Malik Pierce's Napoleon Complex

It could be the Impostor Syndrome shouting through a megaphone and shattering more glass than Stone Cold Steve Austin’s entrance music…but…if there was ever a time to lay daffodils on somebody’s grave, it would be the RPG career of Malik Pierce, a character who goofed up so many times that he became a clownish version of himself rather than a truly flawed character. But how could it be my head voices talking when I just described his character trajectory? Wouldn’t everyone be in agreement? Was the GM trying to cheer me up or did she really see potential in Malik? I sure didn’t. I wanted to toss his ass in the dumpster and set the motherfucker on fire. I wanted that fire to be seen from space, as a reminder to everyone to learn from the mistakes of others.

It was 2006 when Malik made his RPG debut. Because I was nostalgic for my high school days (NOT!), I decided to enter him into a school-themed RPG on an online forum. What kind of background did he have? What was he like? Well, for starters, he was a Filipino sophomore with the name Malik Pierce, which is obviously the most Filipino name I could come up with. He was teeny, tiny, and yet stood tall over his abusive father, for which Malik spent a hot minute in juvie. Okay, so we know he can fight. Now what? Let’s give him drawing skills and a love for A Tribe Called Quest, a rap band who was putting out music long before Malik was born. Hell, there was even a member of that band named Malik, but everyone called him Phife Dawg, may he rest in peace.

Malik was introduced to the game as being tentative around potential friends, most likely stemming from the physical abuse he suffered at home prior to his sophomore year. So instead of engaging directly with the student body, he put on his headphones and let Q-Tip, Phife Dawg, and Ali Shaheed Muhammad batter his eardrums with sick rhymes and jazzy beats. It was here that he caught the attention of a female teacher who was only a few years older than him. Did Malik have any sexual tension swirling in his brain? Maybe, but he didn’t let it show. This teacher encouraged him to make the friends he needed to, and to come to her for help if he needed it. Long story short, he did just that and made friends with the entire player-character cast of the game.

You probably saw that rushed intro and you’re thinking to yourself: “My, Garrison, aren’t you the biggest galaxy brain in the world! You’ve got show don’t tell down to a science! Why don’t you get that phrase tattooed on your balls?” To which I would respond that I spared you the details because that’s not where the juicy parts of this role-play take place. The introduction to Malik’s circle of friends was so uneventful that I forgot what the fuck happened. If you wanted to be bored to tears, you would read the phone book and not my mini-memoir. You want juice? I’ll give you juice. I’ll give you the Ocean Spray version of what happened to Malik Pierce. Kool-Aid is not real juice. It’s just powdery sugar shit that looks like it goes up your nose instead of in your mouth.

First lesson of today: if you’re in a role-playing game, do not…I repeat…DO NOT sabotage your own character for the sake of a “good story”. I absolutely hate it when players do this shit. They’ll intentionally trip over something or they’ll bonk their head on a brick wall with the idea that their injury makes for an interesting story. It doesn’t. It’s just stupid. Nobody liked it when Bella Swan did it in Twilight and they like it even less when an obscure role-player does it at the expense of the rest of the party. The reason I hate this so much is because I did it with Malik and the results were bass ackwards.

The PC’s and I were in a math class doing our assignments and Malik happened to finish his first like the good little student he was. Thirty-five brain cells minus ten equals twenty-five. If that was the case, it was a miracle he got anything done at all. In Malik’s infinite wisdom, he pulls out his portable CD player, puts his headphones on, and puts on that sweet, sweet sound of A Tribe Called Quest. And because torpedoing your own character meant good storytelling, the volume on Malik’s player was a LITTLE too loud for the teacher’s comfort.

“Malik! Do you mind?!” snapped the math teacher. No response. “Malik, put that away or else I’ll put you in detention!” Surely, I would have learned my lesson that this was going to go badly. But instead, I had Malik give her a “don’t bite my head off” kind of response. The teacher threatened to take away the CD player and Malik wouldn’t fork it over. Instead, our Filipino wrecking machine was sent to the principal’s office. Being the good little lad he was, he went there straight away to confront his own shitty behavior. Just kidding! He sat in the hallway and delayed the inevitable.

And who should run into him? The overly-friendly teacher from earlier. Malik explained what happened to her and she insisted on bringing him to the principal’s office anyways. The principal explained that he couldn’t “undermine” the math teacher’s authority and that Malik’s biggest sin in all of this was talking back to her. If a student insults a teacher, it’s worthy of punishment. But if a teacher insults a student, it’s Monday morning. While that phrase is so true they made a whole Pink Floyd-themed movie out of it, this was all Malik’s fault. Forget detention, this stupid motherfucker needed a firing squad. In that regard, he would have shown more brains in that one instance than he did in the math class. It would have been literal, but it would be true no less.

What’s that? You want more juice? Of course you do, because that’s how you make a screwdriver since alcohol is necessary in numbing your secondhand embarrassment. Very well. You get one more shot of juice and then happy hour is over. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. To set the scene up for this next juicy lesson, there’s an ogre on the football team who’s been bullying the shit out of everyone for far too long. Beatings, screams, gaslighting, you name it, this guy has done it. So Malik’s new circle of friends thought it would be a good idea to have him draw the football stud in an embarrassing light as a measure of revenge. Malik did just that: he drew the football stud as a hideous monster that would gag John Kricfalusi and Gerald Scarfe all in the same day. Also, the bully MAY have had a football sticking out of his ass. Or an American flag. Either way, he was not happy.

