.” Antero handed Oswald a thirty-dollar McDonald’s gift card and said, “Two words: McDonald’s prostitute.”

Flipping the card over and over again in disbelief, Oswald stared at the meal ticket like he was holding a severed head. “Mc…Donald’s prostitute?”

“That’s right, little man,” said Antero before patting him on the back. “Everybody’s got a price tag on them. For the women down at Mickey D’s, all they ever wanted was a little bit of loving and a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. That’s how shitty our economy has gotten. When you’re too broke for a basic McDonald’s meal and you have to turn to sex to get one, that’s how you know shit’s all fucked up. Of course, I don’t know how in god’s name a Quarter Pounder could taste good when there’s splooge sloshing around in their mouths.”

“This….this…this is sick, Antero. This is fucking sick!”

“I know it’s sick, Oswald. I know. But sometimes you can’t take the highroad forever. You want someone to love you, right? You want to experience that cherry pop for the first time? All you have to do so come bearing the gifts of French fries, nuggets, greasy meat, and…well….greasy meat!” Antero chuckled at his own joke.

Finally peeling his terrified eyes away from the gift card, Oswald said, “Dude…you’re not funny. Nothing about this is comical. This is wrong. Really wrong!”

“You’re a good man, Oswald. Ordinarily, being a good human being has its rewards. But not in this Stacy-dominated world. You’re desperate enough. I can see it in those bloodshot eyes of yours. You’ll either have the most romantic night of your life in a McDonald’s parking lot…or you’ll get a lifelong lesson that no sexy-legged teacher could offer you. Either way, I just gave you the keys to the city. It’s up to you now what it is you want to do with them.”

Antero patted Oswald’s back and walked out of sight. The little guy turned his flabbergasted attention back to the gift card. It was so wrong, yet so right at the same time. There was something seductive about the way Antero talked. There was a reason he led so many people down their destined paths. He made so much sense in that one oratory.

Having those dark thoughts jolted Oswald awake, causing him to accidentally drop the gift card on the table. “What the fuck was I thinking?” he asked himself while holding his head in his hands. “I can’t do this. This isn’t right. No, no, no!” The three no’s were punctuated with the dwarf lightly banging his head against the table.

Once the forehead pain became too much to bear, he took a look around the commons for any signs that Antero might be right. Sure enough, this place was swarming with examples. Men and women holding hands while walking together. “Chads” and “Stacys” making out on the grassy lawn. Oswald even saw one guy holding his crying girlfriend’s head in his lap while he stroked her hair. What the lonely dwarf would give for the chance to be touched like that.

That Mickey D’s gift card started him straight in the face with lust and seduction. It was such an easy solution. Antero could have been his savior in that one moment. His own personal Jesus Christ, to use yet another Matrix quote. Oswald finally made the decision to scoop up the gift card and tuck it away in his wallet. If nothing else, he could at least enjoy a good meal, one that made him feel better than any roll of green ever could.

Oswald walked away from the commons huffing and puffing on his roll of weed. He kept feeling his scraggly beard and lengthy hair while contemplating if he should clean himself up for this meeting with a McDonald’s prostitute. Maybe throwing his pot-smelling coat in the wash machine would also be a good idea. Then again, did he really have to change himself for someone who was only in it for the nuggets and the burgers? There was thirty dollars on the card, which meant he could get extra goodies to make himself more enticing. The shave and haircut could wait another day…if that day ever came.

The dwarf put his headsets on and played “Bless the Wings” by The Moody Blues on his MP3 player. Was that song a little too romantic and sappy for what was about to happen that evening? Perhaps. Was Oswald expecting too much when he contemplated a potential relationship with this McDonald’s girl? He thought so. But as long as he was high on pot and already depressed from the day’s events, a little lovey-dovey psychological cinema was perhaps the right call.

Judging from the stares he got from “normies” walking by, any kind of vicarious romance would have been welcome. He certainly didn’t get it from the “Chad” he bumped into when he wasn’t paying attention. Oswald landed right on his ass while the guy said, “Hey, what the hell?!”

The dwarf picked himself up and apologized profusely to the young man and his girlfriend. He thought that would be the end of that, but then he noticed the couple walking away with their noses in their shirts, presumably from the pot smell. Oswald was tempted to go back there and punch the shit out of both of them. But it was more tempting to just take a shower and wash his clothing rather than get himself expelled for stupid shit. Maybe he did have to change himself after all. But for a McDonald’s hooker? So much debating took place in Oswald’s mind, all of which was settled with a few more puffs of Mary-Jane.

Incelbordination, Chapter 3

Even though he was only three feet tall and south of a hundred pounds, Oswald Crow sent tremors throughout the punching bag like he was Mike fucking Tyson. The boxing gloves looked ridiculously large on his little hands, and for some it was a source of cheap entertainment. Whatever laughs he received at the gym were drowned out by the sounds of Phil Anselmo screaming “Bedroom Destroyer” in his ears. There was something euphoric about heavy metal strengthening Oswald’s punches against the sandbag.

