3:16

The Death Marshal watched over the Black Widow Amphitheater with an omniscient presence, smiling a razor-toothed smile from the hells below. This afternoon Marilyn Manson concert ran as smoothly as venom through a cobra’s victim. The band was onstage bouncing around to the tune of “Irresponsible Hate Anthem”.

The concertgoers below the stage shoved and slammed into each other in a circle pit that could knock over the heaviest of hitters. The scent of alcohol was seductive to Death Marshal’s nostrils. One lady in the pit removed her Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt and threw it to the ground in a heavy metal rage. The energy in this outdoor arena lit the Death Marshal’s soul on fire. The god was pleased.

But of course, nothing could be perfect forever. One bad apple always had to ruin the entire bunch. Outside the cemetery-like gates of the spider-shaped arena stood a red-dressed, purple-haired woman with a crucifix around her neck and a sign in her hand that read, “You Must Be Born Again!” She shouted at Manson fans passing through the gates in a shrieking voice that could sell her own metal albums if she so chose. They either ignored her or flipped her the bird on their way in.

“It’s not too late to save your souls!” the woman belted, pointing an elongated fingernail at passersby. “Leave this place and come to church with me! We can go to heaven together! We can experience Jesus’s love for all eternity! You don’t have to burn in hell! Let us pray together! Let’s fight the devil and push his wicked energy out of our souls! We can be pure again! You must be reborn!”

The Death Marshal couldn’t possibly understand why this woman hated everything about this arena so much. Was it the tarantula-shaped structure with the eight legs acting as tunnels to the bleachers and pit? The event staff wearing black hooded robes and steel horns? The red and orange fogged lighting that illuminated the rows and stage? The white makeup and black clothing the concertgoers were proudly wearing? The LGBT flag that someone was waving at the back of the bleachers? The gargoyle statues? The blood-soaked walls? The skulls dangling from the ceiling? The bronze statue of Death Marshal taking up the middle of the seating area?

The screaming continued despite the many middle fingers the zealot received. “Don’t you walk away from me! Don’t you turn your backs on Jesus Christ! He has sent me to punish you all for your sins! This is devil music and it must be stopped! And I am the only one who has the power to stop it! Remember the name of JoJo Tornado, your new savior and hero!”

The passersby suddenly erupted in a fit of laughter. Death Marshal couldn’t help but crack a smile and hee-haw like a demon either. All of this fanatical rhetoric, all of these mystical threats were coming from a woman named…JoJo Tornado. Many fans asked her if that was actually the name her mother gave her. Were the Tornados an extended family? Did it actually say JoJo Tornado on her driver’s license? Could she even drive without getting a DUI charge after drinking the blood of Christ? Concertgoers slapped their knees and buckled over as these thoughts circulated among them. For once, JoJo managed to be more entertaining than the concert itself, no offense to Marilyn Manson.

And then the bright sunny day turned gray and cold as soon as JoJo’s face scrunched up in anger and she threw her sign to the ground. Concertgoers who wore jorts and T-shirts to the show found themselves shivering and hugging themselves for warmth. Icy winds picked up all around the arena, so much so that the band stopped playing and looked confused. JoJo’s eyes rolled back in her head while she waved her arms around in some kind of magical dance, guiding the wind wherever she wanted it.

Hooded bouncers circled around her to try and stop this display, but the wind grew strong enough to shove them all back against the spider-legged arena tunnels. The screams of heavy metal energy turned to screams of childish terror when one of the bouncers was impaled on a stony spike, his spilling innards and shattered ribcage making this dark fantasy paradise look even more frightening.

Fans bolted for any exit they could find, resembling an animalistic stampede where concertgoers were either crushed underneath boots or picked up and slammed by the wind. Marilyn Manson and his group were long gone by then. Anybody who wanted to follow suit in their cars were shit out of luck as the wind picked up vehicles and smashed them into concertgoers and bouncers alike. The concessions stand, which looked like a stony apothecary’s hut, shattered into pebbles at the drop of an SUV, spraying a fountain of beer in the air.

