Commander Orpheus Rinehart, Far-Right Mercenary from "Savage Beatings" and "Beautiful Monster"

 

Christian Savage

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THE BASICS

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Name: Christian Savage

Nicknames: Hawk-Eye

Gender: Male

Age: 33

Birth Date: 467 AM

Birth Place: Morgan Town

Currently Living In: Shadow Asylum Headquarters

Species: Human

Ethnicity / Race: White

Citizenship: Honey Valley

Religion / Beliefs: Right-Winger

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FAMILY

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Father: Cletus Savage

Age: Dead

Relationship: Strict

Mother: Unknown Rape Victim

Age: Unknown

Relationship: Never Known

Twin Brother: Kody Savage

Age: 33

Relationship: Close-Knit

Cousin: Kyle Savage

Age: 29

Relationship: Close-Knit

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PHYSICAL FEATURES:

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Height: 6’3”

Weight: 210 lbs.

Frame / Build: Athletic

Hair length: Bald

Hair color: Blackish Brown

Eye shape: Wide

Eye color: Hazel

Complexion: Dirty

Face size: Round

Voice type: Mute (but with throaty groans and grunts)

Foot size: 13 Men’s

Tattoo(s): Dagger on Forehead

Scar(s): Bruises and slashes from fighting

Other notable accessories: None

Any other identifying mark(s): Long Goatee

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SOCIO / ECONOMIC / POLITICAL

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Political Affiliation: Conservative

Economic Class: Green-Collar

Social Class: Freelancer

Occupation: Mercenary

Income: Upper Class

Residence: Morgan Town

Transportation: Sometimes Horses

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INTERESTS

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Favorite Food(s): Barbecue Wings and Beer

Favorite Sport(s): Football and Cage Fighting

Favorite Book(s): None

Favorite Show(s): TV isn’t a thing yet

Favorite Music: Gongs

Favorite Color(s): Red and Black

Clothing Style / Preferences: Red Tunic, Black Pants, and Leather Boots (Shadow Asylum Uniform)

Hobbies: Pranks, Setting off Fireworks, Taxidermy, and Hunting

Role Model(s): Orpheus Rinehart

Likes: Brutality, punch-down comedy, torturing people, and bullying

Dislikes: “Pussies”, women, elves, and bad food

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PERSONALITY

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Good Qualities / Trait(s): Sadistic fighter, loyal to Rinehart, intimidating, and scary

Vices / Negative Trait(s): Mute, too destructive, easy anger, and alcoholism

Habits / Idiosyncrasies / Quirks: Drooling, chewing tobacco, and spitting

Phobia / Fears: Gay people, beatings from his father, and pissing off Rinehart

Select one personality type below that best describes your character:

PROTECTORS

[X] Defender (ISFJ) – Puts the needs of others before themselves, to a point where they tend to give more than they receive. Quiet and conscientious. Modest and tends to be a spectator. They do what is expected of them without attracting attention to themselves. Sensitive to the feelings of others, and has a very good memory, especially when it comes to observing other people. Can be easily hurt. Very painstaking when it comes to detail.

Define your character’s personality based on the following aspects:

a. Physically: Terrifying, off-putting, ugly on the outside and inside

b. Psychologically: Sadistic, hateful, murderous, psychotic

c. Spiritually: Hates religion

d. Emotionally: Angry and numb

e. Socially: People are afraid of him and that includes his coworkers

Others things to know:

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HISTORY

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1. Describe the character’s childhood. The sons of a nameless rape victim, Christian and Kody had toxic masculinity beaten into them at a young age, contributing to their mute and lifeless expressions. They eventually killed their own abusive father and impressed Rinehart to where he wanted to recruit them.

2. Name the good incidents that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped his personality? Playing immature pranks and playing football have given them sadistic joy.

3. Name bad experiences that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped his personality? The physical abuse he and Kody suffered at their father’s hands turned them into mutes. They in turn became more sadistic, hence why they killed their father.

4. What is the character doing when first introduced? What are his goals at this point?

4a. Do these goals change at any point in the story? He and Kody are fighting with Tarja Rikkinen in Rinehart’s office over who gets the task of bringing Windham Xavier back to home base. The battle ends when the twins accidentally knock over Rinehart’s bookshelf full of business ledgers. Instead of joining Rinehart on his mission, they are in charge of torturing prisoners.

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STORY DEVELOPMENT:

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CHARACTER ARCHETYPE: (Put an X on all applicable boxes)

[X] Addict (Conspicuous Consumer, Glutton, Workaholic–see also Gambler)

[X] Antagonist (Opposing View, not necessarily the Evil Bad — see also Villain)

[X] Athlete (Olympian)

[X] Bully (Coward)

[X] Destroyer (Attila, Mad Scientist, Serial Killer, Spoiler)

[X] Threshold Guardian

[X] Trickster (Puck, Provocateur)

[X] Victim

[X] Villain / Shadow (Big Bad of the story; see also Antagonist)

[X] Warrior (Soldier, Crime Fighter, Amazon, Mercenary, Soldier of Fortune, Gunslinger, Samurai)

1. What are the motivations for the character’s actions? Satisfying sadistic urges and getting amusement out of it.

2. What are the character’s goals / ambition / dreams? To make money torturing and bullying people so that the twins can spend it all on beer and wings.

3. What external conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? Tarja and Windham outsmart and outfight the twins just to stay alive. Their plan is to be even more frightening and sadistic than before. Rinehart’s bootstraps mentality contributes to this.

4. What inner conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? Christian wants to forget about his father’s abuse, but can only do so whenever he’s torturing his victims and getting those dopamine blasts.

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AUTHOR’S NOTES / MISCELLANY

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Character theme song: “Torture” by Cavalera Conspiracy

Celebrity / IRL lookalike: A more disgusting Luke Gallows

Orpheus Rinehart

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THE BASICS

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Name: Orpheus Rinehart

Nicknames: Commander, White Snake

Gender: Cisgender Male

Age: 50

Birth Date: 450 AM

Birth Place: Morgan Town

Currently Living In: Shadow Asylum Headquarters

Species: Human

Ethnicity / Race: White

Citizenship: Morgan Town

Religion / Beliefs: Far Right Capitalist

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FAMILY

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Father: Miller Rinehart

Age: Dead

Relationship: Abusive

Mother: Quinn Rinehart

Age: Dead

Relationship: Protective

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PHYSICAL FEATURES:

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Height: 6’5”

Weight: 350 lbs.

Frame / Build: Chunky

Hair length: Horseshoe with a Long Dreadlocked Beard

Hair color: Brown

Eye shape: Wide

Eye color: Hazel

Complexion: Dirty

Face size (broad, narrow, etc.): Round

Voice type: Angry

Foot size: 17 Men’s

Tattoo(s): “Death Before Dishonor” on his arm

Scar(s): Burn marks from childhood

Other notable accessories: None

Any other identifying mark(s): None

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SOCIO / ECONOMIC / POLITICAL

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Political Affiliation: Far Right

Economic Class: Upper-Middle Class

Social Class: CEO

Occupation: Mercenary

Income: High

Residence: Shadow Asylum Headquarters

Transportation: Horse

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INTERESTS

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Favorite Food(s): Steak

Favorite Sport(s): Football and Wrestling

Favorite Book(s): Murder Mysteries

Favorite Show(s): TV isn’t a thing yet

Favorite Music: People screaming in pain

Favorite Color(s): Red and Black

Clothing Style / Preferences: Red tunic, red pants, metal boots, and black trench coat

Hobbies: Hunting, taxidermy, smoking cigars, drinking beer, playing pool

Role Model(s): His abusive father

Likes: Toxic masculinity, violence, bigotry, money, and torture

Dislikes: “Pussies”, elves, women (except ones who will have sex with him), poor people

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PERSONALITY

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Good Qualities / Trait(s): Leadership skills, hard-power authority, intimidation

Vices / Negative Trait(s): Racism, anger, sexism, unable to break abusive cycles

Strengths: Fighting skills, leadership, ruthlessness, business acumen

Weaknesses: Generational trauma, quick to anger, sadistic, can’t take criticism

Habits / Idiosyncrasies / Quirks: Chain smoking and finger drumming

Phobia / Fears: Gay people, his father’s beatings, disappointing his father, being poor

Select one personality type below that best describes your character:

CREATORS

[X] Persuader (ESTP) – Realists. Enthusiastic people of action who like to explore and use their senses to explore the world. Likes sports and are risk-takers. They live in the (preferably) fast-paced here and now, and thrive on problems and crises. Often fearless and dominates conversations. Blunt and very straightforward. Does not necessarily follow the law if it gets in the way of what they want.

Define your character’s personality based on the following aspects:

a. Physically: Intimidating, loud, beefy

b. Psychologically: Quick to anger, quick to judge, and will lash out at whoever he wants to

c. Spiritually: openly mocks the Magetan religion every chance he gets

d. Emotionally: Extreme mental toughness, expects the same from his employees

e. Socially: Despite being afraid of him, people believe he’s good at his mercenary job and will pay his exorbitant prices if it means procuring his services

Others things to know:

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HISTORY

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1. Describe the character’s childhood. Despite pleading from his mother, Orpheus’s father abused him constantly with beatings and insults, instilling toxic masculinity in him at an early age. Orpheus started the Shadow Asylum mercenary guild as a way to avoid his father’s wrath while also putting his fighting skills to good use.