He wasn’t just punching sand for the sake of it. He actually utilized decent footwork like all boxers should have done. He came at that thing from multiple angles and didn’t go too fast for fear of gassing himself out. The fact that Oswald had to learn these brutal techniques to begin with said a lot about why he would need them in life. Maybe that was why Antero was so keen on bringing him into Incelbordination. Heh, Antero. What a joke. He became a bigger joke when Oswald imagined the Matrix nut’s face superimposed on the punching bag.

The little warrior was so lost in his exercise routine that he failed to notice even the slightest chuckle behind him. He went for an overhead rabbit punch and his headsets accidentally slid off his dome. That was when the laughs became more obvious than a forest fire. Speaking of flames, Oswald’s face glowed bright red when he collected his MP3 player, turned around, and saw the source of the southern yuk-yuks. Of course, who else would it be? It was none other than muscle-headed high school tormentor Wacey Judge, who happened to be filming Oswald this whole time on his phone.

Watching his former bully laugh his ass off brought Oswald back to those old times when he was being stuffed in a locker, pushed over, held upside-down by the ankles, and called a litany of insults. If there was ever a time for that sweet green medicine, this would have been it, if for nothing else other than stamping the lit roll out in Wacey’s face. To Oswald’s way of thinking, such a red hot scar would be an improvement to his face.

“Hey, moron!” shouted Oswald. “This ain’t high school anymore! You’ve got to grow the fuck up! Put away the goddamn phone and fuck off!”

“Grow up?” Wacey chuckled. “Isn’t that what I should be telling you? You looked like a baby back then and you look like one now! Goddamn, Infinite Elgintensity’s going to roast the shit out of you tonight!”

“I don’t think so, you fucking retard!” belted Oswald as he threw his gloves to the ground and stomped towards his bully, not a hint of fear in the dwarf’s eyes. “Give me the goddamn phone!” He tried to reach up for it, but Wacey kept pulling it higher out of reach, prompting laughs from the “innocent bystanders”.

Patting Oswald on the head, the bully said, “Don’t worry, little guy, I’m sure there’s a ladder around here somewhere. Anybody got a step stool this guy can use? How about a stripper’s pole? How about an elevator?” The bystanders got even louder laughs out of Wacey’s “comedy” and a singular tear formed in Oswald’s red puffy eyes. “What, are you going to cry, little baby? Should I give you my thumb to suck on?”

Sure enough, Wacey held out his thumb and made a mockingly sorrowful face at his little victim while the entire gym watched and did nothing. Another tear rolled down Oswald’s cheek, but this wasn’t out of sadness. This was out of pure white hot rage stemming from years of abuse from someone who didn’t deserve to be as gigantic as he was. Why couldn’t Oswald have muscles like that? Why couldn’t he be a chick magnet too? All the jealousy, all the trauma, all the sickness, they led to a do-or-die situation for the little warrior.

“Fuck you, Wacey!” shouted Oswald with more lung power than he was capable of. He then hauled back and punched his bully right in the dick, doubling the giant over and causing the audience to gasp in horror. The dwarf’s next punch was an uppercut to Wacey’s square jaw, hurting his hand in the process, but make no mistake about it, the bully got the worst of that exchange. The muscle head squatted backwards against the wall dizzy and stunned.

“Fuck yeah! You just got your ass kicked by a midget! How does that shit feel, Wacey?! I said how does that fucking feel?! This shit’s been a long time coming! Woo!” screamed Oswald triumphantly while holding his bruised knuckles in the air.

“What the hell’s going on around here?!” said an equally muscular gym teacher, who burst into the room with his hands on his hips. “I’ll be damned.”

Pointing an accusatory finger at the teacher, Oswald laid into him with, “Nice of you to show up, Spongebob Square Jaw. It’s funny how you were nowhere to be seen when this jackass was having a laugh at me. Story of my life, isn’t it?!”

The gym teacher stomped towards Oswald, knelt down, and grabbed him harshly by the shoulders. “Listen up, you sick bastard. I don’t care what names you were called as a teenager. I don’t care how rough you’ve had it. The minute you attack another gym member is when I have to step in and call the shots. You beat the holy hell out of Mr. Judge here. I have to do something about it.”

“What are you going to do, ban me for life?”

“Damn right I’m going to ban you for life! Get your violent ass out of my gym!” ordered the gym teacher while standing up and pointing towards the door.

“That’s fine with me, you six foot dip shit!” snapped Oswald. “I wasn’t planning on coming back anyways! You’re harboring this piece of shit and turning your gym into a fucking Black Site! I’d be better off at Planet Fitness eating pizza until I have a heart attack! You hear that everyone? Don’t come to this gym anymore! I heard pedophiles like to hang out in the shower areas!”

“Get out of here, you twerp!” commanded the teacher.

