Marina Shafir: The Heart and Soles of AEW

 

Amanda Nunes vs. Colby Covington: What Are You Waiting For, Dana White? Permission From Your Orange Daddy?

 

Mark Shapiro: No Relation to Ben, But You'd Be Forgiven If You Thought Otherwise

 

Dianna Dionne, MMA Referee for Bergstrom vs. Moss in "Take a Shot, Shoot Your Shot"

 

Candice Moss, Tillee's MMA Opponent from "Take a Shot, Shoot Your Shot"

 

Tillee Bergstrom is a striker who wants to keep the fight on the feet. Candice Moss is a wrestler who wants to drag her to the ground and either submit her or punch her senseless. Let's get it on!

Meryl Streep vs. Chael Sonnen: What Is Art?

 

Roman Reigns (WWE) vs. Conor McGregor (UFC)

 

Holly Holm vs. Ronda Rousey

 

Fallon Fox vs. Matt Walsh

 

Dana White, President of the UFC

 

Bipolar Rock n' Roller

MOVIE TITLE: Bipolar Rock n’ Roller

DIRECTOR: Haris Usanovic

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Sports Documentary

RATING: TV-MA for language

GRADE: Extra Credit

Canadian farm boy Mauro Ranallo wanted to be a sports announcer since he was just a little kid. With unlimited energy and an infectious attitude, he was a perfect fit from an early age. However, the stresses of fame along with the death of his best friend Michael caused him to have a breakdown when he was nineteen years old. He was later diagnosed with bipolar disorder, a mental illness that hospitalized him eight times over his lifespan. He still tried to maintain an announcing career despite his ups and downs. In today’s world he is a much-appreciated part of WWE NXT’s commentary team. The Wrestling Observer Newsletter has awarded him Best Television Announcer from 2015 through 2017 and it’s easy to understand why: his passion is genuine and his energy is unstoppable.

You don’t have to be a sports junkie in order to appreciate Mauro Ranallo’s struggles. Bipolar disorder and mental illness in general is a life sentence for all it affects. Even with medication, exercise, therapy, and doing all the right things, you can still have high days and low days. Some days you feel like you can take on the world and other days you just want to stay in bed and never wake up again. Watching Mauro have a depressive episode where he cries is heartbreaking. You feel for this man. You want him to get better. You want him to live the life he’s always wanted to live. Every failure and every rock bottom moment will hit you hard. If it doesn’t, you need to have your pulse checked. My brother and I both suffer from mental illnesses and Mauro’s episodes are all too familiar, whether it’s the tiredness, the crying, or the suicidal thoughts. Nobody wants to see Mauro Ranallo commit suicide, but he came very close to doing so on several occasions.

But on the other side of his long and exhausting journey is a light at the end of the tunnel. By virtue of conquering his demons and doing what he loves most for a living, Mauro Ranallo is an inspiration to us all. If he can follow his passions, the rest of us can too. If he can open up about his struggles, we all should be taking notes. He reminds us over and over again that people with mental illness are not alone in this world. We’re not crazy. We’re not stereotypes. We’re living, breathing human beings and three-dimensional characters. If we have to do art therapy to get through our days, then so be it. If we have to take medication, it has to be done. If we have to find a place to live where marijuana is legal, by all means, go for it. If you can see tomorrow, you must be doing something right.

Mauro Ranallo was not a perfect human being growing up. His behavior made a lot of people angry from coworkers to family members to his ex-girlfriend. But hearing his story from beginning to end gives humanity to all the “crazy” behavior. I love three-dimensional people. I love it when the ordinary becomes the extraordinary. I love it when the underdog can conquer it all, which is really what sports like MMA and pro-wrestling are all about, really. For those reasons, Bipolar Rock n’ Roller gets an extra credit grade. We love you, Mauro. Don’t ever doubt yourself again.

The Thunder Eagles

***THE THUNDER EAGLES***

How about we take a break from the high school drama known as Silent Warrior so that I can tell you a little story about my childhood. I promise you we’ll get back to our regularly scheduled program after these messages. Although, chapter thirteen will contain graphic sexual content, so if you want to look for it when it’s up, go to Wattpad. Until the day I write that chapter, you’re getting a story from my past.

In spite of the fact that I was raised on WWF, WCW, and ECW, I didn’t have much love for sports or exercise of any kind growing up. I’m paying for it now that I’m north of three hundred pounds, but even back when I was a skinny little string bean, athletic competition was hard for me. I’d gas out after the first few minutes. Imagine this kind of negative attitude applied to elementary school-level soccer.

In the early to mid-90’s, I lived in Elk Grove, California and achieved success in my third, fourth, and fifth grade academics. Athletic achievements? Not so much. My parents signed me and my brother James up for soccer, albeit different teams. James’s team, the Laguna Lasers, was successful and happy to be so. My team, The Thunder Eagles (not to be confused with the Thunderbirds), were an intergalactic disaster. We only won two games out of god knows how many and one of those two games was against a team of children who were much younger and smaller than us. For all of you wrestling nerds out there, it’s basically Bone Soldier beating the shit out of James Ellsworth.

As a child, I’ve always been a sore loser no matter what the game was. When I brother beat me at Connect Four, I threw a hissyfit like no other. When I played Hero Quest and my barbarian was killed, I threw game pieces across the living room in frustration. When the Thunder Eagles lost over and over again, I wanted to beat something up. It didn’t help matters that I was always getting knocked down (accidentally) or hit with the ball (accidentally) by the other players. Whenever one of them would hit me, I’d chase after them and throw hammer fists until I was benched for the rest of the game. And then when both of our teams formed lines to high five each other, I withdrew my hand. Hell, as angry as I was, I might as well have flipped them off instead. Vinny Jones would be so proud of me.

It also didn’t help matters that my own teammates were conspiring against me most of the time. I remember during practice how they would play keep away with a soccer ball I brought myself. I never could get the ball back from them, but every time someone kicked it away, I’d either shove them to the ground or kick them in the legs. I also remember a time when a fellow teammate named Jorge kept bouncing the ball off my legs, so I ran up to him, kicked him in the asshole, and made him cry. I’d later recall these stories as an adult to James, who kept asking me why I took everything so personally back then. I’d jokingly respond with, “They tried to kill me!”

If I had been an adult and committed these violent and vengeful acts against other players, I’d probably be in jail right now. But as a kid, you can get away with pretty much anything and the worst you’ll get is detention or a suspension (which is really just a nice vacation away from the stresses of school). In the case of soccer, my mom bribed me with a trip to McDonald’s after each game on the condition that I didn’t clobber anybody who accidentally bumped me down. One particular game, I got smacked in the thigh with the ball and it stung like hell. But instead of beating the shit out of another kid, I cried my eyes out. Needless to say, I earned my Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese that day.

The lesson I learned from all of this soccer immersion was that if at first you don’t succeed, cry and cry again. As I said before, the Thunder Eagles lost every game except for two. Plus, I was getting sick and tired of being smashed around and gassing out after only a few seconds of activity. While my brother James continues to enjoy an athletic lifestyle, I’ve resigned myself to a life of videogames and have remained injury free since then. That reminds me of another lesson I learned from soccer: if you get hit in what’s supposed to be a no-contact sport, the admins might as well make it as violent as possible. I would have loved to bring steel chairs and kendo sticks onto the soccer field with me, maybe even a barbed wire bat. Extreme Championship Soccer! ECS! ECS! ECS! ECS!

I’d like to think that this is why I continue to watch wrestling and MMA as an adult: because violent sports don’t try to hide behind the façade of being safe and conscientious about self-esteem. I guess football could be considered violent because of all the concussions the players get, but I have yet to see any of them whip out some martial arts moves on the gridiron, so football doesn’t count in the end. And now that we’re on the topic of violent sports, when, oh when are the Wrestling Observer Newsletter awards going to come out already?! That Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award is ripe for the picking this year! Come on, Meltzer! I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I’ll hypnotize you like a vampire. Bite your neck and set your head on fire. Shoot me with silver bullets, okay. I’ll pull ‘em out, pawn ‘em, and get paid!”