Somewhere during this mad dash towards higher ground, somewhere in this sea of blood, guts, and bones, a stage prop was blown off its hinges and launched like a javelin through the heart of the Death Marshal statue, knocking it over and desecrating the one true guardian of this sacred arena.

Suddenly, the dashing stopped. Horrified looks turned to pity and rage. Concertgoers and bouncers stood still in awe of the act of blasphemy committed against the Death Marshal statue. Marilyn Manson and his band returned to the stage and glared daggers at JoJo Tornado, who in turn looked muddled by this lack of chaos she worked so hard to create. “Does this mean…you all are ready to repent? Will you come with me to the gates of heaven?” She held out her hand in a loving gesture, but nobody would take it.

They were too busy staring at the green smoke that erupted from the hole where Death Marshal’s statue used to be. The statue was supposed to be a seal for the guardian beast. It was supposed to be his sleeping grounds. The god of the arena was supposed to be a mere spectator. But he was wide awake now. A slimy brown hand gripped the ledge of the hole and then another hand followed suit. With one growling jerk, Death Marshal pulled himself out of the pit for all of his followers to see.

There he was. A giant among men. A slime-and-dirt-covered creature wrapped in mummy bandages. A foul-smelling demon whose odor would be enough of a reason to seal him away in the first place. No lips have touched his face. No eyes wanted these permanent stains. No hands wanted his corrosive feel. He looked like the devil himself and it was a label he embraced to the fullest.

“So…this is what Satan looks like,” said JoJo, determined as ever to keep the chaos going. “This is what dark seduction feels like. You all worship this false idol? You dare use the lord’s name in vain for this prophet? Then I know how what I must do. I must exorcise this beast once and for all!”

Death Marshal’s murky boots slapped against the stone ground as he rushed towards JoJo with his arms outstretched, like he wanted to wrap his mile-long digits around her pencil neck. But the wind held him in place. The dark clouds opened up and unleashed another gust of holy energy. Death Marshal threw punches and braced himself against the aeromancy, but it was no use. Even a creature with his godly strength succumbed to getting bounced off the edge of the stage and nearly knocked unconscious. His omnipresent vision faded in and out of blackness. He really was about to meet God, albeit in a puddle of his own necromantic sludge.

“Is that all you’ve got?” asked JoJo. “Is this finally proof that God’s will conquers all? Ha! Too easy!”

Pain shot through Death Marshal’s nearly cracked spine as he crawled across the ground, dragging pieces of sloppy flesh and chipped bones across the stony surface. He reached out for something. What was it? A fan’s ankle? An angel’s hand? The devil’s weapons? No. It was the Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt the female fan threw on the ground earlier. That fan now had an SUV crushing her bones, but her spirit lived on…as did the spirit of the Texas Rattlesnake himself. A demonic mouth opened up in Death Marshal’s palm and it consumed the woman’s T-shirt, both making JoJo shiver in disgust and the concertgoers and bouncers watch in awe and wonder.

With bones creaking and mummy wrapping tearing, Death Marshal staggered to his feet and gazed at his surroundings with blurry vision. And then he remembered why his vision was so blurry. Not because of the force of the wind slamming him against the stage. But because…he was drunk. The Budweiser flowing through his veins ignited his soul. The fans in attendance suddenly believed in their hero again with chants of “Austin! Austin! Austin! Austin!”

And then, with a stomp of his foot and a thrash of his arms, Death Marshal shouted in a familiar southern accent, “Austin 3:16 says I just whipped your ass!” The fans cheered their heads off and the band couldn’t help but smile a little bit.

JoJo Tornado scowled at her opponent and said, “Such fowl language will not be tolerated in the house of the lord! Take THAT!” She blew a gust of wind at Death Marshal and sent him flying over to the shattered beer stand. But instead of cracking his skull against the ground, he grabbed onto the beer hose and started drinking out of it like he was dying of thirst in a desert country.