After school was officially over for the day, the football stud, dressed head to toe in his gear like a holy paladin who was anything but lawful good, confronted Malik and his circle of friends. This jock towered over Malik like Andre the Giant, but moved a lot more athletically and could no doubt kick the Filipino goofball’s ass. What does Malik do about it? What’s his massive Hail Mary? Well…he takes the role of drama prince and goes into a whole spiel about his abusive past. Malik reasoned that if he could beat his dad’s ass, he could beat the football stud’s ass. Nothing could hurt Malik anymore because he was already dead inside.

And just like that, Malik Pierce became the mayor of Cringe City. He might get a longer serving term than President Xi in China. He’d be just as hated, too. The circle of friends pulled him away from the scene and they gave him a stern talking to. They told him not to be a drama prince. They told him he went too far. They told him he fucked up the whole purpose of drawing the football stud as an ugly creature that would turn any Shrek movie into an NC-17 horror show. Malik Pierce was ashamed, but not nearly as much as I was that day. Something told me that the players weren’t just speaking through their characters. Something told me they really meant that.

These were hardly my first two blunders as a role-player during those years. I made a cyberpunk mercenary look like a whiny bastard. I made a corporate stooge look like a complete idiot. I DMed a Dungeons and Dragons game where the level 15 samurai blitzed through the whole fucking thing without breaking a sweat. My massive ego was so damaged that I thought I should take a break from role-playing. Maybe I wouldn’t ever come back. Maybe I really didn’t know anything about human behavior or good character work. Maybe I was an ineffective storyteller. So I wrote the high school RPG forum a letter telling them about my departure due to no longer having fun playing.

I was half-expecting the players and GM to do cheerleader flips over this. It was probably my Impostor Syndrome shouting from the rooftop. But then the GM responds by saying…”And just like that, I just lost my best player.” Now my Impostor Syndrome was shouting at me like a marine drill instructor. Surely, this GM was just being nice to me. Best player? I don’t think so. I goofed up twice and they were both in colossal ways. Good players don’t do that. It’s one thing to have a flawed character. It’s another thing to have one who’s so flawed that he comes off as tone-deaf and stupid. That’s what Malik Pierce was: stupid as fuck and deserving of his criticism. That’s why I don’t intend to use him again in any other role-play. I might reuse his name since I like over the top names, but the character himself is gone forever. He’s getting the Chris Benoit treatment without ever actually killing anybody.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes during my career as a role-player and GM. Malik Pierce’s story takes the cake. He is easily the most embarrassing character I’ve ever played as. I don’t believe the GM one second when she said that she lost her best player the day I resigned. Am I being too harsh on myself? Maybe. But sometimes a little tough love is warranted. It’s not ideal for self-care, but it is necessary if I want to move on from this mistake. And luckily I did. The role-playing experiences I had after 2006 fucked off forever were MUCH better by comparison. I had a barbarian who rose to the top of MMA fame. I had an art therapist who actually connected to his patient in a meaningful way. I had a socially awkward college student who wasn’t seen as a creep by his peers (which is a low bar to clear, but I’ll take it). 

This story about Malik Pierce is a reminder that sometimes progress and growth aren’t linear. Sometimes you have to take one step forward and two steps back. But when you take those two steps back, you can either fold or you can get better. I’d like to think I got better since then. But I still haven’t found enough duct tape to shut up my Impostor Syndrome.

Pain

OPENING LINE

I’m not going to sit here and pretend it doesn’t hurt just so I can make you feel comfortable.

VERSE 1

Why should I be ashamed to talk about what’s hurting inside?

Because male genitals are supposed to be symbol of pride?

If you dig into my corners, darkness is all that you’ll find

Going to catch me like an assassin sneaking up from behind

You could get away with murder if you were in my math class

You could giggle in my ear and put your hand upon my ass

You could take away my ability to focus on the simple tasks

How many polynomials was I supposed to fucking add?

CHORUS 1

Pain! Pain! It’s never really over!

Growing up to have brand new owners!

Pain! Pain! It’s never really fair!

When you attract laughter and wicked stares!

VERSE 2

Why should I be ashamed to dump my problems onto the web?

Because all of this bullshit has somehow already been said?

So much support coming from all over the fucking world, huh?

Yet it still seems appropriate to crawl in bed and curl up

Jealousy and envy are just more feelings for the back burner

Rejection is for suckers who refuse to be fast learners

Charisma is for those who were born with the genetic code

For staying cool when life makes your head want to explode

CHORUS 2

Pain! Pain! It’s never really just!

The suffering and agony were all just a bust!

Pain! Pain! It’s never really explained!

Comes at me full force like a runaway train!

CHORUS 3

Pain! Pain! It’s not just for the weak!

It’s even for the supermen and super freaks!

Pain! Pain! It’s not just for the teens!

But every motherfucker who loves to bleed!

Pain! Pain! It’s not just for the crippled!

Spreads across the land like an earthquake ripple!

Pain! Pain! Let’s talk about our pain!

Before we become another suicide stain!

Pain! Pain! Pain! Pain!

Don't Tell Me Who to Love

“Mr. Hamlet, I’m only going to ask you this once and you’d better give me a meaningful answer…What the hell were you thinking when you started this relationship with Miss Peters?” College Principal Rich Lucas’s hands formed a pyramid on his desk as he posed the question to Keith Hamlet. Principal Lucas’s glasses-wearing eyes burned into Keith’s soul like a Molotov cocktail, yet the math teacher and his student Vikki Peters sat across from him in his office hand-in-hand like nothing was wrong.

“Normally, that would qualify as a rhetorical question,” said Keith as he straightened his tie and argyle sweater vest, seemingly the perfect picture of calmness. “But if you really want me to take it seriously, then here’s my answer. I was thinking the exact same thing when any other man falls in love with a woman. I pursued a relationship with Vikki here because she was the one for me, end of story. She’s a consenting adult, I’m a consenting adult, so I really don’t see what the problem is, Principal Lucas. In other words…” Keith leaned in closer and tensely whispered, “Don’t tell me who to love.”