-Violent J from Insane Clown Posse rapping “Bring It On”-

Code Breaker

“I’m going to say this for the last fucking time, so take your daddy’s dick out of your ears! I didn’t bully anybody backstage and I didn’t take any shortcuts! Everything I have in my career has been earned! There’s no controversy! There’s no early stoppage or misjudged scorecards or any of that bullshit! You all are just a bunch of whiny snowflakes who commit suicide over the stupidest shit! If someone calls you a doo-doo head on Twitter, you slash your wrists! If someone calls you an SJW on Face Book, you tie the noose! If someone you don’t like shows up on your college campus, you destroy everything like a big fucking baby! I didn’t do shit to those refs and judges, so wipe tears out of your mascara!”

Zoey Davis wouldn’t have bought Marcus McKnight’s press conference speech if his tongue was notarized. She watched the whole thing on her tablet with furrowed eyebrows and clamped teeth. She firmly believed that being an MMA heavyweight like Marcus didn’t entitle him to do whatever the fuck he wanted. Zoey remembered her own locker room experiences in high school. The N-word echoed throughout he brain quicker than having her dreadlocks ripped out. The jokes about her having a visible ribcage were usually followed by racist jocks throwing fried chicken and corn biscuits at her. To Zoey, Marcus McKnight looked and acted just like those dip shits in school…and she was going to do something about it.

With her gray hoodie pulled over her head, Zoey watched the mixed-martial arts pay-per-view from the back of the arena, hardly anybody seated around her. Those who took up real estate close to her were too invested in the cage fights to pay attention to her playing with her tablet. Every knockout punch within the eight-sided wire fence earned a boisterous roar of approval from the audience. Every choke, every dislocation, every head kick, every vicious elbow, they were appetizers to a much larger meal in the form of the main event, featuring Marcus McKnight and an opponent whose Polish name was difficult to pronounce, but easy to make fun of for any xenophobe in attendance.

The thumb stick in Zoey’s tablet picked up a signal from Marcus’s cell phone. He had recently logged onto Twitter and Face Book, using the same password for both accounts. Zoey shook her head and smiled, “This is too fucking easy.” She noticed that Marcus didn’t even bother using numbers and punctuation marks in his passwords, just a series of lowercase letters. “Lazy as fuck,” Zoey grinned as she worked her hacking magic on those accounts.

What to post, what to post, what to post. Zoey swiped through a bevy of embarrassing Photoshop pictures that would look hilarious on Marcus’s social media pages. Which one would hurt him the most? A picture of Marcus sucking off a goat? A picture of him getting sodomized in a clown suit by a horse? How about one of him milking a cow with his yellow-toenailed feet? Oh, why not all of them? She fiddled around on her tablet some more and posted all three of these pictures onto Marcus’s Twitter and Face Book pages. She quickly tucked the tablet away in her hoodie pocket and watched the action with a smile.

She was so busy with her hack job that she didn’t even notice that Marcus McKnight was already making his way to the octagon with the Polish opponent inside. Even from so far away, Zoey could easily see why someone like him would be intimidating to a bullying victim. Seven feet tall, barely cracking the maximum weight limit at two hundred sixty-five pounds, more muscle on his sausage fingers than most people had in their entire bodies, and “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns n’ Roses blasting over the sound system. Zoey crossed her fingers in hopes that he would actually lose his match tonight, but given that the Polish opponent looked like a midget next to him, it was unlikely.

The referee explained to the fighters the rules of the match and already Marcus was in bully mode when he spit a silver glob in his opponent’s mouth. Zoey shivered hard enough to make herself dizzy. If she thought that was sickening, she was in for a real treat when the match started and Marcus threw bloody haymakers at his opponent. With every stone fist that connected, Zoey’s stomach turned as she remembered more bullying from her childhood. She felt her own bones break, her own face get disfigured, her own skin being ripped open like a birthday present of violence. She felt so ill to her stomach that she stuck out her tongue and gasped for air, while everyone around her stood up and cheered at the “delicious” gore.

Zoey secretly wondered if her vigilante hacking would be doing any good to begin with. At the very worst, Marcus could just delete the pictures and change his password to something more secure. She kicked herself for thinking this immature prank was even a good idea. There were evil corporations and governments in the world that needed to be brought down and she chose to use her skills on one backstage bully in a world swarming with them. One guy could get humiliated and there would be more Marcus McKnights waiting in the wings. Tears welled up in her eyes as she tucked her face in her lap.

And then she heard the drunken choir around her chanting, “Goat fucker! Goat fucker! Goat fucker!” Zoey lifted her wet face and saw that people in attendance were looking at their phones and laughing their asses off. It was at that moment she remembered the old adage of whatever was on the internet was there forever. She smiled and wiped away her tears as the chants continued. Hell, she even stood up herself and chanted along with them with her fist pumping in the air.

Marcus’s bruised ego was more obvious than the bruises on his opponent’s hamburger face. He kept yelling, “Shut the fuck up!” to the crowd and missing wildly with his punches. Meanwhile, the Polish fighter, as bloody and swollen as he was, threw some punches of his own and even landed a nice head kick, which staggered Marcus backwards against the cage. Zoey stood on her sneaker-wearing tippy-toes and cheered wildly as Marcus was getting his comeuppance.

The raucous taunting turned to dead silence when Marcus’s answer to his opponent’s offence was a head-splitting elbow to the side of the face. Blood squirted out of the brand new orifice as the fighter flopped to the ground unconscious and the ref waved the match off, awarding the victory to Marcus McKnight.

“No…no…no, this can’t be happening,” Zoey whispered to herself with wide eyes. She pulled her hood back and grabbed her fuzzy hair in disbelief. All that taunting did was anger Marcus to where he nearly killed his opponent. He had never hit an opponent that hard before, not even in victory. “This is all my fault…” the hacktivist whimpered. These were the same words she used in high school whenever she got clocked by smaller bullies, thinking she could easily take them with her six foot stance. Zoey pounded the sides of her head in a feeble attempt to exorcise these traumatic ghosts from her mind.

She felt a meaty hand clamp down on her shoulder along with the word “Ma’am!” shouted in her ear. Zoey slowly turned around and saw a chubby security guard with a bald head and sunglasses standing over her, menacing stare and all. “You’re in a lot of trouble, ma’am. You need to come with me peacefully. And hand over that tablet you got in your hoodie. I ain’t joking around, baby girl!”

Zoey would be damned if she let another traumatic vision flood her mind for the rest of her life. This guy easily had two hundred pounds of meat in his tale of the tape and he could snap her in two just like that. If she handed over the tablet, it would all be over for her. When she realized it was over the day she left high school, she formed a nasty frown on her face, pulled out the tablet, and smashed it against the security guard’s jowly face.

The glass from the tablet shredded a few pounds from the guard’s face, causing him to drip all over the arena steps like a running faucet. Any last shred of evidence that Zoey hacked Marcus McKnight’s accounts was little more than computer dust on the floor, mixing perfectly with human blood. Zoey hopped over the barricade when she saw more security guards chasing after her.

Zoey’s lightning quickness on her feet was an afterthought when security guards seemed to pour in from every exit she had. Turned to the right, a pack of Shrek clones in blue shirts. Turned to the left, a flood of human protoplasm flooding her direction. The drunken lard asses in the crowd didn’t help much either as she tried to squeeze past them. With no other exit aside from the cage itself, Zoey Davis’s adrenaline boost clouded her judgment and caused her to scale the cage quicker than a squirrel up a tree.

Greasy blond haired Marcus raised his arms in the air, stuck his tongue out, and taunted her with “snowflake” insults and middle fingers. Ordinarily, Zoey would freeze up like the very insult she was being berated with. Up close, Marcus had the height of a skyscraper, the strength of a brick wall, and the screaming volume of a marine corps drill instructor all rolled into one. Being next to him would make even the bravest of men wet themselves in a biblical flood.

Not Zoey. Not anymore. She screamed, “Take this, you goat fucker!” before planting both of her rubber soles against Marcus’s crotch, doubling him over  and eventually leaving him beached like a smelly whale corpse. Even with the referee and the security guards grabbing her by the arms and legs, even with no visible exit anywhere in the building, even with decades of prison ahead of her, Zoey felt free at last. The adrenaline boost cleansed her mind of all negative voices and any remaining were drowned out with crowd chants of “Goat fucker! Goat fucker! Goat fucker!”