After releasing a toxic burp that contributed to global warming, Death Marshal aimed the hose at JoJo and splashed her with a stream of beer. She was knocked over on her ass and scrambled to get back up, but couldn’t. The beer spray was too powerful for her, not unlike her wind magic. She even rolled backwards several feet and got some of it in her mouth. The beer stream couldn’t last forever, but it didn’t matter anymore. JoJo was soaked head to toe in alcohol. Her dress nearly fell off several times. And everyone cheered all around her.

Death Marshal stomped over to his drunken opponent, the fans parting like the Red Sea. JoJo struggled to stay on her feet despite nothing spraying her anymore. She burped, slurred her words, and actually made more sense than when she was picketing outside the gates. In that familiar southern accent, the mummy guardian said, “Don’t take this ass-whopping personally, son!” Two middle fingers later, he kicked her in the stomach and smashed her jaw over his shoulders as he dropped on his ass, or as the WWE would call it, a Stone Cold Stunner.

As fans cheered and roared all around him, Death Marshal held two middle fingers to the sky and rattled his head like the badass he was. Some of the crowd threw him cans of beer and he chugged them down within seconds, swimming in a sea of drunkenness. After another burp that rocked the arena, he said, “If you want to see me set this bitch on fire and send her straight to hell, give me a hell yeah!”

“HELL YEAH!” echoed the fans.

Death Marshal grabbed hold of JoJo’s ankle and dragged the dizzy and confused zealot back to the hole in the ground where he came from. The statue was busted. The magic was exposed. This venue probably wouldn’t make money again given the reckless nature of what happened today. But at least he could get all the sleep he wanted. As a final gesture of goodwill to their dark fantasy guardian, one of the fans slowly raised his hands in the air like another familiar WWE wrestler and threw them down on cue with flames bursting from the hole in the ground. In response, Death Marshal burped and threw the slime-covered T-shirt back up to the surface.

The magic was gone and soon everyone realized just how fucked up all of this was. Many fans and bouncers were still dead, vehicles were smashed every which way, stage and arena props were strewn all about. Not even the all mighty Death Marshal could bring them all back together. This sucked. This sucked badly. A heavy metal concert had turned into a day of trauma and death for those who just wanted a good time. Religious wars never did anybody any good. Two deities waged war and it was the public who paid the price. Marilyn Manson’s lyrics knew all about this phenomenon, oddly enough.

Coffin Crusher

VERSE 1

Wake up from the underground

Casket makes a creaking sound

Time to hunt some fuckers down

Make the Spirits of Evil proud

Step up to the hulking mummy

You ain’t got a chance, sonny

Rip the lining from your tummy

Sell your hide for big ass money

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

VERSE 2

Let’s all do the dance of death

Psychotic spirits in our heads

We all know how we’ll die

Rotten fist between the eyes

Brains turned to sloshing shit

Hearts roasting on a stick

Flesh ripped up like love letters

Viscous blood tastes much better

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

VERSE 3

The one-man killing machine

Left behind a genocidal scene

Rivers of blood down his throat

Oceans of tears, where’s the boat?

Mountains of flesh masticated

Hollow corpses exsanguinated

A meal fit for the gods themselves

Bon appetite, see you all in hell

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

FINAL VERSE

Back to the casket for a deep sleep

Pray the devil your soul to keep

If you die before you awaken

Know that you have been forsaken

CHORUS

Coffin Crusher! X4

"The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor" by Max Allan Collins

BOOK TITLE: The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor

AUTHOR: Max Allan Collins

YEAR: 2008

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Urban Fantasy

GRADE: Pass

In the year 200 BC, China’s Dragon Emperor conquered his country with an iron fist and compassion for nobody. Karma would take the form of a sorceress’s curse, which covered him and his army in terra-cotta and banished them in suspended animation for eternity. Fast forward two millenniums and the Dragon Emperor is awakened from his curse by the greedy and zealous General Yang. The globetrotting O’Connell family must now put the mummy back into the ground by stabbing him in the heart with a mystical blade that was guarded for many generations. With an endless supply of firepower and unmatched martial arts skills, the O’Connells truly are the world’s last hope.