“And don’t eat at their smoothie bar either! There’s a big fucking rat’s nest in the kitchen!”

“Are you going to leave or do I have to toss you out of here myself?!”

Waving him off, Oswald said, “Don’t worry, Lex Luger, I’ll be out of here in a second. I just want to make sure Wacey here is awake when someone tells him that his name rhymes with Stacy.” That earned a collective gasp from the crowd and a sullen expression from the gym teacher.

The pugilist dwarf raised his bruised middle finger to the sky as he trudged out of the gym. He closed the door behind him and ran out of there as fast as he could, as if the adrenaline would be the least bit effective at masking his tear-stained face. He looked like a badass in that gym, but he felt like the little baby Wacey accused him of being this whole time.

Oswald stopped running and collected his breath in the common area near an empty stone table. The tears wouldn’t stop coming. His mask of toughness was melting like ice cream in this goddamned heat. He didn’t bother to look up to see if anybody was watching him and he didn’t care at this point. First Antero Magnus, then Valerie Sand, and now Wacey Judge could be added to the list of shit-heels who made his college career a miserable one.

The little person pulled himself onto the stone bench and laid his face in his tiny arms. If he earned any laughs from the other students, it would have been a testament to their ignorance, he was convinced. What kind of song on his MP3 player could heal his blues? The better question for him to ask was what kind of green drug was more powerful than the most emotional Pink Floyd song?

Oswald reached in his trench coat pocket and pulled out another ready roll of Mary-Jane. He smiled and wiped away his tears at the sight of this beautiful medicine he was fortunate enough to have a prescription for. He frisked himself in search of his lighter, but goddamn it, he left it in his dorm room for the second time in a row.

He pounded the stone table in frustration and let even more tears pour down his bearded face. He secretly wished this whole college would burn to the ground just so he could have something to light his ready roll with. And then a familiar voice asked him a familiar question from the night before…

“Need a light?”

Silent Warrior, Chapter 8

By the time Scott gathered his wits about him for the thousandth time that day, the orange hell across the sky darkened into a starlit night complete with a full moon. He didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved that his mother didn’t try to call him on his cell phone. He didn’t burst out of the house all this way just to think about her any more than he had to. Instead he tried to find relief in the cold night air blowing against his still red hot skin. Maybe a rainstorm would have been nice, but at this time of year, it was highly unlikely.

Rows upon rows of marked graves lay before Scott. This wasn’t the start of another trippy nightmare; he was wide awake as he humanly could be. Every stone cross, every marble angel, and every tombstone reminded him that life was short even though he had his own future ahead of him. Did he have much of a future left after high school? What college was going to take a damaged young man like him? Why should anybody care? He guessed he would be dead or in jail long before he had the chance to find a real job.

The soundtrack of “Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 1” by Pink Floyd soothed Scott’s battered eardrums as he approached the grave of his father, Carter Clifford George. The tombstone wasn’t anything fancy, but the sentiment of remembering a simpler life was the same. Scott touched the gravestone with his fingertips and allowed a singular tear to soak the grass beneath.

“Dad…I love you,” he whispered, his voice growing shakier with every word. “If you were here today, none of this would be happening. You were what a real father should be. Not that I would know anything about that, because I don’t plan on having kids. I might not even live long enough to know if I’ll ever be a worthy father. You and I can be together again, Dad. Won’t that be great?”

Scott dropped to his knees and the tears welling up in his eyes turned into a winter storm of emotions. His eyeballs stung like a motherfucker from holding all of this back at school. Even while sharing this moment with his deceased father, he wanted to keep holding it in. But the tears kept rolling. The rage kept bubbling. Adrenaline pulsated through his body. With nobody here but the spirits of the dead, Scott finally cracked and splintered while shouting “DAD!” to the dark heavens above.

He pounded the gravestone with clenched fists and shouted, “Why the fuck did you leave me here to die, you motherfucker?! I need you, damn it! Come home! Come back home and teach my bitch mother a lesson in what it means to be a good fucking parent! Dad! Come back!” Tears moistened his knees like a lawn sprinkler while he struggled to swallow the snot building up in his nose. No matter how many times he pounded that gravestone and begged his father to return, Scott George was still a broken man with nothing to live for.

The crying and screaming session left his legs feeling spaghetti-like and his ribs feeling like they’d been punched in by a heavyweight boxer. Scott breathed so heavily that his voice dropped a few octaves. Using the gravestone for leverage, he hoisted himself up and struggled to stay balanced. He could have easily passed for someone who was just tossed out of a bar for being too intoxicated. His blurry vision was proof of this, but with one hard blink, he could clearly see Alan Young holding a smart phone up to him and grinning from ear to ear.

“I got to say, that’s some Oscar-worthy shit right there, buddy,” Alan mocked. “You’ll be a You Tube celebrity in no time at all once this goes live. Hell, you might even have fifteen minutes of internet fame as a meme. I’ll have to think of a good tagline, though.”