“Was it worth it, you little shit?” spat one of the beefy security guards. “Was it fucking worth it?”

“Bitch, you’ve got no clue!” said Zoey with a wicked grin on her face. Even while laying on her back and being dragged out across the beer-soaked floor, she stood tall against those who oppressed her and people like her. Could one bold move spark a revolution? Could hacking skills really make that big of a difference? Zoey didn’t know and didn’t give a damn at this point. Prison or not, she was free.

Gender Blind

Every punch and kick Rachel Gustafson threw at her practice pads was dedicated to her haters. The right hook was dedicated to Battle Born President Raymond Katz, who put this intergender match together to solve his “Rachel Gustafson problem”. The flying knee was for every fan who didn’t believe she could do battle with a man, let alone win the fucking match. The elbow strike was for the protesters outside the arena who never wanted this match to happen. The spinning back fist was for Sting Masters, who thought this match was going to be a cakewalk. Lost in her rage, Rachel threw enough rapid fire punches and kicks to accidentally knock over her trainer, to which she apologized and helped him back up.

The knock on her door followed by a voice shouting, “It’s fight time!” prompted Rachel to crack her neck in both directions and march out of the locker room with fists tightened and muscles tensing. The PA system had already queued up her walk out theme of “One of These Days” by Pink Floyd. Groovy bass guitar solo aside, the grunting voice of “One of these days, I’m going to cut you into little pieces!” perfectly described how Rachel felt about everyone in this arena.

Once she walked down the aisle, she could hear the boos reverberating off of her muscles of stone. The occasional shouts of, “You suck!” made those audience members ideal candidates for a hard right hook to the face. But they were the ones sweating like pigs, not her. Even from the middle of the aisle, she stared bullets into Sting Master’s smug British face. He was already in the octagon waiting for her with his arms folded and his red Mohawk looking as silly as ever. “Cakewalk my ass!” she said to herself upon reaching the entrance to the cage.

Rachel stripped off her hooded sweatshirt and athletic pants to reveal her sports bra and baggy shorts with various business logos on it. At least she didn’t have “Condom Depot” printed on her ass like a lot of fighters these days had. After getting her face greased up with ointment and being searched by the referee for weapons, Rachel stomped up the steel stairs and bolted inside the cage, running circles around the structure and giving the middle finger to her booing audience. She would have given one to Sting, but a flying knee would have been more appropriate for someone of his arrogance.

Once both warriors stood in their appropriate corners behind the black line, the seven foot tall referee stood behind the ring announcer as he got this main event going. Speaking with passion and fire into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are live from the sold out Tacoma Dome in Tacoma, Washington for Battle Born 57: Eye for an Eye! This event is sanctioned by the Washington State Athletic Commission. When the action begins, our referee in charge of the fight is Bill Dash. If you’re ready for some violence tonight, make some noise!”

The audience did make noise, but none of their cheers and boos were enough to take Rachel’s sniper sight focus off of Sting. The announcer continued his oratory with, “Three rounds in the Battle Born Promotions first ever intergender lightweight division match! Introducing first, fighting out of the red corner! This man is a striker who holds a professional record of twenty-six wins and six losses. He stands five feet seven inches tall and weighed in at 155 lbs. Fighting out of Manchester, England…STING…MASTERS!” More boos from an audience who clearly wanted this match to end in a double knockout.

“Introducing his opponent, fighting out of the blue corner! She is also a striker, but holds a professional record of nineteen wins and four losses. Standing at five feet eleven inches tall, weighing in at 153 lbs.. Fighting out of Denver, Colorado, ladies and gentlemen, she is the former Battle Born Promotions Women’s Lightweight Champion of the World…RACHEL…”GUTSY”…GUSTAFSON!”

Referee Bill Dash took center stage and brought both fighters toward his position. With the announcer holding the microphone in Bill’s face, he gave his instructions, “Okay, you two, I want a good clean fight. We’ve been over the rules in the locker room. Protect yourselves at all time. Obey my commands at all time. When I tell you to stop, you stop. If you want to touch gloves, go ahead and do it and then go back to your corners.” Not a damn fist was raised, only deadly steel-eyed stares. “Good luck to both of you and may the best fighter win,” said Bill before both fighters marched back to their corners.

The ring announcer and other unnecessary personnel vacated the cage and all that remained were two intergender warriors who wanted to smash each other’s faces in. Rachel saw red and only red. She remembered the interviews Sting gave in which he said he was going to, “Make her [his] bitch” and “Put her in her place.” All the laughing. All the booing. All the fake outrage going on outside with enhanced security. All the times Raymond Katz wanted to get rid of her for whatever reason. Those lava-like emotions bubbled towards the surface and she almost jumped the gun before the referee started the match.

“First round, are you ready, Rachel? Are you ready, Sting? Let’s get it on!” shouted Bill Dash and both warriors met in the middle of the octagon. No feeling out process, just throwing caution to the wind. Both fighters threw heavy punches and created wooshing sounds as those hits never landed. Rachel threw a kick at Sting’s hamstring and caused him to slightly wince, but otherwise suck it up. Another kick to the hamstring and a deep purple bruise formed on Sting’s pasty white leg.

Sting threw kicks of his own to Rachel’s midsection and she could feel the tiny bit of oxygen leaving her stacked body. The jeers from the audience intensified, but they weren’t the ones in this match and Rachel easily blocked them out. She threw more kicks to Sting’s legs and slowed him down considerably.

And then the wily Brit went for broke when he stormed towards Rachel with a series of hard rights and lefts. He missed the first two strikes, but the third, a stiff jab, caught her on the chin and sent a dot matrix of lights scattering across her field of vision. Another punch caught her on the bridge of her nose and her eyes watered like a raging river of hot tears. And then Sting used his good leg to throw a high kick and caught Rachel behind the ear.

The feminine fury wobbled and staggered about as she was being dissected by this brutal bully. He threw an elbow to her forehead and knocked her down while opening a gusher of a cut. The boos and outrage intensified even more, but all Rachel could hear were birdies tweeting in her head. Sting was little more than blur to her, obnoxious red Mohawk aside. She threw her feet upwards to try to keep him from mounting her and getting more vicious offence in.

Sting got overzealous and went for the mount anyways, but was met with an up-kick to the bridge of his nose, knocking him flat on his ass and busting him wide open with a waterfall of blood. Both fighters, bloodied and beaten, stood on their knees and punched the shit out of each other. Rachel’s vision was darkening with every knock she took on the face while Sting’s gusher poured like a busted fire hydrant.

Bill Dash was awfully close to stopping this fight when out of the corner of Rachel’s vision, a fan leaped over the cage and was immediately tackled to the floor by the seven foot ref. But then more fans jumped the fence and swarmed in on Bill Dash. The booing audience who hated this idea of an intergender match came rushing it all at once, even knocking one of the sides of the cage down.

Sting got up from his dazed kneeling position and was actually protecting Rachel with fists and feet towards the zealous fans. Bill Dash and other security members tossed around fans like sacks of potatoes. Meanwhile, a pair of husky arms grabbed the fading Rachel under her pits and dragged her out of the arena. She didn’t resist due to her weak body even though she wanted to. All she could hear was cussing, screaming, and riotous violence surrounding her. One fan even stepped on her ankle on the way to the cage and she didn’t even flinch. She huffed in exhaustion and closed her swollen eyes (or at least tried to) on her way to wherever the hell she was going.

By the time Rachel Gustafson opened her black and blue eyes and wiped away the crusted blood from her black ponytail hair, she actually thought she had woken up in a different time period. Was she an old lady by this time? Was this place a nursing home? No, it was a medical facility located far away from the Tacoma Dome. She recognized the plain white walls, the dull florescent lights, and the ultra-comfortable bed snuggling up to her spinal cord. Opening her eyes hurt like a motherfucker, but she did so anyways and caught a certain chubster in a cheap suit with horseshoe hair and a cheesy moustache standing over her bed.