Rich leaned his wrinkly face closer and said, “I’m not telling you who to love. I’m telling you to use some common sense. You took this job as a math teacher knowing full well what kind of influence you’d have over your own students. It’s not a matter of non-existent statutory rape. It’s a conflict of interest. You could very well show favoritism to Miss Peters knowing other students would suffer.”

“If you actually bothered to look at her grades,” said Keith. “You’d know that math is a subject she struggles with. She gets no favoritism from me just because we’re dating. She certainly didn’t date me because she’d thought she’d have an advantage.”

“I’d love nothing more than to believe that,” said Rich as he leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his bald head. “But you knew the rules long before you took this job. This school forbids teacher-student relationships no matter what the age difference is. You broke the rules and now you’re about to lose your job because of it. I’m sorry, Mr. Hamlet, but I have no choice but to…”

“Wait!” shouted Vikki while holding her bare arm up in defense. Her long brown hair and lovely figure in the frilly blue dress she wore already made her hard to resist, but Keith’s heart beat faster upon watching his love come to his defense. She was no damsel despite what Rich thought; she was a badass metal armor-wearing knight. “You do this to him, Mr. Lucas. This job is all that he has left!” Not the best argument ever made, but the spirited delivery was what counted the most.

Rich chuckled with his mouth closed and said, “You’re right, Miss Peters. It is all he has left…aside from his wife, his children, a house, a dog, a car…whatever will he do without a lovely lady such as yourself?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you this, because quite frankly it’s none of your goddamn business,” said Keith. “But my wife divorced me long before I started dating Vikki. I know you can’t relate to something as complex as having a heart, Mr. Lucas, but hear me out. Being divorced is bad enough with the alimony payments and the bitter words exchanged in a courtroom. But the loneliness, the emptiness I felt afterwards, THAT was what made me lose focus of my job. I couldn’t concentrate, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat…but Vikki took my pain away. I’ve been doing great up until the point where you called the two of us to your office, Mr. Lucas.”

A tense silence was shared between all three occupants of the room before Rich Lucas burst into mocking laughter and slapped his desk with the palm of his hand. When asked what was so fucking hilarious, he said, “Jesus, Keith, you should have been a poet instead of a math teacher! That was pure gold! Maybe when I fire your ass, you can get a career writing songs for sour-faced rock bands!”

The horse laughter came to a quick end when Vikki shot up and barked, “Enough!” Rich peaked up at her like he was taking her more seriously than when she gave the weak defense earlier. “This is why I hate going to school,” she sobbed. “Aside from the stupid classes, you’ve also got ridiculous rules that don’t mean shit in the real world! We’re not doing any harm to each other or the other students by being together! Keith says I took his pain away? Well, he took mine away too! If he hadn’t come to me when he did, I’d probably be dead with a bloody wrist somewhere!”

Rich held his hands up defensively and said, “Calm down, Miss Peters. Have a seat.” After she complied with both of those requests, Rich leaned in closer and said, “I certainly didn’t mean anything by what I just said to your…boyfriend, for lack of a better term. I was just…you know…Are you sure you don’t want to major in poetry too, Miss Peters?” The obnoxious hee-haws and desk slapping continued, much to the tearful dismay of Vikki and the teeth grinding rage of Keith.

“Laugh all you want, you smelly little prick!” belted Keith as he stood up and pointed his index finger at his accuser.

The donkey gut-busting was replaced with a serious stare into Keith’s crumbling soul. “What did you call me, Mr. Hamlet? I’d choose my words carefully if I were you. You’re not only facing termination, but you’re also in danger of being blackballed from the educational community as a whole. No college is going to want a sexual predator on their campus. Say what you will about the Brock Turners of the world, but at least he never pretended to be a romantic lover boy like you, Mr. Hamlet!”

Keith’s dynamite veins pulsated throughout his body. His fists clenched and turned his knuckles bright white. His muscles tightened underneath his dress shirt and sweater vest. Visions of him punching the shit out of Rich Lucas danced in his head like wild flames. Oh, how he would have loved to turn this disgusting human being’s face into slime and sand. He was close to carrying out his fantasy when he flipped over Rich’s desk and caused him to scatter backwards into the corner while Vikki barricaded Keith with her arms.

Pointing his index finger like a colt forty-five ready to blow, Keith shouted, “I am sick and tired of you judging me like a common criminal! Who’s going to take YOUR job for saying stupid shit like that?! Who’s going to put YOU on the fucking chopping block?! If you want to take my job, go ahead and take it, but if I fucking fall, you’re going down with me!” Vikki managed to push Keith back a little further to calm him down slightly.

The loving gesture did nothing to mask the massive flood of saliva Rich Lucas gulped nor the quaking in his tan slacks-wearing legs. With a shivery voice, he said, “Save your empty threats, Mr. Hamlet. You can’t do a damn thing to me or my credibility.”

Vikki sat Keith down in his chair and rubbed his shoulders and head in a further attempt to calm him down. While she achieved that small goal, Keith’s rage still caused Rich’s balls to shrink even in silent mode. “if there’s one thing I’ve learned in divorce court, it’s that the truth doesn’t mean shit. Men will try to screw women and women will try to screw men. The winner of any court case isn’t about who’s right or who’s wrong. It’s about who has the most believable pile of happy horseshit. I’m not necessarily saying I’m going to lie in court to get one over on you. I’m just saying…my shit smells like a my girlfriend’s cologne while yours smells like a fucking cow pasture. I’ve plead my case to you and got nothing. What’ll happen when I plead my case to a state judge?”