Still breathing like an enraged grizzly bear, Scott held up a finger and warned, “This isn’t the time or the place for your bullshit, Alan. Give me that phone so I can shove it up your ass and lose it forever!”

“Too late, crybaby,” said Alan as he put his phone back in his shorts pocket. “Uploading that shit was as easy as one, two, three. Your ass is on TV!”

The question wasn’t how far Alan Young would stoop. It was how far Scott would run towards him if it meant giving this moron the beating of a lifetime. The chase was on throughout the graveyard. Scott shouted every curse word he could think of at Alan while threatening to, “Punch a hole through [his] big fat chest.” The bully turned around and laughed at his assailant while keeping a long distance between the two of them. Alan even zig-zagged between rows of graves, but the red-visioned Scott stormed towards him like a stampede of rhinos.

Scott had his target in sight and was ready to pounce on him at any moment. Oh, the punches he could throw. The knees that could connect to Alan’s jaw. Maybe Scott could devour this uncaring human being as though this really was the African wild. He could taste the blood on his tongue and feel the moistness of brains sloshing between this teeth. Maybe this would be his permanent cure for anorexia.

And then the high school senior accidentally pounded his own knee against one of the stone crosses and plummeted to the ground, allowing Alan to get away with the evidence and wave goodbye in the process. The cries of pain and the curses that followed filled the night air like a wolf’s howl at the full moon. Scott clutched his bruised knee and pounded the ground with the fist he wanted to use on Alan over and over again.

“Hey, kid!” shouted a middle-aged man not too far from Scott’s location. The crying came to a screeching halt as what appeared to be an undertaker shined a flashlight in Scott’s eyes. “I think you better go home, kid. You and your friend have had enough fun at the dead’s expense for one night.”

“Friend? Friend?!” chuckled Scott through his tears, progressively growing more insane with every cackle. He used the gravestone to pull himself to his feet and limped over to the undertaker, staring up at him with wild bat shit eyes. “If that fat fucker was a friend, I’d hate to meet my enemies. You saw the whole thing, didn’t you? And yet, you did nothing about it! You’re just like every other client you’ve got buried six feet under: you’re dead to the world around you!”

“You want me to do something about this, buddy?” asked the undertaker. “How about if I pull out my cell phone and call 9-1-1 right now. Does that sound good to you? Maybe I’ll tell them a couple of necro-nuggets were looking to get their freak on with the dead bodies.”

Scott ripped the undertaker’s cell phone out of his overalls and asked, “You mean this piece of shit? You want to know what I think of your little 9-1-1 call? Do you, bitch?!” The teenager threw the phone against one of the stone crosses and shattered it into slivers. “If you to want call someone that badly, you should probably howl at the moon like all the other doggies. Woof-woof! Hahaha!”

“You are bat shit crazy, my friend,” said the undertaker while shaking his head. “I’ll be sure to send you the bill for my cell phone once I figure out who the hell you are.”

Scott pulled on the undertaker’s overall straps and grinned at him like a comic book villain. “You do all the detective work you need to do, Dick Tracy. In the meantime, I’m going to just fly away and leave you to…whatever it is you like to do with dead bodies. I’m sure it’s a healthy hobby. If not, then fuck you. I’m flying away! I’m flying away!”

The watchman shook his head yet again as Scott flapped his arms like bird wings and skipped his way out of the graveyard. He sang a little high-pitched tune for the undertaker’s musical enjoyment. “Get some help, asshole!” shouted the watchman as Scott George “flew away” into the night.

“Are you getting this, Alan?!” shouted Scott in a quasi-feminine tone. “I’m going to be a runway diva! I’m going to be a You Tube star! Who’s going to please me today?!” He giggled like a sassy schoolgirl all the way home that night while listening to “I’m Going Slightly Mad” by Queen on his MP3 player. He didn’t bother to see if anybody was spying on him or if any pedestrians were scrambling to get out of his way. That kind of thought process required a brain that didn’t explode like a bag of popcorn.

As soon as Scott reached his doorstep, the divalicious insanity was replaced by another round of him dropping to his knees and bawling his eyes out. This was what it meant to hit rock bottom. Any further down and he’d truly be walking the nine circles of hell for all eternity. He didn’t give two shits if his mother was listening to him agonize or not. The closest he’d get to sympathy was looking it up in the dictionary between shit and syphilis. That seemed to be the general consensus among the people of this god forsaken city. 

Silent Warrior, Chapter 2

Scott didn’t even bother trying to look presentable for his classes that morning. His chestnut Sideshow Bob hair jutted in every direction humanly possible. His gray sweatpants overflowed with bagginess, thought they managed to stay above his waist. The holes in his plain black T-shirt didn’t reveal much, but they were noticeable to anybody with at least twenty-forty vision. He didn’t even bother to grab a bite to eat before he left the house. Even a strawberry Pop Tart would have resembled worms after that screwed up dream. Plus, it would have probably tasted like stomach acid and oral shit.