“You’ve got a lot of balls coming here, Raymond. What the hell do you want?” asked Rachel in a weak, but angry tone.

“Miss Gustafson, I am so sorry for the way things turned out,” begged Raymond with his hands folded together. “This was supposed to be a special night for all of us. A revolution was unfolding before our very eyes. I didn’t think it would come to a full on riot.”

“Where’s Sting?” asked Rachel.

“We have no idea where he is. He could have gotten lost in the riot for all we know.”

“…So in other words, I’ll never get my win back from the man who stole it from me…because you wanted a fucking revolution?!”

“Rachel, I’m sorry, I really am.”

Having no more of Raymond Katz’s bullshit answers, the battered, bruised, and sore Rachel burst out of bed and held the CEO against the wall by his throat with both hands. “Don’t give me that crap! You knew from the very beginning this was going to happen! You wanted to get rid of your so-called Rachel Gustafson problem! So what do you do? You have a fucking riot in the middle of my fight! A fight, which by the way, I should have won by TKO!”

After listening to her boss wheeze and hack for hair, she finally let go of his chubby neck and let him plop to the floor on his giant ass. As he desperately caught his breath, Rachel kneeled down next to him and asked, “So what is the problem, Raymond? Is it because I asked for a raise? Is it because I asked to be promoted properly instead of getting pushed aside like a commodity?” She leaned her battle tested face towards his and said in a deep whisper, “Or is it because I tried to use the company’s health benefits to have an abortion when I needed one the most? If I had that baby, I would have died and you knew that!”

Once he had a sufficient amount of oxygen in his raspy lungs, Raymond threw his hands up defensively and said, “Trust me, Rachel, any problem I had with you has flown out the window. You’re important to me. I honestly didn’t believe this match was going to end in a riot. I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Rachel stood up and asked, “Anything?”

“Anything you want. You fought like a trooper tonight, against a man, no less. You deserve something special for that.”

“If I can really have anything I want…then I want to be released from Battle Born Promotions.”

“What?! You’re kidding me!”

Rachel punched a hole in the wall above Raymond’s head and caused him to flinch and yelp. “I’m serious, you fat fuck! No amount of money can ever make me forgive you. You put my life in danger that night and I should do the same to you. But I’m not going to…unless you don’t grant me my release.”

With nothing more to say to her now former boss, Rachel stormed out her semi-private room and collapsed on the floor. She needed nurses and doctors to help her stand up. Out of her still painful vision, she saw a man in a wheelchair covered in bandages except for his eyes, which were swollen and purple just like hers. The man gave a thumbs up and said in his signature British accent, “I’ll see you again someday. We’re not finished by a long fucking shot!”

“You’re damn right we’re not, Sting!” shouted Rachel as she was being dragged away by medical personnel.

Author Cooperation

***AUTHOR COOPERATION***

The key to having a successful community of any kind is cooperation among its members. Competition is what tears us apart, but teamwork and friendship is what brings us together. That’s part of the reason why I chose to be an independently published author: the sense of community. We critique each other, we honestly review each other’s books, we promote each other, and we’re there for each other when it desperately counts. When you’re a part of this community, there is no stepping over each other because there’s room for everybody at the top of the mountain. It takes a village to write a novel, sometimes even a capitol city. Nobody becomes a legend on their own.

My own journey to where I am today was marred with resistance to criticism. In 2001, I went to an anime/sci-fi/fantasy convention called INCON and had a piece of writing critiqued by five different professional authors, all of which had decades of experience and wisdom. Because of their somewhat harsh demeanors, I walked away after the first two authors got their words in. Maybe I was intimidated by the fact that I had so much work ahead of me to make my writing immaculate. Maybe I believed “potential” was an empty word when the first two authors told me I had it. Maybe it was my massive teenage ego that shoved everybody out of my circle who didn’t worship at the Temple of Garrison.

Whatever the case was, this over-inflated ego carried over throughout high school and college. I wrote a violent and sexually explicit poem about a classmate who said my writing sucked and he was hardly the only target of these rants and raves. Online folk, geology teachers, real life strangers, they all felt my fiery poetic wrath in one way or another. The more I reflect on this, the more I think that the reason I don’t have many Deviant Art followers is because of my past behavior and tendency to lash out.

It wasn’t until 2012 that I realized I needed help. I gathered up some money and went over to Writer’s Digest’s website to use their Second Draft critique services. For a moderate sum of money, you can have a famous author critique your work, but it’s only for a one time deal and there’s no guarantee you’ll get published. Given my verbally violent past, I was terrified to go through with this.

But sure enough, the piece of writing I wanted critiqued was a memoir about my experiences with getting bullied in my freshman year of high school. My intention was to circulate this essay to various literary magazines with the hopes of getting picked up. My editor was an author named Carolyn Walker, a nonfiction author, champion for the mentally disabled, and cordial human being. Her biggest critique for my essay was that it sounded too angry and that I hadn’t been descriptive enough to earn my ending. I ended up scrapping my own essay because that’s a part of my life I want to leave buried forever and I regretted writing about it.

As scary as taking that next step was, I would happily use Second Draft again, this time with a short fantasy story called Beauty and the Barbarian. In this story, Sonya Jade’s boyfriend is turned into a hideous monster by a witch and she wants to sneak into her castle to get the antidote. My hired beta reader, named Kathy Giorgio (if I remember correctly), said that the story felt incomplete and that it should be an entire novel or longer short story. I took her advice and expanded it to ten pages of single spaced text. It made it onto a short story collection I published in 2013 called Dragon Machinegun. Unfortunately, due to my dissatisfaction with how those stories were written, I took Dragon Machinegun off the market and it’s no longer available.

The third and final time I went to Second Draft was when I wrote a story called Dick Tater, which is about a homecoming prince with a bloodthirsty monster for a penis. This time, my beta reader was a military fiction author named Stephen Mertz, who said my story was marketable, weird, and kinky. He also said that it needed dialogue to show instead of tell (my story had absolutely none). As a token of my appreciation for his services, I bought a novel he wrote under the penname Jim Case called Cody’s Army and gave it a glowing review after reading it.

I didn’t completely come out of my shell until I joined the Good Reads group Weekly Short Story Contests and Company. With all of the friendly people who helped me through the rough drafts, whether it’s Edward Davies, Ryan Stone, Leslie Onus, Melissa Andres, and many others, my writing improved greatly and my fear of being critiqued was non-existent. When I got in touch with Marie Krepps in 2015, she became my permanent beta reader and I trust her with everything. She’s honest, she’s smart, and she’s funny as hell. She’s also a damn good writer who has earned every ounce of praise I’ve given her in my reviews for her books.

It was a good thing that I had calmed down over the years and learned not to take everything personally, because in June 2014, I may have just submitted the most offensive short story to the WSS during that time. It was a PG-13 bondage erotica called Tainted Love where Marilyn Elkins is kidnapped by a handsome stranger and duct taped to a hotel bed. She enjoys the kisses and sexual attention she’s getting to the point where she helps her kidnapper fight off her abusive husband. I wrote this story strictly for entertainment, but it ended up offending many people at the WSS and gave them the false idea that I was a sexist. As a token of apology, I took down the story from all of my social media sites and dropped out of the contest for that week. I spent the next week hurting like hell, but I took pride in the fact that I handled it like a champ instead of a raging lunatic.

That just happens to be my story. Everybody’s path to success is different, but nobody does it alone. Wisdom comes from experience and experience comes from the best the writing world has to offer. Don’t push these people away. They’re just as much a part of your inner circle as your friends and family. They want you to be successful. They want you to be happy. They want you to be the best damn writer you can possibly be. The more you listen to their critiques, the less it hurts. You may have to read their comments more than once to ease the sting, but if you take what you’ve learned to heart, you’ll do just fine in this world. In the words of Red Green, “I’m pulling for you; we’re all in this together.”