Still convulsing in the corner, Rich threw his glasses to the floor and said, “You’re fired, Keith. I’ve heard all I want to hear from you and your mistress. Just do me a favor, Mr. Hamlet: when you show up in court, try not to flip over any tables like you did in my office. You see…I too know what it’s like to lose someone I love. I’ve been alive a long time and had six marriages. The judge isn’t going to like your anger. You’d better learn how to keep that under control without your woman present. But then again…you millennials aren’t exactly known for your wisdom!”

A fiery aura radiated off of Keith Hamlet and he didn’t give two shits if he was proving Rich Lucas right. The now former math teacher could feel his own blood singeing his skin like a vat of acid. His exploding heart could have been powerful enough to level Hiro-fucking-shima all over again. Every time Keith closed his eyes in an attempt to quell this anger, his eyelids felt like little skillets burning breakfast as well as the whole house. Anything Keith Hamlet could have done in this moment would have jeopardized his chances of keeping his teaching license. And then…

“So not only are you an asshole in general,” sobbed Vikki. “But you’re also a flaming ageist. You’re a bitter old man in a school full of young students. I bet that just eats you up inside. That probably won’t look good in the eyes of an impartial judge. You know, somebody who can apparently be more impartial than my boyfriend here!”

Rich Lucas ran out of verbal ammunition as evidenced by his quivering lips and slurred speech. Keith, on the other hand, had plenty to say if only through his actions. He wiped away Vikki’s tears with his thumb and shared a lengthy hug with her in front of a disgusted, yet defeated Principal Lucas. “Don’t worry, Vikki,” said Keith. “This asshole can take away a lot of things from us…but we’re not going down without firing the first shot. Look at him, he’s pathetic! He knows he’ll lose miserably, but he’s too jittery to put his words together and admit it!”

“I love you, Keith,” whispered Vikki.

“I love you too, Vikki.” The romantic couple shared a gentle tongue kiss in front of Rich, who turned his face into the corner in a failed attempt to avert his “innocent” eyes.

The Reflection of Perfection

Ian Flagg’s mouth watered at the plate of Indian curry sitting before him and another plate of the spicy treat across from him. Yet, the old man’s sniper sight focus burned a hole through the newspaper he was reading. Besides, he wouldn’t want to get any of that messy food on his clean white dress shirt and silver tie. Accountants of his social status can’t afford to look like that. A waitress came by and refilled his coffee mug, yet Ian never took his eyes away from whatever news story was assaulting his mind.

As soon as the waitress strolled away, a young man with a black ponytail, a green polo shirt, and tan khaki shorts entered the restaurant hunched over with exhaustion and stress. Then and only then did Ian take his eyes off his newspaper. The young man sat across from Ian and hung his head in exhaustion, the scent of the curry doing no favors for his energy level.

“You’re late, son. Is that acting schedule of yours keeping you down? For god’s sake, get some sleep, Payton,” said Ian.

“Sorry, Dad,” said Payton in a slow and medicated voice. “I’m assuming there’s a review of my new movie in that newspaper of yours. I stayed up until midnight reading those goddamn reviews online. What the fuck is wrong with people?”

Ian folded up his newspaper and said, “You can’t fault your critics for feeling the way they do, son. It’s a free country. Everybody’s entitled to their own opinions, even if they are overwhelmingly negative and come from a website about spoiled vegetables.” The father folded his hands across the table and said, “Son, you need to get out of this movie business. It’s not good for you. You can’t take criticism and it’s only going to get worse from here.”

Payton lifted his unshaven face and said, “So what’s the alternative to having my dream job? Doing what you do and crunch numbers all day long? No thanks, I’d rather roll around on a pile of actual rotten tomatoes.”

“Being an accountant sounds boring on the surface, I agree. Hell, most of the comedy movies out there make fun of this idea. But it’s a stable income and you don’t have to worry about where your next meal is coming from. You’re welcome for the curry, by the way,” said Ian.

Payton languidly stirred his fork around in his food and said, “Listen, pops. I spent way too much time and money just to get my acting career of the fucking ground. I’m not going to give up on it just because of some negative assholes online. Shit, man, there’s negativity everywhere I go, so I have to get immune to it sometime. Maybe not right now, but eventually.”

“But that’s the thing, Payton. You don’t get used to harsh criticism. You don’t improve your craft. You don’t get better in life. You feel like this world owes you something and you don’t cash in on that opportunity.” Ian leaned his face closer as if to intensify the seriousness of this conversation. “Payton, you need help. You need to start making some real money so that you don’t have to live like a goddamn bum.”

“So that’s it, huh?” said the actor as he shrugged his shoulders. “One failure and I should just give up on my dreams?”

“We’re not just talking about one failure, son. We’re talking about being universally panned by every critic in the country. I don’t care how good of an actor you are, because nobody can recover from something like that. You wouldn’t have to worry about this kind of thing if you got a math degree and took up accounting like me.”

After a while of glaring in disbelief at his father, Payton stood up, slammed his palms on the table (nearly knocking his curry on the floor), and screamed, “Fuck you, old man! Fuck you! You talk about stable incomes and the world not owing me anything, yet you sit here thinking that I owe you my dreams and my hard work! You’re a conformist! You’re a soul-dead son of a bitch and you want the whole world to be just as boring and sad as you! I don’t care how much money you’re making, because all the money in the world can’t buy you a charismatic personality!”

Ian stood up and slammed his own palms on the table before shouting back, “I’m trying to look after you, you goddamn fool! I don’t want you to end up homeless and begging for handouts! If you keep spiraling out of control like this, you’re going to hit rock bottom and you’re never coming back!”