Without saying goodbye to his single mother, Scott popped his ear buds in and scrolled through his MP3 player looking for a good song. He kept his chin tucked the whole time and bumped into a few fellow students along the way to the bus stop. No apologies were necessary, because the hostile cursing from the other kids made reconciliation futile. By the time the bus arrived and Scott took a seat devoid of human contact, he finally found the song he was looking for: “Say Goodnight” by Gemini Syndrome.

“It's time to say goodnight to the nightmare as it gently falls asleep. / Another restless night, another show plays in my head. / It seems to never end. / Another hopeless plight, another cold and empty bed, / And the solitude again. / How can I live this lie again?”

It was always amazing to Scott how a voice normally used for screaming heavy metal lyrics was capable of taking the edge off every now and then. Despite knowing what the subconscious theater had in store for him, Scott allowed Aaron Nordstrom’s golden voice lull him into such a relaxed state that he rested his head against the seat in front of him. This was the major difference between being exhausted and being at peace. His eyelids grew heavier even as the mildly intense guitars hummed in his ears.

Scott could have fallen asleep on this bus and stayed here for all eternity. Let the truant officers drag his ass out kicking and screaming. Let the police handcuff his wrist to the desk. One man’s truancy was another man’s peaceful resistance. It was peaceful enough for Scott to snore rather loudly on the bus and attract the attention of the other students. If they did giggle at him, he couldn’t tell because of Aaron Nordstrom and his godlike passion for music.

Just like the puppet strings in his latest nightmare, Scott was jerked awake by the sudden impact of thick fists slamming down on the backrest in front of him. His heart thumped like a war drum and his bloodshot eyes nearly popped out of his skull at the sight of Alan Young, a kid he knew since middle school, emphasis on kid. With a stocky frame, the world’s meanest eyes, a drill instructor haircut, and fists covered in scars, he could easily be Scott’s worst nightmare, Aloysius Striker aside.

“Wakey-wakey, little bitch!” Alan mocked. “You look just like a little bitty baby with a thumb in your mouth! Does the big baby want his bottle? Does he need to be burped? Or maybe you need to have your big smelly diaper changed! It must be all that shitty music you listen to! I bet you’ve got some Justin Bieber on there, you little fairy!” That last line got a few chuckles from the other students.

In no mood to take crap from anyone, Scott fired back with, “You know what I’m listening to right now? A thirty minute track of your mother having an orgasm. Guess who gave it to her.” The kids on the bus gave their obligatory “ooos” to the response.

Alan also gave off an “ooo”, but only out of sarcasm. He even wiggled his fingers at Scott to show how “scared” he was. “Look at you, Scotty-Potty! The big baby’s using big boy words! You’d better be careful with that mouth of yours or else I might have to spank you!” Another chorus of laughter echoed throughout the bus.

“Look, if you want to grab my ass that badly, you should probably take me out on a movie date first,” said Scott. After another string of “ooos”, he punctuated his insult with, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it!”

Alan’s joyful bully expression morphed into humiliated anger, his jowls drooping like a Bassett Hound. He grabbed Scott’s cheeks and squeezed them together tightly. “Seriously, you little cunt, you’d better shut that big mouth of yours. Don’t forget who the real bitch in this relationship is. Maybe instead of giving you a spanking, I’ll give you a free colonoscopy.”

Scott grabbed Alan’s thick wrist and clamped down so hard that the bully was forced to let go. Mr. Young’s jowls wiggled in pain, but he wouldn’t allow a scream to exit his mouth so easily. Scott’s face also trembled, but only because he scalded with rage. “You put your hands on me one more time and I’ll rip your fucking head off. You aren’t using it anyways, so it won’t be a big loss.”

Alan jerked his hand out of Scott’s anaconda grip and attempted to throw a punch. The victim ducked down far enough to avoid having his face turned into Floydian sausage. Scott responded by grabbing the back of Alan’s pug-like skull and forcing his throat over the backrest, cutting off his oxygen to the point of having purple jowls. The more the other students chanted “Fight! Fight! Fight!” the harder Scott squeezed, until the bus driver slammed on the brakes and everyone fell on their asses. The chokehold was released and Alan gasped and coughed for fresh morning air.

The door flung open and the middle-aged female bus driver shouted, “That’s it! I’ve had enough of this crap! Get off my bus! Move it!”

As soon as he could talk clearly without wheezing and hacking, Alan pointed his sausage finger at Scott and said, “You heard the lady. Off the bus! Beat it, kid!”

“Not him, you creep! You!” belted the bus driver. Alan’s eyes bugged out with confusion and horror. “You were the one who was picking on him this whole time! I saw you throw that punch! You’re the one who’s getting off the goddamn bus! Get out! Don’t make me call the damn police!”

Alan’s breathing intensified for more reasons than just regaining lost oxygen. “This is bullshit!” he yelled while punching every backrest on every seat on his way off the bus. He made sure to snap, “Fuck you!” at the bus driver as he marched down the stairs and into the lonely streets. The doors slammed shut and the bus was in gear once again.