***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

As long as we’re on the topic of sensitive gender issues, this week I’m going to tackle a topic that’s hotly debated in pro-wrestling and MMA alike. I hope I can handle this topic with class, unlike Tainted Love from 2014. The prompt is “Dazed” and my story is called “Gender Blind”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1.      Sting Masters, Mixed-Martial Artist (Lightweight)

2.      Rachel Gustafson, Mixed-Martial Artist (Lightweight)

3.      Bill Dash, Referee (Heavyweight)

4.      Raymond Katz, CEO of Battle Born Promotions

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Being dazed is a normal part of an MMA contest since one of the ways to win is by KO.

SYNOPSIS: Battle Born Promotions is making history by sanctioning its first ever inter-gender mixed-martial arts fight in the lightweight division (155 lbs.). This upcoming main event match between Sting and Rachel has sparked a lot of debate and controversy among media outlets and MMA fans. Some people think it pairs men and women as equals while others are sickened by seeing a man beating up a woman. When the pay-per-view actually takes place, there are excited audience members in the building and protesters outside. Raymond Katz has a lot of explaining to do and a lot of security detail to hire.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Okay, so he’s technically part of a modern day drama and not a dark fantasy story, but I’m going to draw Sting Masters anyways. I’ve drawn MMA badasses in the past whether it’s Edward Glass from Molly-Dolly or Christina McKenzie from Gates of Hell. Sting Masters is a lightweight fighter from England and I want my drawing of him to reflect those things (not stereotypically, of course). Wish me luck!

***YOU TUBE QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Hi, I’m an attractive woman on the internet. You are somebody who comments on my videos or articles, though what you say isn’t always pleasant. But honestly, that’s not what we’re here to talk about. Though yes, you are awful. Even more alarming is those of you who think you’re being complimentary. While I’m flattered that you’re trying to express a fondness for what I do, you’re doing it wrong. If you like one of my videos, screaming, “TITS!” is wrong. Providing the phonetic representation of the sound of a man masturbating is incredibly wrong. Unless you’ve just typed in credit card information, telling a woman you’ve never met that you just masturbated to her comedy video, it’ll never be the right thing to do, honestly. I don’t know, maybe you’re confused because there are videos on the internet where the women explicitly tell you to masturbate. Yeah, I’m not making those. If you like what I do, say that. And if you like masturbating to things, go do that, just don’t tell me about it. Thank you for your time. I’ve been a woman of the internet. I didn’t ask to see your genitals, so don’t ask to see mine. And please stop telling me how you masturbate!”

-The women of Cracked.com-

Demon Axe, Chapter 3

The audience at the Black River Arena mumbled somberly to each other while the wrestling ring in the center was dimly lit. They held up signs for their favorite wrestlers, but with weak arms. They “wooed” and cheered, but few did it with them. Some stood up, but the rest of them stayed seated. This audience was more like a graveyard than an arena full of wrestling fans. The sadness in their eyes was obvious as some of them were shedding tears.

And then the grinding sound of Demon Axe’s number one hit “Zombie-Ogre” boomed from the speakers like a cannonball. Any sadness or zombie-like behavior transformed instantly into raucous rage as the audience shot up from their seats and cheered like wild motherfuckers. The throaty chants of, “Vega! Vega! Vega!” echoed off the walls and created a symphony of adrenaline for the seven-foot tall world champion wrestler, Johnny Vega.

With his blood red hair in a ponytail, his beard scraggly, his green overalls fitting snuggly around his muscles, and the golden world title strapped around his waist, Johnny Vega looked out into the crowd and nodded at the love he was getting. He enjoyed the adulation so much that he clapped and cheered along with them as he strutted down to the ring. Once he climbed up on the apron, stepped over the top rope with his gigantic legs, and held his world title in the air, the crowd’s verbal assault hit its crescendo with fire and spunk, highly unlike what they were feeling before.

The minute Johnny Vega grabbed a microphone from the ringside attendant, the chants of his last name continued to put a huge grin on the champion’s face. But even a tough guy giant like him wasn’t immune to the tears in his own eyes. He wiped them away with his thumb and inhaled snot back in his nose much to the clapping approval of the crowd who came to see him.

“Thank you, guys. Thank you so much, you have no idea how much that means to me,” said Johnny into the microphone. “But as much as I love hearing that kind of energy from you guys, tonight is not about me. I know why you guys were in such a sour mood before I came out here. I feel it too. It’s about what happened to my favorite metal band Demon Axe a few days ago.”

The audience booed at Demon Axe’s fate while some of the members reverted back to tears. Johnny said, “I know, it pisses me off too. What in the hell would motivate some asshole to kill off so many people like that? What kind of message is that supposed to send? What are we supposed to learn from all of this?”

He teared up a little bit at that last sentence and then toughened up yet again. “I’ll tell you what we’re supposed to learn! We don’t back down from shit-heads like that! I don’t care how many people this moron kills, because we’re here to put on a fucking show and there’s not a goddamn thing he can do about it!” He received a sonic boom of cheers and raised fists once more. “This is America, baby! America doesn’t negotiate with terrorists! America doesn’t back down every time a tragedy happens! America gets back on their feet, dusts themselves off, and keeps on going until they can’t go anymore!”

Just when the audience was ready to explode with excitement, the sounds of sarcastic clapping into a microphone filled the arena and the boos were as brutal as ever. A man dressed in a purple robe with a hood over his head and a vulture mask over his face entered the arena and put a confused slash angry expression on Johnny Vega’s face. The wrestler said, “You’re not Vulture Man. You’re not G-Pac. You’re not Pig Man, though you are a pig for coming out here and interrupting me. Who the hell do you think you are, little man?!”

The robed figure said with a chorus of boos in the background, “Relax! I’m not here to spoil your fun. I’m just another guy who wants a crack at that championship you’ve got there. Because there’s nothing more manly and gutsy than two muscle-bound men fighting over a belt.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, pretty boy! And take off that mask, you don’t deserve to wear it! That mask belonged to one of the greatest heavy metal guitarists of all time and you’re running around like you’re God’s greatest gift to professional wrestling! You ain’t shit, motherfucker! I take dumps bigger than you! You want to come out here to run your big mouth and wear that fucking mask like you actually own it, then get your ass in this ring so I can snap your goddamn spine!” shouted Johnny, much to the roaring delight of the fans, who chanted his last name once again.

The hooded figure drew more boos as he cackled into the microphone. “You misunderstand me. This isn’t about a mask or a belt or any other piece of god-awful attire. This is about my mission. This is about my people. This is about the wonderful friends you call Demon Axe parading their disgusting music all over holy ground. That ‘arena’ they played at wasn’t just for show. Whoever built that abortion of a structure was trampling all over my race’s sacred pastures. Yes, the building has been around for years, but I was the only one with the guts to do anything about it. And now here you are disgracing my people once again by speaking highly of these Demon Axe infidels!”

Johnny formed a wicked smile on his face and shook his head before saying, “So you’re the lunatic who carved up all those people at the Demon Axe concert.” The boos grew heavier and heavier, but Johnny held up his hands and said, “Nah, nah, cool it, guys. It’s actually a good thing that this dumb-ass came here in the middle of a wrestling show. Because now, I have a reason to kick his ass!”

The champion wrestler threw down his microphone and belt before jumping over the top rope and bull rushing his way toward the robed figure. Johnny cocked back his sledgehammer-like fist and took a wild, brutal, head-crunching swing. The minute his fist made contact with Vulture Man’s mask, the entire robe collapsed into purple smoke, leaving the audience and Johnny shrugging their shoulders and looking around aimlessly for answers.

The lights in the arena blew out and left everybody in mysterious darkness. The grating sounds of the terrorist laughing drew the loudest boos of the night. Red smoke appeared in the ring and revealed the figures of the machete-wielding elf warrior and a fellow wrestler on her knees with a crown of thorns on her head and a neon red glow in her eyes. The lights came back on and revealed a wide-eyed, shocked expression on Johnny Vega’s face. He shouted, “What the hell did you do to Sonia?!”

The woman everybody knew as Sonia Marquez donned gray MMA shorts, a black sports bra, and a black ponytail behind her head. Her muscular frame, sinister gimmick, and vicious martial arts skills made her a perfect slave for someone like the mysterious elf terrorist. Despite how real and genuine Sonia’s brainwashing looked, everybody in the audience assumed this was part of the show and booed accordingly rather than rushing the ring.