Some of the restaurant patrons stared at the father-son duo with shock on their faces while others turned heel and walked away altogether. The waitress who filled Ian’s coffee earlier approached him and said, “Excuse me, sir, but the two of you need to calm down or else I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Ian held his palm in the waitress’s face and said, “I’m trying to get through to my idiot son, so if you could stay out of this conversation, that’d be wonderful!”

“Idiot?! You think I’m an idiot because I actually believe in myself?! You think I’m an idiot just because I refuse to give up?! I’d rather be an idiot than a boring piece of shit like you!” shouted Payton.

“This so-called boring piece of shit is alive and well thanks to his steady income, which is more than I can say about a fuck-up like you walking around in those slob clothes! You have a decision to make, young man! Either accept your responsibilities as a grown adult or live like a child and die of starvation! Life may be boring and sad, but it’s not going to change anytime soon just because you like to rebel against the system! The system is in place for a reason, son, because it works!” yelled Ian.

“Hey!” snapped the waitress, who finally found her footing in this conversation after shaking nervously throughout the screaming matches. “I’ve had it up to here with you two scaring away the customers! You can either calm down and eat your lunches or I can get my supervisor and have the two of you blackballed from here! Do you understand me?!”

The father and son slowly sat back down and glared at each other with fiery vision. “You know what?” said Payton as he dug in his shorts for his wallet. “I’m going to go ahead and pay for my meal and leave on my own terms. I don’t have a whole lot of money in my bank account, but not to worry, because that’ll all be fixed once I start crunching numbers in a plain old office. Here, take my goddamn card.”

The waitress eyeballed Payton’s debit card for a while before a small smile formed on her face. “You’re Payton Flagg? The actor?”

“Guilty as charged, though I don’t know if ‘the actor’ fits me anymore,” said Payton in a bummed out voice.

The waitress’s smile grew wider as she said, “You know what? I don’t care what any of those morons on Rotten Tomatoes think. I thought that movie was hilarious. I love dirty humor!”

A look of shocked disbelief formed on Ian’s face while one of surprise formed on Payton’s. The actor said, “Do you really mean that?”

“No, I’m screwing with you. Of course I mean it, you silly goose!” said the waitress with a giggle. “I’m training to become an actress myself. You wouldn’t mind letting me in on some of your connections would you?” The waitress playfully elbowed Payton in the arm.

“I don’t know. My connections aren’t exactly…”

“Come on, Payton, what’s the worst that could happen? You got your foot in the door, didn’t you? That’s more than I can say for myself right now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be working here. What do you say? Will you hook me up?” said the waitress with a Hollywood smile.

Payton smiled himself and said, “You know what? I think that’s a good idea. I’ll come back here when you get off work and I’ll introduce you to some of my guys.”

“Yes!” squealed the waitress before hugging and thanking Payton repeatedly. It was an awkward hug, but Payton wrapped his arms anyways. He also gave his father a smart-assed wink before the tie-wearing sad sap rested his forehead in his hands. Even though Ian knew his son wasn’t the reflection of perfection, it hurt even more to know he was bested by the little hipster. Blind conformity seemed like a foolish route after all.

Exposed

In Juliet Farrell’s fourteen-year-old mind, whoever invented math should be strapped to a chair and beaten with hammers. Trying to wrap her head around complicated algebra caused her to rip up her homework assignments and stab her textbook with a sharpened pencil. If not for the after school tutoring of her teacher Trent O’Neil, her head would have exploded like a suicide vest. Every day for thirty minutes, she would sit in his empty classroom and work frantically on homework assignments. Meanwhile, Mr. O’Neil would stand over her with a shit-eating grin on his face and promises of his undying support.

“Don’t forget what FOIL stands for: First, Outside, Inside, Last. You have to remember that when multiplying two polynomials together,” said Mr. O’Neil in his best jovial voice. Juliet had a smile on her face as well when her teacher’s advice was actually working. “Excellent work, Juliet! You’ve come a long way in such a short period of time. I like that! If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I have to use the men’s room. I’ll be right back to grade your assignment.”

It had been only a few short minutes since Mr. O’Neil left the room and Juliet was already confident enough to finish her assignment in record time. Another smile formed across her dimpled cheeks and she gave a silent, “Yes!” She hugged the piece of paper to her chest like it was a child’s baby doll. She then danced happily over to her teacher’s desk to lay down the assignment.

It was here that the brunette haired teen took a closer look at Trent’s desk and noticed something unusual. His drawers were usually locked, but one of them was slightly ajar. With furrowed brows of confusion, she opened one of the drawers just out of random curiosity. She had seen him confiscate contraband from other students before and lock them up in these drawers. Maybe there was a CD player in there. Maybe there was chewing gum. Or pot. Or a knife.

After shuffling around inside the drawer, Juliet’s eyes widened in horror and her cheeks were quivering. As she flipped through naked photos of herself one by one, her blood had chilled and cold sweat poured off of her face in streams. She even held her hand to her mouth and cried silently at the perverted nature of these nude photos of her. Obviously they were Photoshopped, but the sexual acts she was performing in these photos…they brought up bile in the back of her throat.

“What are you doing with those?” asked a falsely apologetic Trent O’Neil, who was standing in the doorway with a horrified look on his face.

“What am I doing with these?” sobbed Juliet. She repeated that sentence in a scream this time followed by, “You have naked pictures of me in your drawer! What is wrong with you! Is that the only reason why you wanted to tutor me?! Oh my god, I feel sick!” The traumatized teen dropped to her knees and dry heaved on the floor. Her face had turned bright red and mucous was forming around her nostrils as she sobbed some more.

“Juliet…you need to listen to me. I can explain why those photos are there. They’re not mine, I swear,” said Trent with his arms held out in a mediocre attempt to calm his student down.