“Are you alright, Mr. George?” asked the driver.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, I guess,” huffed Scott. He too took the deepest breaths he could muster as he fidgeted his buds back in his ears. Even without music at first, his world was quiet due to the other kids settling down, obviously not wanting to join Alan Young in the cold and desolate streets.

With the peace that Scott once had gone forever, he cycled through his MP3 player looking for something a little angrier and a little heavier than before. “World Scum” by Soulfly always did the trick with its machinegun-like double bass drums, thumping bass guitar, roaring guitars, and leonine screaming of Max Cavalera.

With gritted teeth, tight lips, and a bobbing head, Scott got into the groove of his newfound soundtrack. Any anger he had before this bus ride would be bottled up so tightly that it could blow like an atomic bomb. His first class of the day was with the dreaded history teacher Tom Simpson. Aloysius Striker and Alan Young would have made a lovely power couple in another life, but Scott’s igneous temper would be reserved for the one man who could potentially set him off.

Tucking his head down so nobody would see him, tears poured out of Scott George’s eyes, splashing on his sweatpants to where somebody could mistake those stains for misaimed piss. He didn’t make any sobbing noises, because that would attract more attention than he wanted at this point. His lips quivered, his heart thumped like crazy, he couldn’t hold his fingers still as he slid them across the MP3 player, but he still remained invisible to the other classmates, who were off in their own world after witnessing Alan Young getting strangled nearly to death.

The bus had finally arrived at Perkins High School. The door flung open, the bus driver yelped, “Everybody out!” and true to form, the students filed out of the door one by one, not necessarily in the most civilized fashion. Scott peeled off his ear buds and shut down his music, his fingers still trembling as he placed his MP3 player in his backpack. Even after the final kid got off the bus, he still remained. Getting off this god forsaken vehicle would have been more tiring than Navy SEAL hell week training. Every day was hell week for Scott George.

“Hey!” the bus driver belted. “It’s time to get off the bus!” Scott sighed and unhinged himself from the seat before trudging down the aisle with a hung head and wiped away tears. The driver asked, “Are you sure you’re going to be okay? Do you need to see Principal Williams?”

“Not today. Maybe someday, but not today.”

I Walk Alone

VERSE 1
I walk like a zombie and talk like a child
I scream like a wounded lion in the wild
I block out the world with big headphones
In this massive crowd, I find myself alone
Invisibility comes naturally to little old me
Not that there’s ever been anything to see
Keep on walking and pretend I’m not here
Go home to the real ones you hold so dear


CHORUS
I walk alone no matter where the hell I go
I walk alone in case you fucking didn’t know
I walk alone in the darkness of night
I walk alone and awaken uptight


VERSE 2
I watch you all with a microscopic lens
There’s no way I’ll call any of you friends
You’re all strangers with your own agendas
You’re all conspirators with your own vendettas
Heaven forbid I make it past the surface level
Lord knows that would make me the next devil
I sit here in silence with my own introversion
While all of you pretend to know my burdens


CHORUS
I walk alone no matter where the hell I go
I walk alone in case you fucking didn’t know
I walk alone in the darkness of night
I walk alone and awaken uptight


VERSE 3
Whether you’re a cute girl giggling at nothing
Or a crook on the run who isn’t worth trusting
A cop with a taser that brings down the lightning
A corporate executive with charisma so frightening
A football stud hanging out with your beer bros
A drunken idiot with a broken lyrical flow
You may look different, but your aura’s the same
Forever making me hang my head in shame


CHORUS
I walk alone no matter where the hell I go
I walk alone in case you fucking didn’t know
I walk alone in the darkness of night
I walk alone and awaken uptight


HOOK
The streets are such a lonely place
Always let down after no embrace
Being a shut-in isn’t so damn bad
The most fun I’ve ever really had

High Winds of Death

***HIGH WINDS OF DEATH***

If you’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to the past two days, I can guarantee you that I didn’t go off the grid on purpose. I’m not like that father from the Little Caesar’s commercial who wants to live in the woods because ordering pizza online is “too frustrating”. All that heartache over a goddamn pizza. God, I hate commercialism.

The real reason I’ve been away from the internet is because in my home state of Washington, there were 25 MPH winds blowing southward. Trees were knocked over, houses have been destroyed, streets have been flooded, and many homes and businesses were without electricity, mine included. I went without electricity for a little over 24 hours. All I had to keep me entertained was my MP3 player and conversing with my 11-year-old niece Reina. I wanted to read my book, but without electricity, there’s no light to shine on the pages.

I probably shouldn’t be bitching and complaining too much, because my electricity eventually returned and I’m a happy man once more. I’m more worried about the people who no longer have stable homes and are trapped by the floods. It got so bad that Governor Jay Inslee declared a State of Emergency, which means National Guard members are going to assist those who’ve been displaced by this harsh weather. I can withstand 24 hours of boredom, but those less fortunate deserve your thoughts and love more than I do.