Johnny Vega rushed back up to the ring, leaped over the top rope, and reached his hands out in an attempt to strangle the elf terrorist until his head burst like a pustule. Mr. Vega was met with a kick to the liver by Sonia after she jumped up from her kneeling position. Johnny held his ribs tightly and dropped to his own knees before coughing up a liberal amount of blood.

“Don’t be too hard on him, Sonia,” ordered the elf. “We need him to cleanse this earth of anybody who would dare disrespect my people’s heritage. He’s big, strong, and wouldn’t dare resist the power of one of these.” The elf presented a magical crown of thorns to Sonia, who gladly accepted it with a wicked grin on her face. The elf jerked Johnny’s head up by his ponytail while Sonia slipped the brainwashing device over his head. Johnny protested with yells and “No’s”, but it was too late. The crown was already hardwiring his brain by stabbing its prickly thorns into his skull. A few more exhausted breaths later and Johnny slowly stood back up with the same red neon in his eyes as his female counterpart.

Once again, the fans didn’t know if this was part of the show or if this was really happening before their eyes. The elf could have been some asshole in makeup. The neon eyes could have been electrified contact lenses. The crowns of thorns could have been props for a hardcore match. One zealous fan in a Johnny Vega T-shirt and blue jeans jumped over the barricade and rushed the ring with a steel chair in hands. He immediately had his head chopped off by the elf’s machete.

The audience screamed like horrified babies while shooting up from their seats and bolting out of the nearest exits with their arms flailing. The black shirted, big bellied security detail stormed the ring only to be met with slashes from the elf’s machete, big boots and clotheslines from Johnny Vega, and elbow smashes and knee strikes from the MMA enthusiast Sonia Marquez. This didn’t look like “fake shit” anymore. Every slash unleashed a tidal wave of blood from the security detail’s guts and throats. Every clothesline knocked heads off of shoulders and snapped spines like toothpicks. Every MMA strike broke bones so badly that they jutted into vital organs. So many security guards’ corpses filled the ring and left behind a sea of blood and disgust in their wake. The Black River Arena made battlefields and car crashes look mundane.

The elf warrior raised his machete to the sky and yelled, “Nobody disrespects my heritage! Nobody disrespects my nation! Remember the name of Roger Zee! Feel the trauma every time that name is blown up on your TV screens! Know that your heroes and your military are powerless against me! The world will respect my race if I have to chop the heads off of every man, woman, and child on this sick fucking planet!”

"My Fight / Your Fight" by Ronda Rousey

BOOK TITLE: My Fight / Your Fight
AUTHOR: Ronda Rousey (with Maria Burns-Ortiz)
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Nonfiction
SUBGENRE: MMA Memoir
GRADE: Pass

Ronda Rousey is world renowned for being an undefeated MMA fighter in her first twelve matches, a Women’s Bantamweight Champion, and the sole reason why women’s MMA is as respected as it is today. On an episode of TMZ in 2011, an interviewer asked UFC President Dana White when he was going to include a women’s division. His answer? “Never.” But the minute he saw Ronda Rousey generating buzz with her quick victories and trash talk, he never said never again. The rest is history. It’s a history that not just transformed a combat sport or women’s rights, but it changed the whole world. Anybody who says, “It’s impossible!” is a bold-faced liar. Just ask Ronda.

Getting to the top of the UFC’s mountain may seem like an open and shut case for Ronda given her fast victories in the cage. But make no mistake about it: the road to success was paved with blood, sweat, and tears. Lots and lots of tears. The obstacles thrown in front of her included the death of her father, dealing with losses at the Olympic Games, being broke and living in her car to, arguing with her strict judoka mother, and having rotten boyfriends who treated her like crap. This memoir is just one big David vs. Goliath battle where Ronda is David and the harshness of life itself is Goliath. Most people would allow Goliath to crush them underneath his leather sandals. Not Ronda. She fought back and threw Goliath on his big ass before wrenching his arm out of its socket. The toughness and passion of this woman is something that will inspire everybody who reads her memoir.

The other thing I thoroughly enjoyed about this book was the way Ronda described her opponents leading up to either a judo competition or an MMA fight. With the fiery, hateful, and often colorful language she uses to talk about people who stand in her way of success, you’d swear she was a mass murderer. Hell, there is even several occasions where she says in her head, “I’m going to fucking kill you, bitch!” This hellfire and brimstone attitude is actually an excellent motivator for her to win her matches in convincing fashion. Isn’t that right, Miesha Tate? In their second fight, Ronda beat the living shit out of Miesha for three straight rounds, not because Miesha was actually capable of outlasting her, but because Ronda wanted to tear her apart limb from limb and leave her a rotting corpse in the cage. All that fire, all of that venom, and all of that rage has lead Ronda to twelve victories in her MMA career, all but one of them ending in the first round. Yikes!

The final thing I would like to touch on is the amusing nicknames she gives her ex-boyfriends. It’s a creative way to avoid a slander lawsuit by avoiding their real names. Her first lover was named Dick Itty-Bitty and he was a lying, cheating son of a bitch. Another boyfriend she had was Creepy McSnappers, who took naked pictures of her and prompted her to kick the shit out of him. And then there was Norm, who was so average in every department and had a knack for being a control freak. The one flattering name she gave an ex-boyfriend was DPCG (Dog Park Cute Guy), an animal lover whose past with drugs and alcohol caught up to him one too many times. As of March 2016, the month I’m writing this review, she’s dating fellow UFC fighter Travis Browne. If she writes another memoir, what nickname will she give him? Big Ass Hawaiian? Sounds reasonable to me. Hehe!

Even if you’re not a fan of mixed-martial arts, the memoir stands alone as a tale of overcoming difficulties and being strong to keep going afterwards. Not only did Ronda Rousey rise from the ashes of a heartbreaking and nightmarish life, but she looks like goddess and smells like roses. Actually, there was one point where her Honda Accord smelled like dirty laundry and dog BO, but those things are badges of honor in a life where everything is earned through battle and blood. A passing grade for an A+ superstar like Ronda Rousey!

Battleground

Charles McLean was a lucky man, either because of his Irish heritage or the fact that he could very well have a golden horseshoe up his ass. Only someone of his luck could say he was allowed to train at Battleground MMA Gym despite constantly knocking out and injuring his sparring partners. Did he even know the proper rules for sparring? Was he even dimly aware that knockouts and injuries weren’t supposed to happen? Did he already lose sight of the fact that it was all supposed to be practice and not an actual fight?

Ignorance wasn’t much of an excuse these days, because the only way the light heavyweight cage warrior could ever have access to the gym was after it was closed, which meant a screwed up sleep schedule and nobody would be there to return the favor of knocking him out. Believe it or not, this was the head coaches’ idea of being charitable to someone who deserved no charity at all.

It was ten o’clock at night and the red Mohawked Irish-American entered the gym in preparation for a light heavyweight championship match he had coming up. With nobody there to help him train or to coach him, he was all on his own. Charles seemed to be taking isolation a little better than most would. He went around to the various treadmills, stair steppers, and Jacob’s Ladder machines and beefed up his cardio like the super athlete he was. In a five-round championship match, cardio was the key to success.

Charles had spent two hours in the gym just working on his strength and conditioning. By the time he ran his final few steps on the treadmill, he was a sweaty mess. His bare chest was covered in perspiration, his black MMA shorts were damp, and his shoes and socks smelled like a bus station bathroom. Despite all of the hard work he put in, he stood proudly with his hands on his hips as opposed to huffing and puffing on the floor ready to pass out.

But there’s a reason why the sport was called mixed-martial arts and not cardiovascular arts: because beating the shit out of your opponent was the only way to win. Without a sparring partner, Charles thought he was going to have to clock out early. And then he noticed the boxing ring in the center of the gym had a black body bag mounted against one of the turnbuckles.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” yelled Charles to no one in particular. “What, am I supposed to fight with a dead body now? Cute, guys! Really fucking cute!” He stomped his way to the ring and stepped between the ropes to investigate this special package. Charles even gave the bag a sniff to make sure it was really a corpse. The odor was horrendous, but then he realized it was his own swampy armpits. He was definitely getting in the showers after this was over.