2. Name the good incidents that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped his personality? The only joy from Orpheus’s childhood were the many hunting trips his father took him on, but that only added to his sadism.

3. Name bad experiences that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped his personality? Aside from his father’s abusive ways, his father also killed his mother during a petty argument. That was how Orpheus learned to solve his problems with violence.

4. What is the character doing when first introduced? What are his goals at this point? Negotiating a deal with King Lars Stonewall to take down the Atwood Queendom. This is just another job to Orpheus, which means more money to spend on drugs and alcohol.

4a. Do these goals change at any point in the story? I can’t tell you due to spoilers.

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STORY DEVELOPMENT:

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CHARACTER ARCHETYPE: (Put an X on all applicable boxes)

[X] Addict (Conspicuous Consumer, Glutton, Workaholic–see also Gambler)

[] Advocate (Attorney, Defender, Legislator, Lobbyist, Environmentalist)

[] Alchemist (Wizard, Magician, Scientist, Inventor–see also Visionary)

[] Angel (Fairy Godmother/Godfather)

[X] Antagonist (Opposing View, not necessarily the Evil Bad — see also Villain)

[] Anti-Hero

[] Artist (Artisan, Craftsperson, Sculptor, Weaver)

[X] Athlete (Olympian)

[] Avenger (Avenging Angel, Savior, Messiah)

[] Beggar (Homeless person/ Indigent)

[X] Bully (Coward)

[] Catalyst

[] Child (Orphan, Wounded, Magical/Innocent, Nature, Divine, Puer/Puella Eternis, or Eternal Boy/Girl)

[] Clown (Court Jester, Fool, Dummling)

[] Companion (Friend, Sidekick, Right Arm, Consort)

[] Damsel (Princess)

[X] Destroyer (Attila, Mad Scientist, Serial Killer, Spoiler)

[] Detective (Spy, Double Agent, Sleuth, Snoop, Sherlock Holmes, Private Investigator, Profiler–see also Warrior/Crime Fighter)

[] Dilettante (Amateur)

[] Don Juan (Casanova, Gigolo, Seducer, Sex Addict)

[] Engineer (Architect, Builder, Schemer)

[] Exorcist (Shaman)

[] Father (Patriarch, Progenitor)

[] Femme Fatale (Black Widow, Flirt, Siren, Circe, Seductress, Enchantress)

[] Gambler

[] God (Adonis, see also Hero)

[] Gossip (see also Networker)

[] Guide (Guru, Sage, Crone, Wise Woman, Spiritual Master, Evangelist, Preacher)

[] Healer (Wounded Healer, Intuitive Healer, Caregiver, Nurse, Therapist, Analyst, Counselor)

[] Hedonist (Bon Vivant, Chef, Gourmet, Gourmand, Sybarite–see also Mystic)

[] Hermit (see also Wise old Man)

[] Hero/Heroine (see also Knight, Warrior)

[] Judge (Critic, Examiner, Mediator, Arbitrator)

[] King (Emperor, Ruler, Leader, Chief — see also Politician)

[] Knight in Shining Armor

[] Liberator

[] Lover

[] Martyr

[] Mediator (Ambassador, Diplomat, Go-Between)

[] Mentor (Master, Counselor, Tutor)

[] Messiah (Redeemer, Savior)

[] Midas/Miser

[] Monk/Nun (Celibate)

[] Mother (Matriarch, Mother Nature)

[] Mystic (Renunciate, Anchorite, Hermit)

[] Networker (Messenger, Herald, Courier, Journalist, Communicator)

[] Pioneer (Explorer, Settler, Pilgrim, Innovator)

[] Poet

[] Politician (see also King)

[] Priest (Priestess, Minister, Rabbi, Evangelist)

[] Prince

[] Prostitute

[] Queen (Empress)

[] Rebel (Anarchist, Revolutionary, Political Protester, Nonconformist, Pirate)

[] Rescuer

[] Saboteur

[] Samaritan

[] Scribe (Copyist, Secretary, Accountant–see also Journalist)

[] Seeker (Wanderer, Vagabond, Nomad)

[] Servant (Indentured Servant)

[] Shape-shifter (Spell-caster–see also Trickster)

[] Slave

[] Spectre (Ghost / Apparition with Unresolved issues)

[] Storyteller (Minstrel, Narrator)

[] Student / Scholar (Disciple, Devotee, Follower, Apprentice)

[] Teacher (Instructor, see also Mentor)

[] Thief (Swindler, Con Artist, Pickpocket, Burglar, Robin Hood)

[] Threshold Guardian

[] Trickster (Puck, Provocateur)

[X] Turncoat

[] Vampire

[X] Victim

[X] Villain / Shadow (Big Bad of the story; see also Antagonist)

[] Virgin (see also Celibate)

[] Visionary (Dreamer, Prophet, Seer–see also Guide, Alchemist)

[X] Warrior (Soldier, Crime Fighter, Amazon, Mercenary, Soldier of Fortune, Gunslinger, Samurai)

[] Wise old Man (see also Hermit)

1. What are the motivations for the character’s actions? Money, cigars, alcohol, and not angering his father even though he’s dead and only exists as a voice in Orpheus’s head.

2. What are the character’s goals / ambition / dreams? To become the most “badass” mercenary anyone has ever crossed, to strike fear in the hearts of the entire world.

3. What external conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? Completing missions on time.

3a. What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? Windham is slow in delivering the blueprints from Shelly’s castle.

4. What inner conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? Shutting up his father’s head voice.

4a. What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? Head voices don’t go away on their own. Plus, Rinehart thinks that therapy is for “pussies”.

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AUTHOR’S NOTES / MISCELLANY

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Character theme song: “American Capitalist” by Five Finger Death Punch

Celebrity / IRL lookalike: A fatter version of Chris Kael

Bulletproof Bikini

Marguerite Macintosh may have been wandering around Helgor City in little else than a metal bikini, leather boots, and a furry cloak, but this chilly weather should never have been confused for the “dog days of summer”. The only things keeping her warm were the burning pain radiating off of her fresh scars and her boiling blood over this wardrobe fiasco. Her bastard sword was sheathed on her hip; she kept a firm grip on the handle while her other hand carried a mysterious leather sack. She heard enough testicle jokes in her lifetime that they were to be expected when she carried around a package that big.

As she trudged down the sidewalk of this vast city with bustling marketplaces and massive architecture, Marguerite made sure to give stone cold glares at the various men who passed her with dirty thoughts racing through their melon heads. The smiles they gave her, the whistles, and the chuckles were enough to boil her blood even further. The women were equally worthy of her scorn; they twisted their faces in disgust, as though Marguerite was going to steal their husbands right in front of them.

Because the streets were so jam-packed with horn-dog men, racing children, and jealous women, she couldn’t help but bump into a few of them, though she wondered how much of that contact was on purpose. There were a few hands here and there and in an ideal world, those hands wouldn’t be attached to their owners’ arms anymore. The bastard sword was right there, yet she kept it sheathed the whole time.

“Just a few more blocks,” she muttered to herself. The frosty weather nipped at her flesh almost as harshly as the poor sucker she had been in combat with only an hour prior. Those razor talons and blade-like fangs were far from Marguerite’s idea of a fun time. But a payday was a payday and a meal was a meal. “That son of a bitch better not stiff me this time,” she said, referring to her mercenary boss Goldsmith Kingsville.

“You said stiff!” said a giggling teenaged boy as his father pulled him away, also in a chuckling mood.

Marguerite’s knuckles had turned as white as the frosty weather at the strength she was gripping her hilt. She could cause a city wide bloodbath that could only be written about in holy scriptures. She could leave heads rolling down the street like the beer barrels the men probably consumed by the gallon. She could leave intestines strewn across the cobblestones while the diarrhea they contained painted an accurate picture of all the bullshit this place was known for. She thought better off it and continued down the sidewalk. “The real battle…” She stopped herself before her words could be misinterpreted again by snot-nosed kids.

A few more bumps, gropes, and hee-haws later, she finally arrived at the steps of the Kingsville Combat Club. They would prove to be a long climb, not because of the distance, but because of the sharp pains in her leg scars with every step. She sucked it up and pulled herself up the stairs into the stone-carved barracks. It was somehow less painful than being leered at by horny men and scowled at by jealous women. And then she remembered that the cycle would begin all over again once she walked through the doors of her workplace, which she did.

Just as she had predicted, the sparring orcs, in metal armor much more protective than hers, took a break from their exercises to evilly-smile and snort at her. Some of them swirled their tongues around like they were about to eat a delicious roasted ham. Others wiggled their fingers in anticipation of a hard grip. One of them whistled like his voice was a jazz instrument, much to the hee-hawing delight of the other mercenaries. Again, Marguerite could turn this entire room into a farmhouse slaughter fit for oinking pigs. But she thought better of it and picked up her walking speed towards Goldsmith’s office. She slammed the door behind her and the sounds of sparring continued.

And there he was, his booted feet on the desk, his velvet purple suit on, a cigar smoldering in his mouth, and his eyes pasted to his magazine. His entire room was decorated with artwork of half-naked models and leopard print rugs. Marguerite had her angry eyes locked in not on those, but the pervert who hung the pictures there in the first place. He peeked out from his magazine and waved at her before blowing a drooling orcish kiss.