“Bullshit!” shouted Juliet while rising to her feet. “That is such bullshit! You’re a pedophile! You’re a goddamn pedophile!” Her sentences were punctuated by shoving Trent backwards repeatedly. The teacher had successfully deceived the entire school into thinking he was a decent person. But with one slap across Juliet’s face, his true colors showed and they were blood red.

Trent continued his assault by grabbing Juliet’s brown hair and hauling her to her feet. “Who in the hell do you think you are, little girl?!” he said in an emotionless whisper. “Who are you to destroy my career?! I spent years teaching the next generation how to excel at math and become productive citizens. If you think you’re going to fuck it all up for me, you’re dead wrong!”

Juliet stomped on Trent’s feet repeatedly, causing him to do a painful dance, but he wouldn’t relinquish his grasp on his student’s hair. In fact, he had enough strength to shove her to the ground and lay on top of her. His powerful arms pinned her skinny wrists to the ground while the teen screamed and pleaded to be released. “Let me go! Please let me go!”

“You want to be released?! Huh?! You want to be released?! Oh trust me, little girl, I’ll give you the best release you’ve ever had in your entire life!” Trent’s breathing was heavy and labored, but also creepy to listen to. “Don’t believe everything your sex ed teacher tells you. You’re not going to have green splooge afterwards. But here’s the kicker, my darling: if you tell anybody about this, those nude photos go online! One way or another, you’re going to be known as a fourteen-year-old whore! Whether it’s mine or the internet’s is up to you, little girl! What do you say?!”

Juliet sobbed the entire time Mr. O’Neil was yelling at her. No matter the outcome of this confrontation, she was doomed forever. She thought of all the people who would either know about her rape or see her Photoshopped pictures online. All the name calling. All the physicality. All the isolation. The thoughts numbed out her mind like a shot of Novocain to the brain. Then again, as long as her life was going to be ruined…

“Eat shit and die, you pervert!” screamed Juliet Farrell before she leaned her head over and bit down hard on Trent’s wrist, drawing so much blood that it probably curdled while the teacher was screaming in mind-blowing pain. He rolled off of her and allowed the blubbering student to get up and run toward the desk where the stack of photos was being kept.

Juliet looked through those photos again with downward eyebrows and clinched teeth before looking back at Trent O’Neil, who was sitting on his ass screaming in agony and wrapping his orange tie around his wrist wound. Juliet then picked up a stapler along with the photos and marched over to her injured teacher with sick intentions on her mind.

“You want people to see me naked? Fine by me. But it’ll be on my terms. And the blood will be on your hands!” threatened Juliet. One by one, she stapled the naked pictures to Trent’s exposed skin and caused bigger gushers than the one on his wrist. The teacher screamed and pleaded, but instead got more pictures stapled to his arms, legs, chest, forehead, and lastly, his crotch.

Trent shot up off the ground and danced in pain while bleeding all over the desks and carpet. Juliet watched him twirl around with folded arms and a gorgon death stare as she followed him out into the hallway where the football team was just getting out of practice at the next door gym.

The football players’ eyes widened in horror at the sight of a bloodied pedophile with pictures of a naked teenager stapled to his body. Trent O’Neil had become a human collage of disgust, disdain, and violence and all he could do about it was crawl on his hands and knees with the football team’s hearts skipping a few beats.

“Go ahead. Soak it all in,” said Juliet, who was standing in a puddle of her math teacher’s blood. “Add those pictures to your personal spank bank. Jack off to them as much as you want. But if you’re thinking of keeping me like one of your slutty cheerleaders, just remember that you too could be just as bloody and bruised as the man who did this to me. So…how about it, boys? Do you have something you want to say to me? You want to whistle at me? You want to blow me a kiss? You want to ask me to the homecoming dance? If you’ve got something to say, say it to my motherfucking face!”

For extra emphasis on how brutal she can be when she’s crossed, Juliet held up the bloodstained stapler she used to make artwork out of her teacher. “You’re crazy! You’re fucking crazy!” yelled one of the football players as all of them started to back away slowly in trembling fear.

“You’re right. I am crazy. Crazy like a fox,” said Juliet with a sadistic smile on her face. She even licked the blood off of the stapler to make the football team backpedal just a little bit faster (they were moving too slowly for her tastes).

Snitch

Lucas Morgan had just completed his geometry assignments for the evening and was left mentally exhausted afterwards. All the blond-haired All That Remains T-shirt-wearing teen wanted was to take a nap and forget the whole day ever happened. He kicked off his boots and plopped backwards on his comfy bed. His body was perpendicular to the bed itself, but he was so tired it didn’t matter how he slept it off.

He could have passed out right then and there if it hadn’t been for the obnoxious sound of his smart phone ringing. Technically, he could have chosen his own ring tone, but instead he had the standard buzzing that was normally associated with house phones. Lucas groaned and whined as he sat up in his bed and languidly reached over to the computer desk to answer his phone. His eyes were so fuzzy that he didn’t bother to look to see who was calling; he answered it anyways.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, sir, I’m looking for Mr. Maurice Morgan.”

“He’s not here right now.”

“I know that, but where is he? Does he have a work number I can reach him at? Maybe a cell phone number?”

Lucas’s eyebrows furrowed as he asked, “Who is this?”

“My name is Officer Ben Gilmour and I work with the Paulson City Police Department. It’s important that I get a hold of your father. And for the rest of this conversation, let me be the one who asks the questions. Now, I’ll ask you again: does Maurice Morgan have a cell phone or work number I can reach him at?”

“I don’t keep track of those things.”

Ben let out a sigh and said, “Not being very helpful today, are you, son.”