With mild trepidation, Charles McLean unzipped the body bag from head to toe and found something that put a whacked out smile on his face. “No way. No fucking way. Are you guys serious?” The object in the body bag was a 6’11” tall robot dressed in black gothic attire from his trench coat to his boots. Even the spiky black hair and black and white makeup was enough to give away the chilling appearance. Charles wasn’t chilled. He was thrilled.

He pulled the robot out of the bag and tossed the bag aside with excitement, for this was like opening presents at Christmastime. He looked the warrior up and down with wide-eyed excitement and heart-beating amazement. The name “Floyd” was written across the robot’s black tank top in the creepiest font imaginable.

“Alright then, Floyd. Let’s see what you’ve got!” said Charles as he looked for the on switch to this robot, which ended up being on its asshole. “That’s right, guys, laugh it up! Because this motherfucker is going to the scrap yard!” The light heavyweight brawler flicked the switch and sparks shot out of its crevices, sending the hulking brute backwards several feet.

Once Floyd the training robot stopped showering sparks, he began to look around the arena like this was all new to him. The mechanical nightmare looked across the ring at a bewildered Charles McLean with disdain and disgust. Once both combatants put their dukes up and got in their fighting stances, it was time to go to war.

Charles was the early aggressor in this sparring session as he rushed up to Floyd and threw haymaker after haymaker, each punch easily bobbed and weaved by the mechanical drone. Floyd threw one quick and stiff jab and caught Charles on the jaw, back him up a little, but doing not too much damage.

“You want to screw around with me, Floyd? Heh. Floyd. What kind of name is that for a badass robot?!” taunted Charles, an action which almost got him knocked out with a barely dodged head kick. Floyd started throwing other kicks to the hamstring, shin, and ribcage. Being made of metal allowed the pissed off robot to inflict sharp amounts of pain to the normally rough and tough Charles McLean, who was stacked from head to toe with muscles and tone.

Charles threw a few kicks and punches of his own, but Floyd kept him at bay with his height advantage, quick jabs, and leg kicks. After a while of being smacked around with metal parts, Charles was beginning to bruise up. He had a mouse under his right eye, a slash on his left thigh, and a lump on his ribcage.

But if Floyd thought for a minute that Charles was learning his lesson about treating his sparring partners better, he was dead wrong. Out of frustration, the MMA contender threw a blatant kick between Floyd’s legs and brought the mighty giant to his knees. Charles followed it up with an illegal knee to the skull that landed Floyd on his back, seemingly unconscious.

“Yeah! Who’s the man now, bitch?! I’m the goddamn man around here! Woo!” cheered Charles McLean as he danced around the ring holding his fists up in victory. His ego was inflated to the size of a hot air balloon.

And then Floyd nipped up in an attempt to deflate that ego forever. Charles turned around and immediately stopped celebrating his ill-gotten “victory” when he saw the mighty robot staring down at him with even more venom than before. Sparks were flying from his crevices like they were before, but in even greater volume and with even more rage.

Charles looked on at this angry display with paralyzing fear. If one of the sparks touched him, he would need to be rushed to a burn ward. With nobody here to call 9-1-1, it was a deathtrap in the making. Just when the final spark was about to touch the frightened combatant’s foot, the showers stopped instantly and were replaced with a good old fashioned blitz.

Floyd bolted up to Charles with superhuman speed and clutched him around the throat with one powerful hand before hoisting him to the sky and putting a spiked blade to his throat. Not even the mighty number one contender could deal with this kind of punishment and started kicking and squealing in pain to prove it.

The gothic robot put his face in Charles’ reddening face and said, “Please exit the MMA business, punk!” With one arm, Floyd tossed the 205 lb. Charles over the ropes and watched him crash land through one of the metal benches. The normally cocky fighter was rolling around on the ground clutching his back and screaming like a girl.

Such a pathetic display got no sympathy from the cold and calculating Floyd, who proceeded to slowly step outside the ring and kneel down to where Charles was writhing and squealing. With one fist held high, Floyd said in his demonic voice, “This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me!” All it took was one stiff punch to the jaw and Charles was out like a light. No more writing, no more growling, only silence and sleep remained.

By the time Charles woke up, which wouldn’t be until the very next morning, his head and body were pulsating with dull pain and he didn’t want to make any effort to move his body. He thought he was in the afterlife after taking a beating like that, but he was right back where he was when he was knocked out: on the floor of Battleground MMA Gym. The only difference was that there were people there who were happy to see him broken and bruised.

One of the head coaches of the gym looked over Charles’ glassy and wet eyes and said, “You have a 13-0 MMA record, which means you don’t know what it’s like to be knocked unconscious or submitted. And then you ran into Floyd and hopefully he did more damage to your ego than he did to your body.”

“Wha…wha…what about my match? What about my championship match?” said Charles with an aching jaw.

“Your match has been cancelled due to your injured state,” explained the coach. “But it’s probably for the best anyways. I hope you learned something from all of this, Charles. Be nice to your sparring partners and they’ll be nice to you. You’re probably too out of it right now to digest all of that, so maybe you’ll learn it eventually when I make you spar with Floyd again.”

The coach patted Charles on his painful shoulder and allowed the EMT’s t take him away. There was only one thing the Irish-American could say to having his ego deflated and his body broken at the same time: “Fuck!”

Three New Poems

SOLD ME OUT:



CHORUS
You sold me out, you stripped me down
Put me on display for the whole damn town
You sold me out, you left me for dead
This rotten casket is what I call my bed


VERSE 1
You sold me up the river without a paddle
And now every day is like an uphill battle
A river of blood in the name of love
Mental numbness in the name of the dove
The heat was on, you got out of the kitchen
Saving your own ass was your only mission
I don’t see you as an infected wound
I see you as the broker for my own doom


CHORUS
You sold me out, you stripped me down
Put me on display for the whole damn town
You sold me out, you left me for dead
This rotten casket is what I call my bed


VERSE 2
You taunt me and tease me like it’s so damn easy
You knock me down like a wind so breezy
And yet I keep playing the role of forgiver
Hoping that one day you will soon deliver
It’s the same damn story each and every time
You give me my freedom like it’s actually mine
Then you take it away, keep my soul in chains
Doctors call you schizophrenia on the brain


EXTENDED CHORUS
You sold me out, you stripped me down
Put me on display for the whole damn town
You sold me out, you left me for dead
This rotten casket is what I call my bed
You sold me out for the lowest of prices
Left me high and dry to my own devices
You sold me out to a sadistic master
I keep on hoping my sentence goes faster


VERSE 3
I can never figure out how to take revenge
The pills and talks never take off the edge
You’re a part of me whether I like it or not
So come on, bitch, give me all you’ve got!

MICROCOSM:



VERSE 1
My own mind is telling me lies
Who to love, who to despise
I grow exhausted after so many tries
To crush them down to a smaller size
This microcosm has made me ill
The price to pay is a permanent bill
Choke down water with bitter pills
The cure has become worse than the ills


CHORUS
You’re not real
You never were
So why do I
Fucking hurt?!


VERSE 2
Invisible scars are infected with pus
Invisible monsters bathing in bloodlust
Invisible allies with the magic solution
Invisible voices still bring the pollution


CHORUS
You’re not real
You never were
So why do I
Fucking hurt?!


VERSE 3
Why do I feel so crippled and numb?
Why do I feel so distracted and dumb?
I can fool myself some of the time
The microcosm fools me all of the time


EXTENDED CHORUS
You’re not real
You never were
So why do I
Fucking hurt?!
You’re a ghost
Damned and dead
Why won’t you
Get out of my head?!

EXTREMIST:



VERSE 1
Flipping over cars because your favorite team lost
Burning down homes and looting all the shops
The dumb-ass news anchor in his cheap little suit
Says you’re just having fun as you cheer and root


CHORUS
Extremist! Extremist! Pumped full of adrenaline!
Extremist! Extremist! It’s your favorite medicine!
You poor excuse for a human fucking being!
A real sports fan is not what I’m fucking seeing!