Marguerite marched up to Goldsmith’s desk and slammed the package on the wooden surface, almost creating a few splinters. She pulled the draw string on it and revealed the head of a rival orcish warrior, which made Goldsmith’s eyes light up like a shooting star. He grabbed the head by its hair and examined it further to make sure everything was on the up and up. “Fine job, Margueritie-Sweetie.” She cringed at that nickname. “Our client will be very happy with this!”

Marguerite then slammed her coin bag on the table with equally brutish force and opened it. She pointed inside and said, “Karma. Karma!”

“If you insist.” Commander Kingsville pulled a metal box from underneath his desk, unlocked it with a massive key, and scooped up handfuls of gold coins to put in the Marguerite’s bag. She closed it up, jiggled it next to her ear, and stuck it on her belt, ultimately satisfied with her payday. Goldsmith put the metal box away, but she was still there with her arms folded and a murderous look on her face. “What? You got your payday, now get lost.”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Commander.” Marguerite cleared her throat. “Are you okay?”

Goldsmith throatily laughed and slapped his desk a few times. “Are you kidding me, babe? Business is booming! I’ve never felt better in my life! Are you okay, my ass!” He laughed some more.

“That’s not what I meant, Commander. What I meant was…are you okay…as in…what the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Huh?”

“These other mercenaries, all of which are men, get to walk around protected head to toe in armor while I’m stuck out in the cold-ass weather in… whatever this is! You say business is booming, yet you can’t afford to get me some halfway decent armor?!”

Goldsmith placed a hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, which was instantly swatted away. “Listen, lady. Walking around in a metal bikini isn’t so bad. It’s lightweight, so you can move around easier. You have any idea how heavy those other suits of armor are?”

Private Macintosh grabbed her boss’s jacket and snapped, “Cut the bullshit! This skimpy armor isn’t going to protect me from anything! Look at all these scars! Look!”

Goldsmith pulled on his own collar to signify discomfort. “Trust me, I’m looking.”

“Exactly! You didn’t buy me this piece of crap armor because you wanted to protect me! You certainly didn’t want me to move faster, because let’s face it, fast-moving women make it impossible for you to do your little thing with them. This isn’t protection, Commander! This is fantasy!”

Goldsmith shoved her to the floor. “If you want real armor so badly, then use your payday to buy some! There’s enough in that coin bag to get you at least…”

She got up and got right back in her boss’s face. “You paid for their armor, now pay for mine! You just said yourself you have the money to do it, now quit stiffing me and…”

“Stiff this, you dumb bitch!” Goldsmith tried to slap her with the magazine, but she caught it just in the nick of time and started poring through it.

This wasn’t a literary publication at all. Not a single poem about flowers and shit. Not a single piece of prose about gallant battles. Not a single epic about conquering giants. Just pictures. Pictures of women wearing the same metal bikini as her. Just when Marguerite’s stomach couldn’t twist and wind any further, the final picture in the magazine…was of her. A realistic drawing of her wearing that same bikini, posing seductively at the reader, and blowing a kiss.

Marguerite’s breathing hastened. Her heart thumped in her chest while an icy river of anxiety cooled her burning scars. She dropped to her knees and vomited on the magazine, completely undoing her entire nutrition for the day.

“Oh, don’t act so disgusted! That’s the best art you’ll ever see in your lifetime! He’s great at what he does!”

Marguerite wiped the vomit from her lips and slowly rose to her feet, her trembling hand gripping her hilt even tighter than before, to where her palms were beet red. She angrily whispered, “Did you just say…HE’S great at what he does? He? As in…the male gaze?!” She finally pulled out her bastard sword and sliced Goldsmith’s desk in half, causing the boss to jolt backwards in fear. Sure enough, he had other magazines of half-naked girls stashed in there as well as his cash box.

Goldsmith pulled his collar in discomfort again. “I can explain!”

Not giving him a chance to do so, Marguerite threw a thunderous slash his way and sliced his massive head off, the last of his fucked up mind oozing on the carpeted floor. She dropped to her knees again, shaking in a combination of anger, disgust, and fear. Commander Kingsville had been masturbating to her this whole time. He had thoughts about her. He wanted to be with her. That metal bikini wasn’t practical in any way. It was all a perverted fantasy. Marguerite threw up yet again, this time loudly enough to draw the ire of someone knocking on the door.

“Hey! What’s going on in there! You alright, boss?!”

Thinking quickly, Marguerite took her bastard sword and wedged it between the double door handles. She didn’t know how long the lock would last considering how hard the orc was knocking. The sword even bent a few times like it was made of rubber. Marguerite took the cash box, grabbed Goldsmith’s head, and chucked it through his stained glass window, giving her an easy escape and the orcs enough reason to slam even harder against the doors.

Once the doors broke down, Marguerite, with cash box in hand, ran like the wind. Her leg scars flared up to where she was begging for an amputation. But she kept running through the back alleys. She kept hearing the sounds of orcs grunting behind her. Those throaty screams and curses, as much as they pounded against her eardrum, they softened the further she ran. And then she took a sharp turn into another alleyway and her legs finally gave out on her. Blood running from the wounds made her dizzy. The burning sensation caused her eyes to well up in pain. She was certain the orcs were going to chop her up and have her for lunch…or have her for lunch regardless, which made her gag even more.

But then the orcish voices were gone. She couldn’t hear them anymore. If she was dead from her wounds, then heaven looked an awful lot like Helgor City. It wasn’t heaven at all. Maybe it was hell. Maybe it was some unseen god punishing her for murder and theft. Speaking of theft, the cash box was still right there by her side. She patted it and breathed a sigh of relief once she knew it was safe.

“You know…maybe I will buy my own armor…and a vacation…I wouldn’t mind a vacation right now…”

A Brief History of Honey Valley

“Honey Valley isn’t known for its bee population.”

Throughout the history of the former dwarven lands, that joke had been beaten to death almost as badly as the soldiers who fought over control of said lands. The younger inhabitants see the word honey and instantly think of elven sex slavery, which in a perverse way had become Honey Valley’s national product. But the bloody roots of the dwarven island run much deeper than a shallow night of adult fun time. Conquest is the word of the day, and the many days after that if history seemed intent on repeating itself.

In the early days of its inception, five hundred years ago to be exact, Honey Valley didn’t even have a name. If it did, it wasn’t kept in any public records. It was simply referred to as the home island of the dwarven culture. The dwarves were labeled as savages by anybody with no knowledge of tribal culture. The dwarves made ends meet by farming and hunting for food, not generally bothering anybody. One of their favorite crops to farm was coffee beans, which they would combine with caramel to make the perfect caffeinated drink, enjoyed by mostly chiefs and other warriors higher on the pecking order.

During the course of this farming for coffee, a poisonous plant was accidentally mixed in with the ground beans and the drink was subsequently consumed by one tribal chief in particular. Instead of killing him outright, the poisonous plant turned him into a psychotic monster capable of ravaging large numbers of his own population. His skin turned bright red, his muscles bulged to the size of cannonballs, his fangs and fingernails grew into sword-like weapons, but it was his aggression that became synonymous with his genocidal tendencies.

As the poisoned chief slaughtered his own kind, more dwarves became infected with his brain-altering disease. This went on for several years until the entire dwarven population was cannibalizing each other. When they got too feral for each other, they swam across the sea to the mainland looking for victims to dine on. The dwarves were so powerful that they couldn’t be fought off by ordinary soldiers and civilians; they could only be negotiated with once the poison tapered off.

In exchange for the dwarves not invading their lands, several kingdoms offered to donate prisoners to the island whether they were deserving of a death sentence or not. This arrangement continued for several years until the prison population exceeded the rabid dwarves’ appetites. Among those imprisoned on the island was a green-skinned woman named Ryoka, who is believed to be the first “elf” in the history of the world.

The greenish hue, pointy ears, and funky-colored eyes were believed to be part of a rare auto-immune disease Ryoka had. As a result of her strange appearance, she was bullied by her peers to the point where she couldn’t find work and ultimately lived on the streets. Her official imprisonment came when she appeared to conjure magic and set one of her tormentors on fire. Ryoka went on a killing spree against those who wronged her until she was caught and sent to the dwarven island along with several other dangerous prisoners.

In addition to Ryoka, an elite human warrior known as Thomas Xavier joined the roster that would be known for driving the dwarven population underground, never to be seen again. The kingdoms got greedy with their prison exiles and sent too many fighters over to the island. Now that the humans and Ryoka were the supreme masters of what would later be called Honey Valley, they started forging their own alliances and building their own towns and kingdoms. The northern territory belonged to the Atwood lineage, Atwood being a literal name for living near the forest. The central territory was home to the Shadow Asylum mercenary guild, a longstanding organization headed by the ultra-rich Rinehart family.

Ryoka and Thomas Xavier found their own paradise in the southern portion of the island, a forested area with a lovely beach at the tip. Because of the threat of the infection keeping the northern, central, and southern territories isolated from each other, Ryoka and Thomas had enough alone time together to forge a romantic relationship and begin the Xavier bloodline. Several generations of isolation has led to a growth period of the elven race, to the point where their magic usage was becoming too much of a threat to the northern and middle territories.

The official start of human racism towards elves began when an elven boy accidentally set Morgan Town on fire with too little control over his own magical powers. An overabundance of magical energy swirling around wasn’t uncommon in those days and ultimately the Morgan Town government and Atwood monarchy teamed up together to keep the elves under control. Generations of brainwashing, beatings, and enslavement of elves were done to ensure no more accidents would happen and that magic would be completely erased from the elven culture. The xenophobia was bad enough, but when the disenfranchisement of elves became a business, that would be how the new generation of prisoners would negotiate with the mainland.