Even though this book earned its passing grade (four out of five stars), it’s not without its glaring flaws, particularly in the cheese department. The narrator constantly complimenting the female characters’ beauty, the gratuitous explosions, the sometimes off-color use of similes and metaphors, the instant chemistry between Alex O’Connell (the son) and Lin (Chinese tomb guardian), and the most obvious cheese of all, Alex and his father Rick using penis analogies to describe their submachine guns and pistols. Considering this was once a poorly received movie, I don’t doubt that these cheesy elements turned off plenty of viewers.

But that’s not to say that this book doesn’t deserve the praise it gets. All in all, it’s a fun little book filled with action, adventure, and opportunities for young authors to learn how to write in a fast-paced manner. It turns out that describing every punch and kick within a Jackie Chan-style fight isn’t one hundred percent necessary. In fact, that would take forever and impatient readers like me don’t have forever. We like hard-hitting action. We like hailstorms of bullets. We like tooth and nail struggles that bring the warriors to the edge of death and back again. Although the O’Connell family is blessed with martial arts skills and expensive firearms, they’re no doubt going to earn whatever victories they get. To put it in Rick’s terms, this struggle is going to make them HATE mummies!

The wild imagination of this story is something I also want to praise. Magical elements, bloodthirsty three-headed dragons, barbaric yetis, immortal Chinese warriors, a pool of eternal life, mystical artifacts, this urban fantasy has everything you need in order to get those inner wheels turning. While some of the magical occurrences come off as random at times, they don’t take away from the action or drama of the book and actually make sense in hindsight. Look at it this way: how else is a mere mortal named Rick O’Connell going to beat the crap out of a warrior mummy who won’t stay down? Anybody? Hello? Yes, the dragon dagger comes off as a McGuffin and McGuffins are considered literary sins, but if you’ve got a better way to kill off this seemingly immortal Dragon Emperor, I’d like to hear it.

Sometimes all a reader wants to do is have some fun and you’ll get that with this third installment of The Mummy series. You could also consider seeing the movie this book was adapted from, but diehard readers will want to choose the book instead. The writing style is cinematic in and of itself, so what are you waiting for? Pick up a copy of this four-star book today! Don’t be too turned off by the fact that this story has more cheese than a Domino’s pizza. After all, this kind of cheese would make even a vegan hungry.

Multiple Works-In-Progress

***MULTIPLE WORKS-IN-PROGRESS***

A few months ago, I saw a meme challenge on Face Book where my author friends post the first few lines from three of their works-in-progress. Judging from how many people were doing this challenge, it made me wonder if authors really do like to write three different novels at once (or more). By the time it became my turn to do the challenge, I confessed that I wasn’t working on a novel of any kind, so I just posted the first lines of three Poison Tongue Tales short stories. Seeing so many of my author friends writing novels and getting them done in a timely fashion motivated me to start working on Demon Axe, which I’m halfway done with.

I have Demon Axe planned out from beginning to end, so it’s all a matter of finding the energy to get shit done. American Darkness 2 and Poison Tongue Tales 2 are both anthologies with WSS contest entries as part of the collections, so those are pretty much on a weekly basis. Prophecy is a collection of poems, which will eventually amount to one-hundred since they’re only one page long at best, but I only write poetry when I truly feel like it, no sooner, no later. That leaves me with Demon Axe being the only true WIP I write independently. If I was to do this Face Book meme challenge again, I would only have one paragraph to post (or first seven lines, I forget which one).

I’ve thought about tacking on another novel to work on. I often run the scenarios of each novel idea through my head as if they’re actual WIP’s. I for instance have a college romance idea called “Is This Weird?” where I incorporate my strange sexual fetishes into the main relationship of the story. I also have a pro-introvert high school drama called “The Silent Warrior”, which will have to go through a complete overhaul in order to make the main character less angry and more reasonable. If I was to work on a secondary novel alongside Demon Axe, I would want it to be a contemporary drama instead of a sci-fi, fantasy, or horror. I would want it to be the American Darkness to Demon Axe’s Poison Tongue Tales. For some reason contemporary dramas are easier to write.