The condescending tone sent Lucas into a screaming rampage. “Why the hell should I help you with anything?! I told you I don’t know how to get a hold of him! That sort of thing is on my mom’s cell phone, but she’s not here either; she’s in the hospital!”

“Mr. Morgan, there must be something around the house that will tell you an alternative way of getting a hold of your father. You’re obviously not looking very hard, so let me make this clear to you. Either you cooperate with us or…”

Lucas’s screams were demonic at this point, “Or what?! You’re going to arrest me?! I’m not going to testify against my own dad! That would make me a snitch and a traitor to my family! Don’t ever call this number again, you piece of shit!”

Nobody would be calling that number again, because Lucas threw his cell phone against his computer desk out of frustration and shattered the screen. He breathed heavily in anger and sat back down on his bed to try and calm down. But try as he might, his intense breathing was accompanied by monstrous groans and growls.

And then the house phone rang and Lucas was pissed off once more. He growled like an ogre and stomped his way out to the kitchen to answer his house phone. The Morgan family had caller ID, but Lucas was too far into his rage to look at the screen. He answered anyways and yelled, “What?!”

It was Officer Ben Gilmour yet again. “I’m going to forgive that little outburst just a few minutes ago, but from this point on, if you screw with me again, I will come to your house and place you under arrest.”

Lucas’s angry speech was accompanied by high pitched bursts when he said, “I’m not doing anything wrong, damn it! There’s nothing illegal about not giving you information!”

“Actually, yes, there is something illegal about it. It’s called Obstruction of Justice and it holds a penalty of up to two years in prison. Two years doesn’t sound like a lot of time, but in prison, everything slows down and nobody is going to give you rest. Trust me, Mr. Morgan, you wouldn’t last five minutes in a place like that. Just do the right thing and tell me how I can get a hold of your father.”

“My dad didn’t do anything wrong either! He’s an innocent man and I’m not going to let you take him away from me!”

“That’s where I call bullshit, Mr. Morgan. We have snapshot evidence of your father murdering another police officer in cold blood. The photos suggest he took the officer’s own gun and shot him in the face. Your father is facing life imprisonment, maybe even the death penalty if there is a God in heaven.”

Lucas took a while to digest this new information with wide eyes and nervous breathing. His heart raced as he thought of his father being a cop slayer. Was it possible? Did he really know his own father? Was this all just bullshit? The teenager’s frightened energy caused his voice to soften as he said, “You’re full of shit!”

“I assure you, son, we’re not. I’d love to show you the pictures myself. In fact, I’ll show them to you when I come down to your house and arrest you for Obstruction of Justice. How does that sound?”

“Lucas! Give me the goddamn phone!” said Maurice Morgan, who was standing in the kitchen wearing a trench coat and a pissed off facial expression. The teenaged son was so emotional that he failed to hear his own father come in through the front door. His arm shivered as he handed the phone cradle to his dad. The kid was so sweaty that the phone almost fell out of his hand.

As the child became teary-eyed, Maurice wrapped an arm around him and patted him on the back for comfort. For Officer Ben Gilmour, however, there would be no comfort; only scorn. The father spoke vengefully into the phone when he said, “Listen, you sick bastard, I don’t care how much power that police badge gives you. You never talk to a teenage boy like that, especially not my son. He’s not the criminal of this household.”

A silence fell over the conversation and then Maurice said, “I am, Officer. I have nothing to hide anymore. Your snapshots proved I killed that cop. What your cute little photographs don’t say, however, is that I shot that cop because he was beating up my wife for jaywalking. So she runs a red light and gets put in the hospital by this sociopath? Where’s the justice in that?!”

Ben said, “Listen, Maurice, if you have a problem with one of our officers, then you need to go through the proper channels to make sure that officer gets his punishment. You don’t shoot a cop right in the fucking face like that!”

Maurice explosively said, “Then who will, damn it?! Who’s going to bring justice to a man whose worst punishment is a paid vacation and desk duty?! I know how your system works! Cops can get away with anything these days! Anything! Well, let me tell you something, copper! You can slap the cuffs on me all you want! Hell, I’ll wait right here for you in the comfort of my own home! But if you arrest me, then once I get a chance in court, I’m going to drag your entire department to the gates of hell with me! Not just the officer who beat my wife, but the entire goddamn department! I won’t get an ounce of sleep until each and every one of you are burning in hell!”

After a shocked silence, Ben said, “You let me know how that whole ‘gates of hell’ thing works out for you, Maurice. I hope you have the best lawyer money can buy. Good luck, buddy. You’re going to need it.” Officer Gilmour hung up and the heated conversation was over.

Maurice and Lucas were still embracing each other with the father breathing demonically and the son choking back tears of sorrow and fear. They both said, “I love you!” to each other for what would be the last time in their lives before the police came knocking on the Morgan family’s door.

High School Dreams

It’s hard to believe that I graduated from high school way back in 2003. And yet, the past refuses to rest in its shallow grave. Of all the dreams I’ve had in my adult life, going back to school is the most common. According to Dream Moods, going back to high school suggests inadequacy. I’ve graduated from college in 2009, but I haven’t been able to find a career that will make me independent.

So what do I have now? Dreams where I’m trying to figure out what grades I got by logging onto the school website, but I forgot my username and password. I’ve also had dreams where I go to school completely naked. Despite my overweight frame, nobody seems to notice or otherwise care.

And then there are those really interesting dreams where I sign up for a math or science class and I’m in danger of failing, so I drop out with a W for a grade. English literature, on the other hand, I have no problem with. I read the books and complete the assignments in a timely fashion, so my teachers couldn’t be happier with me.

Here’s a weird one for you: going to gym class and forgetting my exercise clothes only to have a fellow student buy them for me at the student store. I’m forever in that kid’s debt.