The newly minted Honey Valley was now in good standing with the mainland kingdoms with elven slave trade becoming lucrative. Slavery was even used to rebuild Morgan Town and refurnish the northern and middle territories with technology unheard of at the time. As traumatizing as the slave trade was for elves, they would get their well-deserved reprieve from their nightmares in the form of a “lion god” they dubbed Mageta.

To this day, the elves don’t know if Mageta was an actual lion who succumbed to the dwarves’ infection or if it was a powerful elf who wore the skin of a lion. Either way, this lion god would prove instrumental in keeping the elves safe for a long enough time that they could get back on their feet again. By the time Mageta was hunted and killed by slave trading warriors, the elves were powerful enough that they could forge their own empire with the recuperation time they were given.

The elves were so grateful for Mageta’s help that they built an entire religion around him, which is still practiced to this day. Because actual history was lost in the elven/human conflict, most of the mythology surrounding this religion was crafted by creative minds. Storytellers, artists, and poets came together to give the elven race their epic Magetan tale, which is why many elves are regarded as being creative types. But with this creative prowess, there was still a need for the elves to defend themselves against the humans that hated them so much. Many Magetan zealots became soldiers hardened by combat and rigorous training. While elves are seen as being overly sensitive, the trauma they hold deep is just waiting to be unleashed on a xenophobic human waiting to strike.

Just as the southern elves began a quest to find their missing brethren who were lost to the slave exchange, another force emerged in the form of a mobile castle run by the Stonewall Kingdom. The knights were sent to investigate the happenings of Honey Valley, but they were short on manpower due to some of their own soldiers and citizens being caught up in the slave trade despite not being elves. Without the support of their superiors, the Stonewall Kingdom had no choice but to throw money at Shadow Asylum since they had no loyalty to any crown.

The current Queen of the Xavier bloodline, Llewellyn, wants to secure a trade deal with the current Stonewall King, Lars, since his mobile castle brought so much technology with it that the elves could use for farming and rebuilding. While Lars and Llewellyn have the same goal in mind of eliminating the slave trade forever, they are two different rulers with a lack of real communication between them.

And now here we are in the year 500 PM (Post-Mageta). The table is set for all out war among the different kingdoms and territories. The Atwood monarchy seems intent on expanding its power and not giving up any sliver of it to the other territories. Shadow Asylum wants to maximize profit and grow fat together off of their earnings. The Xavier and Stonewall monarchies want to put an end to generations of torment and anguish, which all began with the bullying of a green-skinned woman with pointy ears. Who will survive?

Somewhere beneath the surface are the dwarves who have not been heard from since the takeover of the mainland prisoners. Will they rise again? Will they take back their island and erase the Honey Valley name forever? If the threat is not real, then the paranoia is.

Cutthroats Love Unemployment

With Hustle Culture constantly in everyone’s faces, it’s hard not to come to the false realization that capitalism loves you as much as you love it. Rise and grind! Work, work, work! Breaking every bone in your body means more money! Meanwhile, you have next to nothing in your bank account because the surgery needed to fix those bones…that’ll cost you a small fortune. But if you’re a mercenary for hire in my 2002 home brew RPG Cutthroat, broken bones and small fortunes are just another part of the job. In which case, capitalism loves you so much that it’ll give you a kiss on your owie when you get shot in the chest or stabbed in the leg.

The year 2002 was one where I gave less than a shit about politics. I knew I didn’t want to conform to society. I knew that people should be treated fairly. I also used to believe in the death penalty because I wanted it to apply to my high school bullies. As someone who didn’t give two fucks about politics, let alone someone who was old enough to vote, it showed in my world-building techniques when I put together the rules for Cutthroat. In the distant future, every continent on planet earth not named Antarctica waged war against each other. Why? Fuck if I know. Maybe war is just fun for these autocrats. Maybe there is some growing tension between North America and Africa because of…reasons? Maybe Europe and Asia want to start lobbing grenades at each other because…they’re bored?

If I had more storytelling skills back in 2002, coming up with a reason for intercontinental war would have been easy-breezy-lemon-squeezy. Maybe South America wants revenge on North America because of an assassination or terrorist attack. Maybe Africa wants revenge on Australia because the latter has resources that Africa wouldn’t otherwise have without taking them by force. Maybe Asia wants to bomb the shit out of Europe because superpower flexing is more important than perpetual peace. There are lots of reasons to go to war. Pick one, damn it!

Throwing together a bullshit reason for intercontinental war wouldn’t have been that hard. But even if the guns for hire weren’t believers in each continent’s political ambitions, money will always be a motivator for anybody who wants to eat and have a roof over their heads. Which is why when I ran this RPG in 2002, I was baffled by the reactions of my players when their characters were approached by job recruiters. One character (we’ll call him Clyde) ran away and tried to hide in a shadowy alleyway. Another character (we’ll call him Ninjo) slaughtered his recruiter in the bathroom. Cutthroats must really love unemployment! Either that or they’d rather work at Burger Monarch or Taco Hell and get emotionally scarred instead of physically. So how about we take a look at these two scenarios and try to determine why Clyde and Ninjo were so allergic to employment opportunities.

First, we have Clyde. He’s kicking it in England having a drink at the bar. He’s no doubt looking for his next paycheck so that he can have more alcoholic beverages to fuck up his liver. But when he’s approached by two trench-coat wearing men who call out his name, his first instinct…is to run away from them. Granted, the two men look incredibly suspicious in their trench coats. They could have been carrying weapons in their pockets. But if they were, they didn’t pull them out. Instead they were like, “Hey, come back! Wait up!”, begging and pleading for Clyde to slow down. But instead of slowing down and listening to reason, he runs into an alleyway looking for a nice hiding place in the shadows…on a hot sunny day when shadows won’t do shit to help you.

Surprise, surprise, the trench coat guys find him and explain that they were only approaching Clyde to give him a job. A nice, big fat contract that will guarantee him enough beer to keep him permanently pissing until the end of time. Clyde eventually saw the light, sunny day aside. I know now that trench coat guys who know your name will always look suspicious, but if you run away from your job recruiter and they have to blow out their lungs to hire you, you’d be lucky if you got the job in the first place. Imagine going into a job interview and then running out of the boss man’s office because you think he looks a little too weird for you.

Actually, now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense. Young people are starting to wake up to the fact that capitalism means more work for less money and maybe running away from the boss man is how they’ll gain any semblance of leverage. Not to sound passive-aggressive, but running away was definitely a genius move on Clyde’s part…mainly because accepting the job and sneaking onto a military base got him gunned down in a storm of bullets and lasers. He should have ran faster.

And then there’s case number two: Ninjo, an assassin for hire based in Japan. No doubt he needs work as well and he doesn’t want to serve cocktails in a pretty dress, so assassinating people is the avenue he wants to go down. There he was enjoying a nice meal in a restaurant when he suddenly had to move to the nearest urinal. Pissing in privacy would have been a heavenly request that he understandably should have been forked over. But then a Mexican in camouflage fatigues uses the urinal next to him and introduces himself as Jet Guile, Ninjo’s would-be employer.

To Ninjo’s credit, there are so many things wrong with this scenario that 16-year-old me didn’t pick up on before putting together this campaign. First of all, what is a Mexican mercenary randomly doing in a Japanese bathroom? Second of all, why is his name Jet Guile and not something…you know…a little closer to his nationality? Thirdly, and this is the most important question of all: why the fuck is he trying to give someone a job interview…in the bathroom?! What, is Jet observing Ninjo’s sniper skills by watching the piss hit the toilet? What if Ninjo had bad diarrhea from the sushi he was eating? What if Ninjo didn’t make it to the toilet on time? Would Jet refuse to hire him for failing to “deactivate a bomb” in his ass? 

In hindsight, this was weird on so many levels. It should come as no surprise that the minute Jet Guile said Ninjo’s name, Ninjo beat the holy fuck out of him and left him a bloody and useless corpse on the bathroom floor. Ninjo may love unemployment, but he loves peeing undisturbed even more. Well, he didn’t get either; three more Mexican mercenaries hired him anyways in spite of what happened to Jet! That’s right: Ninjo got a job despite killing one of his employers. Turned out to be one of his tests, not because I had it planned all along, but because I pulled it out of my ass and made an even bigger mess than Ninjo’s piss puddle and Jet’s bloodbath put together. Imagine if Homer did this to Mr. Burns on an episode of The Simpsons. Work would be less stressful, for sure, but that’s only because scooping prison food is easier than handling nuclear rods.

So…why is it that Clyde and Ninjo were so reluctant to allow their employers to hire them for soldier work? Chasing someone into an alleyway and interviewing someone while they’re draining the lizard are reasonable enough answers to me. Or maybe there is something to be said about not feeding the capitalist machine…in a society where war is the main product. Or…maybe Clyde and Ninjo were supposed to keep their identities a secret and the minute their employers shouted their names, they bailed. And then it hit me like a sack of bricks: war isn’t always fought with soldiers gathering together on a battlefield and shooting at each other. It isn’t always about bombing the fuck out of cities and capitols either. Sometimes a little stealth is paramount to getting a job done. Maybe your enemy will be more easily defeated if they don’t know you’re coming. Keep the name a secret. Keep the employment a secret. Keep everything a secret. The less they know, the less they’ll see coming.