That leaves me with a novel idea I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. It’s inspired by the movie Clerks as well as my experiences with going to rock concerts and being around drunken idiots. It’s called “Chicken and Fries” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Maxine Bennett, Concessions Clerk
2. Belle Anthony, Slacker
3. Evan Olson, Maxine’s Bouncer Boyfriend
4. Sean Steiner, Straightedge Rocker
5. Nameless Concertgoers
6. Nameless Boss

SYNOPSIS: Maxine started working at the Brown River Arena in order to save up for college. Since being hired, she has been yelled at, sexually harassed, and assaulted by intoxicated customers. When Sean Steiner and his touring band are the main attraction, beer and cigarettes are not for sale, which upsets the already wild fans. Instead of taking another minute of abuse, Maxine begins fighting back against the customers. On what she says is her last day on the job, she burns customers with pizza, splashes soda against them, dips their heads in the deep fryer, and even shoves chicken tenders down a customer’s shorts and burns his crotch. Evan tries to calm Maxine down on several occasions, but she’s unresponsive to his pleas. Things go from bad to worse when Maxine notices Belle, who called in sick earlier that day, partying in the audience and enjoying the music instead of taking her shift like she was supposed to. At the end of this deliciously violent day, the only one with common sense is Sean Steiner, who is the last customer to order chicken and fries for dinner. Sean helps Maxine realize just how much trouble she’s in by telling her a story of a time he smashed up a hotel room in an act of rage.

FUN FACT: The novel is called “Chicken and Fries” because that’s the most common thing the patrons order, just like cigarettes were the most common thing Clerks customers bought.

Nothing is permanent yet. I still don’t even know if writing a second novel alongside Demon Axe is a good idea. Yes, other authors are capable of doing it, but I’m not other authors. I’m not the kind of writer who pours everything onto a page and because of that I only write when I’m mentally and physically one-hundred percent. If I’m taking such a long time writing Demon Axe, I’ll probably take just as long to write Chicken and Fries. This is something I really have to think about before I dive into it. Until I make my decision, I’d like to know everyone else’s take on the subject of working on multiple novels at once. Is it a welcome side project or is it too much work at once? We’ve got ears, say cheers!

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

The new week started this past Wednesday and the theme is appropriately going to be “Christmas Eve”. After today, I have three more days to write my story before the submission deadline. I probably won’t do it tomorrow since it’s going to be Christmas and I’d rather spend time with my family. That leaves me with Monday or Tuesday to get shit done. My story will be called “I Want Presents” and is based on a disturbing dream I once had. Here’s the synopsis:

CHARACTERS:

1.      Glenn Robertson, Mental Patient

2.      Kate Spencer, Head Doctor

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Christmas is getting closer as Glenn’s mental state worsens.

SYNOPSIS: After losing his parents in a plane crash, Glenn regresses into childlike behavior and eventually has to be institutionalized. It’s getting close Christmas and he refuses to say anything else but, “I want presents.” Kate and her staff of nurses and doctors have tried everything in their power to medicate Glenn into a normal state, but he seems to be getting worse every day. In a last ditch effort to make progress, Kate assumes the unlikely role of Glenn’s mother-figure and does something special for the holidays.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

This will be the second drawing in a row that features a character from my latest WSS entry “The Theomancer”. It will be of Yeti, a gigantic mummy who serves as the gatekeeper between Krimson and Seven. Yeti is really just a direct copy of the WCW wrestler of the same name, but he’s different enough to avoid a lawsuit. Besides, Yeti gets a better push in “The Theomancer” than he ever did in WCW. After all, it’s hard to push a gigantic mummy when he’s best known for spooning Hulk Hogan and humping him from behind. I’m not kidding, that actually happened. What Culture jokes about it all the time.

***POLITICAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“If you take all of the vowels out of Reince Priebus’s name, it says RNC PR BS.”

-Jim Cornette-

The Theomancer

Krimson hated the way the masked snowmen were looking at him. Each of them were lined up on either side of the Frigid Highlands with skeletal masks that glowed an eerie shade of purple. The red ninja balled up his cannonball fist and knocked one of the snowmen’s block off. Underneath the shattered head revealed the dead body of one of his brethren. Members of the proud Raven Strike Society were buried underneath the guise of snowmen. The thought made Krimson sick to his stomach.