But sometimes school can’t last forever (bummer). Sometimes I have to ride the bus home…and then a foot ferry…and then a military grade submarine…and then an airplane. Did I leave anything out? How about me going to school in a really tiny building, almost microscopic. And then once I get to class, I try to find a seat, but all the desks and seats have graffiti on them.

There are a lot of different ways for a subconscious to tell a guy how inadequate he really is. Is there something else my brain is trying to tell me? Do I really need a reminder of how I’ve only made a 60 cent profit this entire time of selling my writing? Do I really need the point driven home that I couldn’t even make it as a library scientist (because they wouldn’t hire me in the first place)? Do I need to be told over and over again how all of my work experience has been voluntary?

Not everybody’s life can be rainbows and skittles. Very few people can say they’re part of the 1%. Should they start having high school dreams too? What exactly constitutes success? Money? Fame? Happiness?

I don’t claim to have all of the answers, but if my subconscious is going to keep throwing these high school dreams at me, it should at least have the decency to provide me with honest answers about myself. And if my subconscious doesn’t have all the answers, who does, and is this person within reach? So many questions, not enough answers. It’s the story of my life, even when I was still going to high school.

　

***MOVIE QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I’ve been doing some web design.”

-Peter Parker aka Spiderman from “The Amazing Spiderman 2”-

Crystal Math

If Danica McKellar can write a book called “Kiss My Math”, then I can write one called “Crystal Math” and use the blurb “There’s never been a better time to get high…grades in school.” Let’s face it, you just might have to be high on drugs in order to understand some of these “laws”, especially if you’re taking physics. For me, math was a hit and miss subject. Whenever I took a class, I was either really good or really bad. I either got A’s and B’s or I got C’s and D’s. I remember one point in my scholastic career in which algebra came naturally to me. It was ironically enough during my freshman year of high school, where as many of you know I’ve had a lot of PTSD problems floating in my head. I was so good at math at the time that I would be happy to tell you what the cube root of 27 was. It’s 3, by the way. But math class was also the birthplace of where all this psychological torment began. Who would’ve guessed that simply standing next to an unattractive woman would spark a firestorm of rumors about how the two of us were in love (even though it was nowhere near true).  This all happened in 2000. A little under a decade and a half later, I have a dream about writing a book for my math class called “Crystal Math”. I wake up from that same dream without ever knowing what in the world would make me qualified to write a book about math. Realistically, I could write a book where math puzzles are used as obstacles for my characters. But a how-to guide on math? Not with a D+ in physics and a W in advanced computer science. So what exactly could this dream be telling me? That there was a time when I was good at math despite the hardships I went through, but I’m not anymore? If that’s the case, my subconscious is either telling me that the war is over or I’m a has-been. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. Maybe it’s trying to tell me that after everything I’ve been through, I can’t salvage the remains, because there are no remains. If it’s all the same to my innermost thoughts, then I don’t need remains to build a future. The past is something to be left behind. The present and the future are all that remains. The dream could be creative fuel, but the memories are not. My emotional makeup may be a byproduct of my memories, but if I let a whole bunch of crappy memories rule my life, I wouldn’t be here in Port Orchard telling you about it. I’d be locked away in a mental institution, most likely. The lesson of the day is, let the past be the past. If you can’t forget the past, seek professional help until you can. Nothing is worth agonizing over. If you let trauma rule your life, how exactly are you going to find the concentration to read “Crystal Math”? It won’t be on the shelves for a long time, but hopefully you understand my point.

　

***ANIME QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Every boy has the right to dream. Every man has the means to make those dreams come true.”

-Outlaw Star-

Ranking Systems

There are different ways of ranking whether or not you liked someone’s performance: five stars, ten points, letter grades, percentages, etc. On Good Reads, their ranking system is based on five stars for each book. On You Tube, though, their ranking system for videos is based on likes or dislikes. I personally believe (feel free to disagree with me if you want) that the like or dislike system is the only one we need. Either you liked what you saw or you hated it. Even if you think a piece of art is just “okay”, there’s still a small part of you that likes it. I thought that Fifty Shades of Grey was an okay book. I wasn’t crazy about the writing style, but it didn’t take away from the fact that I still liked it. In fact, I like it so much that I want to read the next two books in the series and have a reason to buy Kleenexes other than Pacific Northwest allergies. If we rely too much on stars, number rankings, and letter grades, we don’t get a clear picture as to whether or not it’s a liked book or TV show or whatever the case may be. I’ve seen books on Good Reads get three stars (which is supposedly a good rating) and in the actual text box, the reviewer talks as if he has a serious axe to grind. I’ve seen that with books that got four stars. The only ranking in which somebody is guaranteed to say nice things all across the board is five stars. Five star ratings are rare and are only reserved for authors who go “above and beyond the call of duty”. Above and beyond? Doesn’t anybody just like stuff anymore? If we had a like and dislike system like we do on You Tube, it would paint a clearer picture of just how popular something is. Which one are you more likely to gravitate towards: a book that has three stars or one that has 5,000 likes and only 53 dislikes? That may not be the correct math, but do you get my point? The like and dislike system is not only helpful to potential readers, but also the authors who are trying to filter out negative information. If an author sees he has a three star rating and gets suckered into reading a mediocre review, it’s going to break his heart. But if an author sees a like or dislike instead of a star rating, then he’ll know which ones to filter out and which ones to read. It’s amazing how far we have to go to preserve an author’s self-esteem. Then again, these things should go without saying. In other words, it’s just simple commonsense.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“The British have Jane Austen on their money. Who should we have on our money? Stone Cold Steve Austin?”

-Bill Maher-