Undercover work should have been my first guess all the way back in 2002. Of course they’re running, because their cover was potentially blown. Of course they’re beating up employers because they could be assassins themselves. Trust and friendship are two of the rarest things you’ll find in war, because the object is to kill or be killed. Sure, you can trust your fellow soldiers, but a complete stranger? That’ll take a little more vetting. I guess the lesson to be learned here is to not lay all of your cards on the table so soon. They call it a poker face for a reason. They also refrain from wearing mirror shades to a poker game. Right, Kim?

Refusing to lay your cards on the table is not only necessary for succeeding in war, but in other aspects of life too. Suppose you do get a job interview that’s not in a bathroom or a dingy alleyway. Sure, you want to be open and honest, but do you really want to let your boss man know everything about you, be it mental illnesses, bad experiences in school, bad experiences with other employers, or divorces you’ve had? Same thing goes for any other activity, whether it’s dating, friendship, or playing a good old fashioned RPG. You want to give them just enough to get a good idea of you, but if you spill too many secrets, then you’ll never get passed the front door.

But that also depends on what secrets you choose to keep and how doing so will negatively affect the relationship. If you’re trying to keep abuse a secret from your peers, it’ll get out one way or another, especially in an argumentative setting. In which case, don’t get into the relationship at all and seek help before you spiral into an early grave. If you have murder-hobo tendencies and you’re playing an RPG where your character kills everyone around them, that’ll derail the game in a big fucking hurry. If you’re an alt-right nutjob and your paladin uses “stand your ground” laws as an excuse to kill innocent orcs to become an oathbreaker, then get some goddamn help!

Your GM doesn’t have to know everything, but they should know enough to decide whether or not they want to play with you. If you put yourself in a situation where it’s you or the GM, then the GM will pull a Clyde and Ninjo and run the fuck away from you. Or they’ll kill you in the bathroom while you’re interrupting their pissing session, one of the two. This is not an instruction manual for narcissists, because fuck them. But if you’re genuinely looking for new opportunities in life and you’re going to make the most of them, then getting your foot in the door is as easy as getting both feet out of bar on the way to a garbage-covered alleyway.

Blood Rain

One shot would be all it took. A flying diamond-tipped arrow to Shatter Man’s life core would earn Ino Kara the respect she deserved from her mercenary cohorts. No more jokes about her equine features. No more jokes about being ridden like a cowboy. They could forget about trying to feed her hay. They could spare her the horse dick references and anything else that had to do with bestiality. “You fuckers will put respect on my name,” she said in a low voice to nobody in particular.

Shatter Man was ripe for the snipe. Surrounded by a cluster fuck of dead bodies lying on the dirt and bone-covered ground, the necromantic machine sat cross-legged while his exhaust pipe belched red filth into the gray skies above. Ino could smell the ashen cloud it all the way from her sniper’s nest in the treetops. She had to be careful not to hack up a lung if she wanted to stay hidden.

With a bandana tied around her muzzle and stillness taking over her body, Ino pulled one of her diamond-tipped arrows out of her quiver and took aim with her golden edge bow. A shot to the head would have been her preference for any sniping mission, but Shatter Man’s mechanical dome wouldn’t allow it. She had to pierce through his chest at the exact spot and splatter his life core all over the ground. A filthy death indeed, but no more filthy than speeding up climate change with this necromantic smoke. Ino had to find her exact shot and make it quick.

She breathed deeply not only to calm her nerves, but steady her aim. Just when she was ready to release her arrow, a crow flew from out of nowhere and began pecking at Ino’s mask. “Shoo! Go away! Beat it!” she angrily whispered while swatting the bird away. She didn’t want to whack the poor guy too hard due to her respect for animals, but this wasn’t he best time to horse around. There was another mercenary joke that needed to be eradicated forever: horsing around.

Ino steadied her breathing once more and made a second attempt at aiming for the life core. “Easy…easy does it…you’ve got this…now take a shot!” she whispered to herself. The damn crow served as a distraction yet again, but this time perched its claws right over Shatter Man’s life core. The robot didn’t move an inch, just kept spewing garbage into the cloudy skies. “You asked for it, you stupid bird.” Respect would only go so far as Ino Kara finally took her shot.

Shatter Man looked so still and unaware this entire time, not unlike the zombies he was trying to wake up with his putrid smoke. Ino gasped when the mechanical nightmare grabbed the arrow just before it could pierce his life core. He crushed the arrow into dust, including the diamond tip, before ejecting bird seed from his hand as a reward for the crow.

“That little bastard,” whispered Ino, clutching her edge bow so tightly that a little crack formed.

Shatter Man spun his head towards Ino’s sniping nest. His visor flashed an eerie shade of red, making Ino’s heart race no matter how much she tried to suppress her fear. He pointed a drill bit finger at her and puffed even more pollutants into the sky. “My sacred ritual is not your payday!” he said in a monotone, demonic voice. “Arise, my children of the dead!”

A sprinkle of water landed on Ino’s furry head. And another. And another. When she wiped them away, her teeth and legs vibrated at the crimson color. The tiny droplets became heavier and denser until a full-on bloody rainstorm drenched Ino from head to hooves. Her purple battle dress and blue thigh high boots clung to her body like a frightened child wanting his mother’s undying love.

Ino’s own blood grew ice cold and a knot welled up in her stomach when the bloody rain caused the army of dead bodies to twitch. Limbs and heads awkwardly twisted around. Rotting flesh peeled and rolled. Bulging eyeballs retracted back into their owners’ skulls. Slowly and creepily, the shit-smelling dead bodies rose to their wobbly feet until Shatter Man and his crow informant had their own necromantic army.

The horse woman swallowed a golf ball sized lump while clutching her chest, hoping she wouldn’t die of a heart attack before this battle had a chance to begin. “Fuck it,” she said, tossing all caution to the wind. Even as crimson rain pelted her clothing and soaked her fur, Ino tossed aside her growing fear and ran into the fray.

“I want some goddamn respect!” she shouted, knowing assassinating Shatter Man was the only way she’d get it from her fellow mercenaries. As hordes of zombies trudged towards her with their rotten arms extended and their bloody mouths wide open, she fired multiple arrows at once and each one hit their marks. Chests exploded. Throats splattered on the ground. Guts spilled all over the dirt like a gory mudslide. When Ino ran out of arrows, she continued her assault by swinging her edge bow and smashing the skulls of anybody who dared take a bite out of her horse meat.

Shatter Man’s arms folded while the crow sat perched on his shoulder laughing his ass off at the equine warrior. “You little bastard!” shouted Ino as she trampled fallen zombies on her way to snatch the bird, wanting so desperately to rip his feathers out and snap his beak. The zombies wouldn’t stay down for long. As the blood rain continued to pour, they stood back up even with their detached heads and exploded bones. They grabbed at Ino’s shoulders with broken fingers, but she beat them down with her edge bow until they were little more than rivers of blood and organs.

Despite the aching in her own ribcage and limbs, Ino wouldn’t allow her waning energy to get in the way of her quest for respect, coin, and ultimately her life. She smashed more skulls, stomped on fallen bodies, ripped out spinal cords, but the zombies kept getting back up for more. Even the crow got in on the action when he pecked behind Ino’s ears. She swung at the bird, but he kept dodging and laughing the whole time, turning Ino’s ice cold blood into boiling magma. Even as more zombies grabbed her, she ripped her flesh away from their sharp grips and chased after the bird.

When Ino finally latched onto the crow’s tail feathers and seethed with bloodlust as she imagined ripping the little guy apart, a heavy metal punch to the gut doubled her over and caused her to dry heave on the ground. The zombies were called off as Ino touched her damp wound. She knew it was her own blood and not that of the crimson weather. She could feel her naked ribcage because there was no skin to protect it. That punch came from Shatter Man himself, who stood over her with his red visor glowing and blinding her with every flash.

“Go ahead…finish me off…what are you waiting for?!” begged Ino, spitting out blood in between words.

“You exhausted your body, battled my minions, and put your life at risk for a little bit of respect?” said Shatter Man. Ino tucked her head in shame as she laid in the fetal position waiting to die. “Everybody who tried to claim my life has the same story: a minority mercenary looking for acceptance from their peers. Killing me will suddenly net them the happiness they believe they’re entitled to. Truth is, young lady…you could cure cancer and end worldwide hunger all in the same day. You’re still going to be laughed at. You’re still going to be hated by society. Why? Because ignorance and fear are easier to accept than progressive values.”

Tears welled up in Ino’s eyes as this truth bomb hit her harder than Shatter Man’s punch to her guts. “I don’t want to be a horse anymore,” she sobbed. “If being a normal human will get them to leave me alone, then I’ll take it. I never got racial pride anyways.”

“It doesn’t get more ordinary and boring than laying six feet deep in the ground, no matter what race you identify as. But it doesn’t have to be that way. You don’t have to please others to get the respect you deserve. You don’t have to conform to tradition. If you want respect, you’ve got to beat it out of those who deny it to you. You think I chose to be a robot? You think I was born with the name Shatter Man? I didn’t win any popularity contests with my background. Why do you think I have a price on my head? It would have only been a matter of time until you had a price on yours.”