I’ve lived in Washington State from 1991-1993 and again from 1996 to the present day. The Pacific Northwest has always been known for its bipolar weather. It’s insufferably hot in the summertime and damned near devastating in the wintertime. Don’t get me wrong, Washington is still a beautiful place to live. But for all the times that Mother Nature gets even with us, it becomes more and more important to have a plan in case the electricity goes out, you’re stranded at home, or you don’t even have a home.

Even more than that, it’s important not to lose our humanity towards the less fortunate. If a family has been displaced by this kind of weather and is currently living on the streets, don’t shout at them for “taking handouts” and “not getting a job”. Show them your love. Give them hope. Even something as simple as a twenty dollar bill can make a difference in that family’s life. And one more thing: if you were displaced by bad weather, you’d want “handouts” too despite all of the pride you keep within you. If you had a choice between living in a low-cost apartment and having some disposable income along with food stamps over living on the streets and being closer to death, you’d choose the former every time. Admit it.

The weather already looks like it’s improving. I just went for a walk to the convenience store with the sun shining down on me. It was a little bit chilly, but there was sunshine nonetheless. But if I should go offline again, you now know why. No matter how many times Mother Nature strikes, I will always find a way to tell you guys I’m alive and well, even if it means going to a library or a hotel to use their computers. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

　

***CREATIVE PROJECTS***

Being offline has caused a little bit of a setback in my creative work, but that’s okay, because catching up is as easy as 1-2-3. I’ve declared today “reading day”, which means I’ll catch up on short stories submitted to the WSS and I’ll do another 30 pages of “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. Tomorrow is Friday and will be declared “TV day”, where I’ll catch up on NCIS, NCIS: Los Angeles, NCIS: New Orleans, and WWE NXT. Wow, that’s a lot of initials. As far as “Zombie” goes, I’ll probably write it this coming Saturday since all of my catching up will be done by then. And then there’s the Dark Fantasy Warriors drawings. Next on deck is Danielle Reigns, the benevolent necromancer from the short story that used to be called “Conform”, but is now called “Dead Man Walking”. Wish me luck on catching up! There’s not a storm on earth that can stop the power of creativity!

　

***SKYPE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

ME: I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that the acronym for Occupy Wrestling is OW, which is what people say when they feel pain.

MARIE: Haha! If I catch a wrestler saying, “Ow!”, I’ll slap him across the face and say, “Man up!”

ME: Yeah, wrestlers mostly just scream in agonizing pain or say, “Shit!” After all, nobody gets wrapped up in the Walls of Jericho and says, “Please stop that, good sir.”

MARIE: Hahahaha! That’s true.

Nail Bomb

Riding public transportation can be a daunting task all by itself, judging from the peculiar characters who occupy those bus seats. On this particular day in cyberpunk city, it was downright dangerous. The city bus had its usual colorful characters such as the war veteran with a loud voice, the old man who wanted to know how everybody’s “trading stock” was doing, the mentally ill woman who was talking to herself, and the overweight mother of a baby she never made any effort to keep calm while the little one screamed like a demon.

The only person on that bus who wasn’t bothering anybody and was only minding his own business was the black hoodie-donning Psymon Nordonus. The only movement he made was with his head bobbing back and forth to “Killpop” by Slipknot on his MP3 player. Such aggressive heavy metal was sure to block out the cacophony of weirdoes, all of which were being ignored by the hefty bus driver.

Psymon was barely looking out of the corner of his eye at the large mother and the war veteran arguing with each other. At least one time during that conversation, both parties reminded each other that America was a “free country”. No, Psymon didn’t actually hear that, but he had been around those kinds of people before. Pathetic, he thought to himself.

The verbal spat turned into a shoving match and the baby in the stroller was even more obnoxious to listen to than before. Once the woman was shoved into her seat again, a baldheaded baby doll dropped out of the stroller and started coming to life. The sudden animation put everyone back in their seats as they watched on in terror. This doll was jerking around like it was being electrocuted and then started dancing like a creepy ballerina.

When the little guy in the stroller refused to stop crying, the doll sprayed him with green gas and knocked him into unconsciousness, to which the mother also passed out due to the fright of it all. “Ah, that’s much better!” the baby doll said to itself. The mechanical nightmare started yelling “booga-booga-booga” at everyone and causing them to jump out of their seats. Things really got horrifying when the doll revealed it had a bomb strapped to its back and a dead man switch in his hand.

“Alright, you disgusting cretins, listen up!” screamed the doll. “My name is Baby and I’m here for one reason: to collect all of your wallets and gadgets! You hand them over to me and you can all go home happy! If not, I can let go of this goddamn switch and send a rainstorm of nails flying in every direction! Ooo, the thought of that much blood splattering all over the place gives me the chills! It must be one of those ASMR things!”