VERSE 2
If it’s hockey, then shove that stick up your ass
If it’s wrestling, get your back slammed to the mat
If it’s football, spread your legs for a field kick
If it’s MMA, cut some weight and call in sick


CHORUS
Extremist! Extremist! Pumped full of adrenaline!
Extremist! Extremist! It’s your favorite medicine!
You poor excuse for a human fucking being!
A real sports fan is not what I’m fucking seeing!


VERSE 3
You act like a criminal when things go awry
You swing a lead pipe like you’re a samurai
You start a bon fire in order to inspire
Others to join in when it’s down to the wire
It’s only a game, people win and lose
The fans start a riot while stinking of booze
The concrete jungle has become a war zone
With the riot police ready to break some bones


EXTENDED CHORUS
Extremist! Extremist! Pumped full of adrenaline!
Extremist! Extremist! It’s your favorite medicine!
You poor excuse for a human fucking being!
A real sports fan is not what I’m fucking seeing!
Didn’t your mother teach you any respect?
Or did you throw her in the fire near the car wreck?
You’re a sociopath in the absolute worst way
All because your team sucks on their best day

Gates of Hell

“Gates of Hell MMA Gym? Are you sure we’re in the right place?” asked Henry Silva to his girlfriend Christina McKenzie. But why wouldn’t it be the right place? They were both decked out in athletic shorts, Nike shoes, and baggy T-shirts, outfits which were ideal for practicing mixed-martial arts due to their looseness.

“Maybe Gates of Hell is just a really cute name for what really goes on in there,” guessed Christina. “Maybe the trainers are a bunch of drill instructor assholes who give into that warrior spirit crap.”

“Yeah, that’s probably why there are demon masks and skulls in the windows. It might also be why the phrase ‘Gates of Hell’ is in some weird ass gothic font. I don’t know if I’m stumbling upon an MMA gym or a haunted house. I don’t know, Christina, something feels wrong about all of this.”

“Listen to yourself, Henry. You haven’t stepped one foot in this place and already you’re not even giving this place a fair chance. Maybe the people who run this place really like creepy dark fantasy stuff, I don’t know. It can’t be any worse than our last gym. That place smelled like an outhouse. Plus, the trainers couldn’t tell the difference between a kimura and a Pop Tart.”

After running his fingers through his spiky black hair in contemplation, Henry finally gave in and said, “You know what? You’re right. Come on, let’s check this place out.” With no further resistance, the Brazilian capoeira ace and the all-American wrestler entered this freaky establishment.

If Henry and Christina thought this place was terrifying on the outside, the inside would have given weaker folks heart attacks. More demon masks on the wall, more skulls hanging from the ceiling, a purple fog covering the floor, and of course, no MMA gym would be complete without the caged ring and various exercise equipment.

The two warriors walked around this seemingly empty gym awestruck by this entire setup. Was this just a gimmick to help fighters overcome their fears? Was something a little more occult going on here?

Christina McKenzie in particular was so out of it from being creeped out that she failed to notice someone standing behind her. She bumped into him and gasped in fear when she saw a man in MMA shorts wearing one of the demon masks on the wall.

Henry Silva had the same chills when he ran into a woman wearing a gas mask, a sports bra, and surprise, surprise, baggy MMA shorts.

The gentleman in the demon mask said in a deep voice, “Hello. You two must be the ones who called earlier wanting to sign up. My name is Leif Kampmann. I run this gym alongside my girlfriend Olivia Cade. I’m the head striking coach while Olivia will teach you all about grappling and jujitsu.” He started getting a little frisky when he placed a seductive finger underneath Christina’s chin and asked, “Do you have an MMA record, my dear?”

The raven haired wrestler nervously said, “Um, yes, um…I have nine wins and four losses.”

“Nine wins and four losses? Not bad. But it could be better. I’m guessing that’s why you decided to join up with us,” said Leif as he continued to stroke Christina’s chin.

Henry made a throat-clearing sound and said, “Hi there, Leif! You do realize that’s my girlfriend you’re trying to seduce, right? Plus, you said this gas masked chick was already your girlfriend, so you’re probably making her jealous right now.”

Olivia put her delicate hands on Henry’s broad Brazilian shoulders and said, “Jealous? Not me, hon. Jealousy is for weak-minded, hormonal high schoolers. Besides, neither of you came to our establishment to get laid. So why don’t you come with me and I’ll teach you some jujitsu.”

Henry and Christina shrugged their shoulders at each other as their respective “coaches” took them off to separate parts of the gym for training. While Henry was training, he could hear the sharp sounds of both his girlfriend and Leif smacking around a heavy gym bag, which probably qualified as the world’s most intense striking lessons. He shuddered to think what those two did for “sparring sessions”.

The jujitsu training with Olivia was no joke either. She and Henry spent what must have been three whole hours wrestling each other on the padded floor. Try as Henry might to uses his capoeira training to spin out of each submission hold, Olivia knew exactly what she was doing when she made him tap out to various versions of shoulder locks, arm bars, and chokeholds. Henry felt like he could learn a lot from this woman, probably because she kept making him his bitch during these exchanges.

This wasn’t such a bad experience, Henry thought to himself. Décor aside, he could actually improve his MMA game and do better than a measly six wins (decisions), three losses (knockout or TKO), and one no contest (accidental eye poke). And then when Henry applied his first guillotine choke to Olivia, he ripped her gas mask off and revealed something that he was never meant to see: vampire fangs.

While Henry Silva’s lips were quivering and heart was racing as he backed up on his butt, Olivia Cade smiled at him with her vampire fangs and said, “Surprise, surprise. How do you think I got an undefeated record of twelve straight wins? Okay, most of it was because I actually knew how to fight…but it was Leif who turned me on to the dark side! And oh, does the dark side feel so good. You’d love it too if you gave it a try, Henry. What do you say?”

For the longest time, the cat had Henry’s tongue. And then he finally mustered the strength to say, “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” After backing up several more feet and repeatedly ordering Olivia to stay way from him, Henry stumbled to his feet and ran across the gym to where Leif was teaching Christina proper kicking techniques on a heavy punching bag.

Henry grabbed Christina’s arm and said, “Come on, baby girl, we’ve got to get the hell out of here! These guys are goddamn vampires!”

“What?! Hey, let go!” said a resistant Christina, who was half-dragged to the entrance way.

Henry tried opening the door, but it was locked and reinforced with steel. He even threw a few kicks at it for good measure, but it still wouldn’t budge. He then instructed Christina to stand back while he threw a few capoeira spin kicks at the tinted black windows. Even the strongest of Chuck Norris kicks wouldn’t be able to make a scratch. After a while of frustrating results, Henry pounded on the glass windows with his fists like a drum and pleaded to be let go, but no dice.

“Are you through yet?” asked Leif, who was seen standing arm in arm with his girlfriend Olivia, both of them without masks and both of them with vampire fangs showing.

Henry took a few angry deep breaths in and out and yelled, “Listen, you assholes! I may not have the best MMA record in the world today, but if you don’t let me and my girlfriend out of here, I’ll knock both of your oversized fangs down your throat and out of your asses!”

No impromptu fight was about to take place as Henry felt two sharp jabs in his jugular vein coming from behind. It was painful as hell, but it felt so good at the same time, almost like a sexual experience. The vampire bite didn’t come from Leif Kampmann or Olivia Cade. It came from his own lover, Christina McKenzie, who was probably converted to vampirism through Leif.

Henry started crying tears of blood as he knelt down and asked, “Why, sweet god, why? What the hell has gotten into you, Christina?!”

The newly christened vampire lover wrapped her arms around Henry’s neck in a loving embrace and said in a seductive whisper, “It’ll be okay, my love. Everything will be okay. With these vampire powers, we’ll never lose a match again. Once we put in our mouthpieces, nobody will be the wiser. We should come here more often, don’t you think, sugar bear? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to vampirism over time. Did I mention lately how lovely you look tonight?”

The craziest thing about Christina’s oratory? As far as never losing another MMA match again went, she was right. The future held Knockout and Submission of the Night bonus money for both Henry and Christina as well as championship gold. It was never easy to argue with success, vampire fangs aside.