Ino spit up more blood and wiped away her tears with her dress sleeve. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? I’m already on my way to hell. At least in hell, they’re honest about what kind of torture they’re going to give me. Here on earth, they just disguise it as making whatever country they live in ‘great again’.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” said Shatter Man, waving his arm in the sky to show off his bloody rain. “You can have a second chance at life just like my minions. As zombies, they don’t have the highest social ranking. But they take full advantage of their second chance. They hunger for revenge against a society that never wanted them when they were alive. They were and still are weirder than any horse woman they’ve ever seen. Let the blood rain flow into you. Join my army. Don’t wait for respect. Take it from them with both hands.”

The bloody rain poured through Ino Kara’s wounds as she laid on her back waiting for sweet necromancy to overtake her. A warming sensation spread throughout and she didn’t feel like shivering anymore, whether it was because of fear or cold weather. Her eyes rolled back in her head like she was in an orgasmic trance. Her tired body blazed with energy and happiness she hadn’t felt in a long time. Her pain numbed out and was replaced with a massaging sensation throughout her chest, legs, and head.

Slowly and shakily, she rose from the ground. Her stomach pounded with hunger, but not for food and certainly not for hay. She hungered for flesh. She thirsted for blood. Her tormentors would turn into victims. Her cannibalistic meals would taste juicier than a steak dinner. She licked her blood-covered lips and groaned with lust.

Shatter Man placed a hand on her shoulder. “Welcome to my army. You can stay for as long as you desire. They say the taste of vengeance is bittersweet, but you’ll find it to your liking. You will be loved and respected…or else!”

Ino Kara had no words for her seductive master, only groans. Then again, she wouldn’t have to debate the harmful effects of racism with the world ever again. Either her victims took yes for an answer…or they would get chewed up and spit out with no remorse. Ino smiled at that idea. Her newly rotten teeth would make her face look even more horrifying to the racists she would eventually devour. She was strangely okay with that. Fuck beauty. Fuck love. Fuck everybody in this butt ugly world!

Chain Whip (Beautiful Monster Theme Song)

VERSE 1

The seasons change and so does my mood

What good does it do to sit around and brood?

I’ve got a chain whip curled up on my hip

I’ve got enemies who need an afterlife trip

They took my soul and my intelligence

In my mind they took up permanent residence

Took my creativity and everything with it

How many chain lashes must be given?

CHORUS

One! Two! Black and blue!

Three! Four! Let’s go to war!

Five! Six! Suck it, bitch!

Here comes the chain whip!

VERSE 2

Maybe whiplashes aren’t the answer

Strangulation doesn’t seem much faster

Chokehold suplex tickles my fancy

The anticipation makes me feel antsy

I’ve got a psychotic grin on my face

As your blood splatters all over the place

Your skin shredded, your bones broken

Your thick skull has been split wide open

CHORUS

One! Two! Black and blue!

Three! Four! Let’s go to war!

Five! Six! Suck it, bitch!

Here comes the chain whip!

VERSE 3

If war is the answer, what’s the question?

What other solutions are even worth mention?

Should I shake your hand and call it a truce?

Should I suck your dick as even further proof?

Should I give you a hug? Accept your apology?

Or is this another instance of reverse psychology?

An iron head butt for your pretty little head

A hundred lashes even after you’re dead

EXTENDED CHORUS

One! Two! Black and blue!

Three! Four! Let’s go to war!

Five! Six! Suck it, bitch!

Here comes the chain whip!

Seven! Eight! Bring on the hate!

Nine! Ten! Your reign will end!

Eleven! Twelve! See you in hell!

Thirteen! Fourteen! Scarlet dreams!

Keep on counting the lashes!

Dust to dust! Ashes to ashes!

WINDHAM’S DIALOGUE

It’s not that I don’t believe in love. It’s that love doesn’t believe in me. FUCK LOVE!

Donate Your Blood Money

***DONATE YOUR BLOOD MONEY***

Have you ever done something for money you’re not necessarily proud of? Does it feel wrong to have that resulting wad of cash because of it? Maybe your paycheck comes from a far-right conspiracy theorist, overseas dictator, drug lord, or otherwise objectionable human being. Of course, if you need that paycheck to survive, then there’re no two ways about it. But…if you’re able to afford it and you’re not comfortable with your blood money…donate it to a worthy cause. If money is the root of all evil, then turn it over to the root of all that’s good in the world and watch the balance of power shift.

Suppose you’re a WWE wrestler and you’re being assigned to perform for the Saudi Arabian government. You can’t stand the oppressive way they treat women and LGBT people. You can’t stand the fact that there’s no freedom of speech. There’s no freedom of anything in that country, but you must perform there at the risk of being fired by the WWE. It’s money from the Saudi Arabian government, so it’s going to be a big fat payday…for a charity of your choice! It could go to RAINN (Rape and Incest National Network). It could go to HIV/AIDS research. It could be used to prevent LGBT suicide. Hey, it’s your hard-earned money. If you want to donate it to a cause that’ll make the Saudi government’s heads explode, that’s your call. WWE can’t tell you not to do that.

Suppose you’re a waitress at a restaurant Rush Limbaugh likes to frequent. You love the fact that he’s a high tipper, but can’t stand the shit he says on live radio whether it’s against women, people of color, the LGBT community, or god knows what else. What do you do with that big ass tip if you don’t feel comfortable with it in your bank account? What any normal person would, of course: donate it to a women’s shelter or a women’s health clinic! This was actually a true story that the Young Turks reported. I can’t imagine Rush was very happy with it and quite frankly I don’t give a shit.

I don’t want you all to think I’m just standing on my soapbox and spouting off my beliefs through a bullhorn, as much as I love to do that. Donating blood money can actually be something a protagonist does in a piece of creative writing. Suppose your main character is a space mercenary who gets a fat briefcase full of money from a disgusting Jabba the Hutt-esque crime lord. Said space mercenary could donate it to impoverished children in the galaxy. Suppose your main character is a streetwalker who takes a hefty paycheck from a client she fucking hates. She can donate it to a women’s shelter.

Part of that ongoing story arc is what the boss man does after the protagonist donates his money to a rival cause. Does he send goons after the protagonist? Does he sue the protagonist? Does he go after the charity with explosive devices? Boss men hate that sort of thing, so it’s going to make your story a hell of a lot spicier than before. Just think of how wicked it would be if Boba Fett donated his bounty hunting money to helping women escape from Jabba the Hutt. It’ll never happen, but just think of the world of possibilities!

To be honest, I didn’t really think this blog entry all the way through. It happens sometimes. I’ll have this big idea that only expands to…one full page of text. That’s okay. I said everything I needed to say. Remember: only donate your blood money if you’re in a stable enough position to do so. In this fucked up economy, pinching your pennies is paramount to survival. I get that. But if you’re ever feeling uncomfortable with such unclean money, the ASPCA is more than willing to use it to protect precious fur babies. I can only imagine that’s what happened to Michael Vick’s assets once they were seized and rightfully so. Dog murdering bastard! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER AND EMILIO & MARIGOLD***

Yard sales, house chores, concerts, illness, and general sleepiness have slowed down the process of putting together manuscripts for Beautiful Monster and Emilio & Marigold. But as Valarie Savage Kinney once said in a You Tube video, slow progress is better than no progress at all. E&M’s manuscript is complete and the first three chapters of Beautiful Monster are put together, which leaves twenty-five more to comb through for glaring flaws. Once the manuscripts are complete and I’m sure there are zero typos, I plan on sending them back to Hollow Hills for another few rounds of editing. My other beta readers have been wonderful, but Hollow Hills is the least expensive out of all of them. Plus, with two manuscripts instead of just one, being frugal is important. Sleepiness can kick my ass all it wants, but I’ll keep getting back up even if it fucking kills me!

***BEACH BALL Z***

I’m sure you all have noticed that in between edit jobs for E&M and BM, I’m writing more short stories for the Poison Tongue Tales and American Darkness trilogies. The next short story on deck will be a Dragon Ball Z parody called “Beach Ball Z”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Zoku, Martial Artist
2. Jeeta, Martial Artist
3. Nameless Audience Members

SYNOPSIS: In the finals of the Dragon Fist Tournament, Zoku and Jeeta square off at the world famous Preparation H Pavilion. Despite the warriors’ efforts to put on an intense, violent fight for the crowd, the audience is preoccupied with bouncing a beach ball around and getting a Twitter trend going on called #BeachBallZ. While Zoku has a lax attitude towards the distracted fans, Jeeta feels overwhelmingly disrespected and pops the beach ball mid-match, much to the crowd’s booing dismay.

FUN FACT: This story was inspired by true events that took place during a WWE Tag Team Championship match at Summer Slam between The Hardy Boys and Cesaro & Sheamus. Some idiots in the crowd were playing with a beach ball during what was an intense and brutal match, so Cesaro ran out in the crowd and popped the motherfucker. Good on him!

***WRESTLING PROMO OF THE DAY***

(RE: Jake “The Snake” Roberts)

“The first thing I want to be done around here is to get that piece of crap out of my ring! Don’t just get him out of my ring; get him out of the WWF! ‘Cause I’ve proved, son, without a shadow of a doubt that you ain’t got what it takes anymore! You sit there, you thump your bible, and you say your prayers and it didn’t get you anywhere! Talk about your psalms, talk about John 3:16! Austin 3:16 says I just whipped your ass! All you got to do is go buy a cheap bottle of Thunderbird to get back some of that courage you had in your prime!”