The war veteran, whose voice suddenly dropped a few octaves, said, “Listen here, Baby. I don’t keep a wallet on me. I’m just a beggar trying to make enough to get by. It took an entire tin can full of coins just to get on this damn bus.”

Baby’s neon red eyes shot up in mock surprise before the wicked doll pretended to cry like his namesake suggested. He even rolled around on the floor and kicked his legs for added dramatic effect. When the homeless veteran knelt down to see what was up, he was greeted with a metallic head butt to the skull, opening a gash on his forehead and knocking him into a deep slumber.

“You little scumbag!” shouted the doll. “I don’t give two shits if you’re a bum off the streets or a ghetto whore living on welfare! You’re handing your belongings over to me or I’m going to take my thumb off of this goddamn button!”

The bus driver had no idea what to do but to keep driving, as if any release from the acceleration pedal was going to aggravate this terrorist doll some more. He barely had the strength to softly say, “That gentleman needs to see a doctor. He could die.”

“Keep driving, you donut-munching lard-ass! If you even think about going to a hospital or anywhere else where there’re cops waiting, I’m turning this entire bus into a reverse porcupine! Hell, there are already enough pricks on the inside, so I guess it doesn’t matter what I do with the dead man switch!” threatened the evil doll.

One by one, the bus patrons threw their wallets, change, and electronic devices on the floor without further resistance. Baby laughed like a wicked hyena as he went around collecting these items to put in a garbage bag. While he was scooping up his riches, he felt a sudden jolt that bounced his head in all directions and shot out a few sparks. This only lasted seconds and he was back to his old form in no time.

As soon as he recovered from that shock, Baby had eyeballs on the one man he neglected to extort: Psymon Nordonus, who continued to rock out to his heavy metal like it was just another day on the bus.

“Son of a bitch…” said Baby to himself as he walked over to Psymon and kicked him in the ankle to get his attention. The mysterious passenger shook off the slight pain, pulled his hood backwards, and took off his headsets.

“Can I help you with something?”

Baby smiled sarcastically and said, “Yes, I would like something. I want two pieces of chicken, a buttermilk biscuit with extra butter, a large order of French fries, and an extra large Diet Coke to wash all of that down. I can only do so much to watch my weight.” The cuteness was over when Baby screamed, “What do you think I want?! Didn’t you hear a damn thing I said?! Are you crazy?! Have you been listening to that god-awful music this whole time?!”

Psymon said, “Hey, don’t diss Slipknot, okay? They may look like a bunch of serial killers with those masks, but those guys know how to rock. Take a listen and judge for yourself.”

Baby ripped the MP3 player from Psymon’s hands and pressed the volume all the way down so that he didn’t have to listen to the “god-awful” music. “Word of advice, shit head: the next time you try to be a smart-ass to someone with a nail bomb attached to his back could be your last! Seriously, there’s nothing stopping me from letting go of this button right now! I could just lift my thumb and bam, you’re all dead!”

The metal head cleared his throat and said, “Well, that seems to be our situation. I have no idea what being blasted with a nail bomb feels like and I don’t care to find out. But seriously, man, you should try that music sometime. It’ll set your soul on fire, bitch.”

“I’m warning you!” yelled Baby as he raised the MP3 player with his good hand. He was about to lash out at Psymon when he finally saw what was on the device’s screen. Coding. Lots and lots of coding, particularly of the zeros and ones variety. “What the hell? Were you trying to hack into my system? Is that what the jolt was? Oh, that’s it! I’m taking this bus to hell right here and now!”

Before Baby could lift his thumb off of the dead man switch, Psymon made a split second move to hold onto the detonator with one cyber arm and tap the screen on his so-called MP3 player with the other. The last thing Baby saw before dancing and jolting into oblivion was the fact that Psymon Nordonus was a true cyberpunk in every sense of the word. This bus was only supposed to be full of “losers” and “wash-ups” who gave up on their dreams. A vigilante hacker? Not in a thousand years would Baby have anticipated that.

With one square-toed boot, Psymon kicked out the window and threw the thrashing Baby out with his hand on the detonator. When he released it, the storm of sharp metal nails exploded all over the outside of the bus. They dented nearby cars on the highway and cracked a few windows. The drivers were pissed off as evidenced by their obnoxious honking, but otherwise unharmed.

“Driver, get this thing to a hospital. That guy still needs your help,” ordered Psymon, to which the driver complied. Everyone on the bus was in silent shock. The most fearful response in this entire vehicle was traumatic shaking. The real baby started to come around and was crying painfully yet again. The mother? She was snoring the ride away while other people were tending to the unconscious veteran’s wounds.

Going back to his usual introverted self, Psymon didn’t lose himself in an MP3 player this time, but to the computer chip he snagged from Baby’s body before throwing him out of the window. It was marked as property of the DX-Corporation, a fact which made Psymon smile to himself and say, “Oh, the fun I’m going to have with this thing when I get home. You bitches are dead.”