-Stone Cold Steve Austin after winning the 1996 King of the Ring tournament-

Deadpool

MOVIE TITLE: Deadpool

DIRECTOR: Tim Miller

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Superhero

RATING: R for violence, sex, and language

GRADE: Extra Credit

Wade Wilson is wise-cracking antihero mercenary who discovers he has lung cancer. His only surefire treatment option is to be turned into an indestructible superhero by sadistic slave trader Francis Freeman. The process to become superhuman involves around-the-clock torture to wake up his mutated genes. Wade is cancer-free, but also has a hideous face that he believes will make his fiancé want to break up with him. Now the newly christened Deadpool must track down Francis and force him to fix his disfigurement. Deadpool not only has superhuman strength, speed, and healing abilities, but an ass-load of guns and knives at his disposal. That and the help of X-Men Colossus and Negasonic Teenage Warhead.

Deadpool’s one-liners and funny moments are easily the movie’s best features. Whether he’s glad Francis is wearing brown pants or he’s sarcastically offering to help Francis’s balding henchman lure children into his windowless van, there’s always a reason to laugh your ass off throughout the movie. It’s impossible to list every zinger this movie has to offer, because my review would be longer than the first Game of Thrones book. Yes, this movie has its downer moments, the cancer diagnosis and torture scenes being among them. But even in the darkest, most depressing parts of the movie, there’s another profanity-laced tirade around the corner. Whoever wrote the dialogue for this movie deserves a medal. And an Oscar. And the keys to the city. And a key to the playboy mansion. And…whatever the hell he wants!

And because it’s a marvel superhero movie, it has to have a hefty amount of violence. But due to its R rating, there’s a lot more freedom to splatter some blood everywhere. For example, Deadpool can spell out Francis’s name using the dead carcasses of his soldiers. He can cut off one guy’s head with a sword and soccer kick it into another guy’s head. He can use one bullet to splatter three different guys’ heads at the same time. He can pull out all of the martial arts tricks he wants, including some that would make Jackie Chan crap his pants. Word to the wise: if you want to keep your bones and your blood where they belong, don’t screw around with Deadpool. Don’t kidnap his girlfriend, don’t torture him, don’t make his face look like a giant scrotum, and don’t outclass him in his witty dialogue. Actually, it’s damn near impossible to do the last item on that list, but you get the point. Right?

The fact that Deadpool is a huge departure from regular Marvel movies is enough to earn an extra credit grade. Sure, any movie can be R-rated, but only Deadpool can make you laugh, cry, and giddy with deliciously violent excitement at the same time. And while you’re watching, enjoy the strategically placed soundtracks of DMX and Wham on the same album. You might as well make a greatest hits CD with Skillet and Marilyn Manson on the same CD too. Or Rage Against the Machine and Ted Nugent. Or…okay, that’s enough for now. The point is, Deadpool has earned every one of its five stars and there’s nothing anybody can do to take that happiness away from me. If you want to cry over the filthy language and sexual dialogue, Wade Wilson will be happy to drink your tears with a shot of rum. Congratulations, Deadpool, for being an overly awesome movie that exceeded expectations!

Madhouse

“I got you now, you little fruitcake!” said Joe Fields with an arrogant smirk and a cigar pressed between his teeth. He could smell the “vermin” from miles away, even with puffs of tobacco smoke sailing across his face. Both of his index fingers were itchy and twitchy as they rested on the triggers of his dual machineguns. His bulky metal armor was easier to move around in than he thought. The metal boots made loud clomping sounds as Joe walked through the bamboo forest, but even this mercenary was confident that his target had nowhere to hide. Hell, if Joe wanted to, he could blow this whole forest down like the Big Bad Wolf, except with his machineguns instead of cigar breath.

The target’s tiny footprints led the grinning mercenary to a Japanese-style temple with a wooden balcony, white paper walls, a bamboo roof, and flowery decorations all around. “You’re making this too easy for me, you little twit!” said Joe as he cocked both of his machineguns. The psychotic smile on his face suggested that he didn’t care if his target lived a torturous existence or died a brutal death. “You’re mine, you little bitch! Your ass is mine!” he said in his gruff voice.

With his metal feet creating tiny tremors, the soldier of fortune marched toward the seemingly abandoned temple before kicking down the wooden door with shattering ease. Joe poked his head inside and sniffed around for his target like a hungry wolf. With the exception of a few potted plants, paintings, and samurai swords, the place was empty. But instead of waiting for a pin to drop, Joe clomped and crashed his way inside, not giving two shits if the wooden floor was cracking and splintering.

“I can smell that stank on you, you little weasel! Drop the bowl of rice and come out here with your hands up!” A few more animalistic snorts and Joe let out such a forceful sneeze that he yelled like a grizzly bear and dropped his cigar. As snot flew from his nose and extinguished the cherry, Joe began to notice the light coating of dust all around the walls and the floor. “Really? Dust? Is that all you got? Holy shit, you’re in for a wild ride, motherfucker! You only have nine holes in your body right now. I’ll put about a hundred more in you, you slick son of a bitch!”

A monstrous growl caught Joe’s attention to where he reluctantly turned around with his guns drawn. Standing in the kicked in doorway was a seven-foot lizard demon with its blade-like tongue hanging down to its knees. Its claws were extended and its screech was deafening. The beast looked poised to strike, but quick as it may be, Joe’s trigger fingers were that much faster. A hailstorm of bullets descended upon the “big ugly fucker” and shredded skin and bones to a fine powder. The blood stayed floating in the air in the shape of a sphere.

“What the fuck is this shit? Is this some kind of voodoo bitch negro spell or what?” shouted Joe. Skull shaped blood spheres began emitting from the liquid mass and staring down the mercenary with misty black eyes. Their tongues flailed around like whips while their jaws were wide open and leaking with green fluids.

Joe once again showered his opponents with bullets, but all the shots did was splatter a modicum of blood stains all over the paper walls. The floating blood skulls still remained and even let out an eardrum-shattering yell. Joe squinted his eyes in confusion and terror as a brown bubbling substance was rising from the back of their mouths.

The formerly arrogant mercenary turned around and ran screaming like a child, mustering up every curse word on the top of his whacked out head. The more he ran, the steeper the incline in the wooden floor, which was like walking up a wall. Joe huffed and wheezed in exhaustion after draining his legs in such heavy armor. The armor felt hot and muggy to where he struggled to take it off. After a while of struggling, he dropped his guns and used the power in his metal gloves to just rip the armor off a few chunks at a time.

The incline in the floor lessened to a normal base and Joe was feeling the sweaty chill in his confederate flag T-shirt and baggy camouflage pants. He got so cold that he wrapped his arms around himself and huddled on the floor. And then he felt a tidal wave of vomit wash over him as well as dissolved blood and banshee cries. The bloody skulls left him so drenched afterwards that he struggled to breathe underneath the weight of such liquid. After coughing up retched fluids and vomiting himself, Joe looked around the temple with glassy red eyes and said, “Where the hell am I? What the fuck is this place?!”

“This is what you wanted all along, right?” said a mysterious voice. Joe looked around for the source, but the temple was still the same vomit and blood covered mess it was before, minus humans. “I’m the voice inside of you, Joe. I’m the one who’s going to tell you to get the hell out of this temple before it’s too late. You don’t need to catch anybody. This isn’t your job.”

Joe tightly gripped both sides of his head as the inner voice felt like he was being attacked with an ice pick. The mercenary even banged his head against the soaked floor and shouted, “Stop it! Leave me alone! You’re not real!” The inner voice chanted a Japanese-sounding magic spell and that only made Joe slam his head harder, which opened up a huge gash on his forehead.

Instead of blood pouring from the wound, a hooded cobra slithered out and danced around on the floor. Joe fearfully crab-walked backwards as the cobra hissed and spit venom in his mouth. The mercenary coughed, hacked, and puked until a mouthful of tarantulas poured out and joined the cobra in its dance.

Joe’s bloodshot eyes widened in horror as the cobra and the spiders swirled together in a purple tornado, taking the form of a ghostly samurai in blue robes. The spiritual warrior pulled out his katana and pointed it sternly at the blubbering gun-for-hire.

“Please, don’t kill me!” begged Joe with his hands together prayer-style. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here. I just came here for a job and I ended up in....whatever the hell this place is!”

“In other words, you’re not sorry that you were chasing an innocent human being. You’re sorry because you got caught doing it,” said the “inner voice”, which now belonged to the samurai. “You knew all along that your target did nothing wrong. He was defending himself from local police after they tried to unlawfully arrest him. And now here you are trying to find someone who is no longer here. All for what? An ill-gotten paycheck? You disgust me!”

“Disgust?” whimpered Joe. “You thought that was disgusting? What about what this place is doing to me? What about all the lizards and blood and skulls and shit? You mean there’s nothing disgusting about any of that? You’re a bigger scumbag than me and that’s saying something! You’d better let me the fuck out of here or I’m going to pick my guns back up and blow this whole place down!”

“You want to leave?” asked the samurai. “You really want to give up on your mission because you can’t handle your opponent? Is this what you want?”

“Yes! Yes, you idiot! I just want to get the fuck out of here! I’ve had it with this shit!” sobbed Joe.

The samurai stared him down with sternness and poison in his eyes, but ultimately decided to put his sword away. “There’s nothing to stop you, Mr. Fields. You can walk out of here anytime you want. The exit has been there all along.” The samurai pointed to the smashed in front door, which now had a brightly lit portal in its way. “Go. Leave here immediately and never come back again.”

Joe’s teary eyes felt relaxed and hypnotized as he slowly made his way to the portal. “Leave…here…immediately…never…come back…again…” he said in a zombie-like voice. He reached his arm out to touch the light and the magnetic force pulled him through. He swam and swirled through the heavenly aura, finally able to rest after all of the nightmare fuel he took in that day.

When he crossed through to the other side, Joe found his arms trapped in a straightjacket and that he was in a white padded cell with only a small hole in the door to look out of. He struggled and fought in his bonds, but the jacket was too tight and he was too exhausted from the sedatives he received.

A doctor and a nurse could be heard having a conversation outside the cell. “Read me the summary on this one,” said the doctor.

The nurse flipped through the papers on a clipboard and read off, “Joseph Robert Fields, age thirty-five. Was admitted to psychiatric care after inhaling a large amount of PCP dust. He has shown signs of aggression and had to be given fifteen milliliters of sedatives. Previous criminal history includes aggravated mayhem, property damage, assault and battery, and aggravated kidnapping.”

Did Joe hear them right? PCP dust? Was the whole temple scattered with it? Knowing that he had been had caused the newest patient to thrash around in his cell and scream infinite curse words, to which the doctor and nurse backed away from the door and allowed him to work out his pent up violence. It may have been a while before he did, but anything was better than dealing with this sick son of a bitch in any capacity.

Burning Dragon

“Halt! Who goes there?!” shouted the poleax-wielding guard at the entrance of the Doom Hammer Temple. His brown leather armor, painted up face, and military stance gave off a “don’t fuck with me” aura that had many men shaken to their core. The guard’s blade was only inches away from the intruder’s throat and ready to slash it open at a moment’s notice.

The metal armor-wearing, blue scaled man-dragon Brock Soulburn gave a sadistic grin with his razor-sharp mouth and bladed tongue. “You’re shitting me, right? You fuckers have something I want, something that will give me a big ass payday and all the roasted chicken and red wine I can handle. Mmm-mmm-mmm! I want that Night Terror mask. I want it now!” With one vicious chomp, Brock took a bite out of the poleax’s blade and chewed it like a tender steak before swallowing it with a deep gulp.

The guard’s wide-eyed stare and shaky body took away his aura of intimidation in a big fucking hurry. “Holy shit!” he whispered fearfully before Brock breathed fire on him and had him dancing around in pain. The guard rolled down the stony temple stairs and bashed his body against every corner of almost every step. He was left a broken and fiery heap on the ground with nothing left to do but die like a bitch.

Brock gave a hearty belly laugh as he moseyed inside the stone-built Doom Hammer Temple. A small army of guards swarmed in on him with poleaxes ready to slash him to pieces. They threw their wildest and most savage strikes only to have their weapons gnawed on with Brock’s bear trap mouth.

With a mouthful of blades and wooden splinters, the man-dragon spit them out and rained down violence and fire upon the squadron of guards. The warriors dropped to the ground with shattered bones, spraying blood, and burning bodies. Those who weren’t caught in the crossfire continued to swarm in on Brock only to have their faces punched in with an anvil of a fist and their ribs shattered with a battering ram of a kick.

The entire guardianship of the temple resembled an ocean of fire, blood, and powdery bone meal. Brock was kind enough to breathe a harsh breeze upon the flames and douse them out completely. They were tall enough to obstruct his view of what lied ahead of him. At the bone-built altar was the placeholder for Night Terror, an evilly-smiling mask with dagger horns, bladed fangs, and bright neon red eyes.

Brock’s clear path to victory was weakly halted by an elderly shaman in a red robe and pig mask on his knees praying and crying at the same time. Even with the beastly mercenary approaching him, he never stopped praying and chanting. Whatever god he was pleading to couldn’t save him from getting a smack across the back of the head, which opened his skull and splashed his brains around the already messy floor.

“Damn, that was too easy!” boasted Brock Soulburn. His own delightful laughter rivaled the creepiness of the mask he came to collect. He even strutted towards the bone altar without even a modicum of effort to claim his prize. “Alright, you scary son of a bitch, your ass is coming home with me, baby!”

Night Terror convulsed with laughter as the mask came to life and planted a cartoonish kiss on Brock’s mouth. As the sickened dragon was wiping the flavor off of his mouth with his beefy arm, the mask gave off a series of high-pitched “Hoo-hoo!” chants as it floated around freely and crazily.

“You sick bastard! Get your ass back here!” shouted Brock before breathing fire in Night Terror’s direction. The swift mask flew out of the way as a stream of flames followed him around the ceiling of the temple. Night Terror’s path lead him back to Brock, where this time he licked the man-dragon’s pointy ears with a sloppy dog tongue. The “Hoo-hoo!” chants and spinning around continued.

After Brock wiped the slime out of his ear with his meaty finger, he clenched his teeth, growled throatily, and tightened his muscles in anger. With one monstrous claw, he ripped a chunk of stone out of the ground and chucked it like a baseball at Night Terror. Unsurprisingly, the mask dodged with deftness. Brock continued to rip chunks out of the stone floor and fling them at his target, but all he hit were pieces of the temple wall and a few sacred artifacts.

Night Terror mocked his attacker some more by sticking his dog tongue out and wagging it like a cartoon character. With his blood boiling, his teeth tight, and his veins ready to burst like blood bombs, Brock ripped up one more chunk of the floor and threw it with an even faster velocity. This time the projectile found its mark. The stone slab nicked the mask in the forehead and caused it to whirl around like a leaf before it landed on the ground, presumably down for the count.

“And stay down, you sick piece of shit!” shouted Brock before he stomped his way over to the mask to claim what was rightfully his. He picked up the fallen mask by both sides of its face and shook it violently while screaming, “You hear me! Stay dead, you stupid bastard! Stay! Dead!”

Night Terror came back to life and shoved his wet tongue up Brock’s nose, causing the dragon to spin around and hack up a huge wad of spit. The mask floated high in the air once again and laughed at his opponent while the man-dragon pounded the floor with both fists and shouted, “That’s it! I quit! I’ve had it with this crap!”

Before he had the chance to storm out of the temple, Night Terror made a silly sad face and said, “Quit? You can’t quit now, my friend. You’ve come this far and made so much progress. How can you quit when things are going so well for you? Did you already forget how delicious and wonderful that roasted chicken and red wine will taste? Surely, you can’t get it for free.”

“Oh, shut up, you disgusting prick!” shouted Brock with his arms folded like an annoyed child. “Everybody knows that nothing in this world is for free! That’s why I became a mercenary! It’s called work! You may want to try it sometime instead of irritating the piss out of everyone who comes here!”

“You want money?!” screamed Night Terror, which snapped Brock out of his angry trance. “There are easier ways to make money than by blindly doing what you’re told and going on suicide missions like this one. For example…”

Nightfall had cast its winter shadow over the Steel Wolf Barbaric Tribe. Everyone should have been tucked away in their straw huts for the evening, but the orcish warriors were standing around with their weapons drawn and anxious poses about them. Some of them tapped their feet, some of them banged their spears on the ground, but the seven-foot tall chief sat in his throne of bone with a chest full of gold at his side, his beefy fist underneath his chin, and a vicious look on his face. Their mask should have been retrieved by now in what should have been a simple mission for a simple-minded mercenary.

The orc barbarians got into military stances as the silhouette of a muscle-bound dragon warrior appeared at the wooden gate of their village. The chieftain stood up from his throne, grabbed his chest full of money with one hand, and hauled the heavy equipment toward the shadowy figure, thinking the job was done.

“Brock Soulburn!” shouted the chieftain in his authoritative voice. “We have the money we negotiated for earlier. This chest contains our finest and most ancient gold that we have harvested from our sacred grounds. You can live comfortably for the rest of your life with this kind of gold. All we ask for in return is the Night Terror mask, a treasure more valuable to us than any form of mainland money. Do you have the mask with you?”

The shadowy figure of Brock Soulburn slowly walked into the torch light of the orc village. The other warriors came closer with their spears drawn in case he tried something funny. Their intimidating figures turned to shaky cowardice when they saw Night Terror grafted on the face of the dragon warrior, who said in a newly demonic voice, “Get your own damn mask!”

The possessed dragon warrior breathed fire upon the entire cast of villagers, including the chieftain. This wasn’t ordinary fire. The flames were a bright blood red with a poisonous green center. The flames had also created a much larger blast zone. As they were burning into a pile of ashes, the barbarians’ souls were flowing out of their mouths and into Night Terror’s own sadistic grin. Even the mighty seven-foot tall chieftain dropped to the ground with a thud as his ancient soul was consumed by this savage fire. The more souls Night Terror / Brock Soulburn consumed, the bigger the man-dragon’s belly got. He even let out a loud burp that was so powerful that the flames were put out.

All that remained of this now dead village was that big juicy chest full of gold, to which Night Terror swirled his tongue around his face in anticipation. The mask carried the possessed body of Brock Soulburn over to the chest, who kicked the lock open with deadly force and opened it up to an orgasmic response. So much gold. So much treasure. So much delicious roasted chicken. So much heavenly red wine. In his demonic tone, the possessed Brock said, “Mmmmmmm, yummy food!” before hanging his sloppy tongue off the side and drooling heavily.