This was no time for such a weak reaction. With his red ninja gear, steel boots and gloves, demonic mask, and straw triangle hat, Krimson was dressed for battle. He stomped his way up the snowy hill, glaring with electrified eyes at each of the snowmen. Such disrespectful desecration, Krimson thought to himself. His blue-skinned muscles and bright green aura brought out his deathly side, which he would need for this upcoming battle.

The top of the hill was book-ended by the tallest snowman of all with his bladed mouth, cross-decorated black pope’s hat, and purple cloak that blew in the frosty winds. Krimson folded his arms like he was the true giant and spoke callously to the creature before him. “You must be the one they call The Theomancer. Seven is obviously to cowardly to come greet me himself, so he sends this popsicle to do his bidding. Seven is just like any other god: too afraid to come out of hiding when he’s needed the most. I intend to beat the answers I want out of him and you’re in my way, Theomancer. Are you ready to get your skull cracked in?” That last line was accented with Krimson cracking his bumpy knuckles.

The snowman’s eyes glowed with each piece of dialogue. “You claim followers of Sevenism are delusional, yet here you are thinking you can simply beat answers out of our lord and prophet. Even if you were to somehow have contact with him, the foundation of our religion has already been laid. No money-hungry king or bloodthirsty queen will ever give up their faith just because you’re foolish enough to venture to these sacred lands looking for a fight. Each of these snowmen contains the spirits of those who were even stupider than you. What makes you so special, human?”

“You want to talk about deities? You’re looking at one. I am Krimson, the God of Vengeance. I associate with the Raven Strike Society not because of their heretical beliefs, but because a world under their leadership will thrive while a world under Sevenism will crumble into dust. You’re standing in the way of that goal and for that you will pay.” Krimson held his steel fists up in a boxing stance while electrical and fiery energy flowed through them.

“If you want to complete your kamikaze mission so badly, be my guest. But know this: you’re not fighting with any mere mortal. You’re not even fighting with the Theomancer. Yeti is what I’m called. With Seven as my witness, I shall rip your heart from your chest and feast on it like a barbaric meal!” Cracks began to form in Yeti’s snowy shell, each of them glowing with a brilliant yellow light. The shell continued to crack until an explosive storm of ice and snow showered upon Krimson, who kept his arms in his face to block the assaulting weather.

No more was the Theomancer. In his place was a seven-foot tall mummy with slimy green skin, glowing yellow eyes, and razor-sharp fangs with maggots crawling around them. Yeti flexed his muscles and cracked his own neck before getting in a defensive stance and waving for Krimson to come at him.

“Let’s do this!” roared the God of Vengeance, whose chilling glare never erased from his face. Krimson rushed into battle with a flying kick that sent an aftershock of pain throughout Yeti’s body, yet the mighty mummy never moved. The red ninja continued throwing rapid fire punches and kicks around Yeti’s legs while the hulking creature tried swatting around the smaller opponent’s head.

Krimson dodged every swipe by ducking and rolling on the frostbitten ground. He could not avoid having both of Yeti’s hands grab his throat and hoist him in the air. Yeti glared at the God of Vengeance with a piercing gaze and rancid shit breath. Krimson broke free from the chokehold by placing a hard knee into Yeti’s elbow. The mummy growled in pain as his arm bent in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go. He grabbed himself by the wrist and popped it back into place, much to the disgust of Krimson, who had a hard time catching his breath.

While the red ninja was on the ground clutching his chest and wheezing, Yeti threw a hard soccer kick only to have Krimson cartwheel out of the way. The God of Vengeance launched his thick head into Yeti’s knee before throwing an uppercut to the giant’s groin. Yeti hauled back and screamed to the sky in unbearable pain, but only for a short while. He ducked his head down to meet Krimson’s gaze.

The red ninja felt queasy after smelling his opponent’s breath so many times in this fight. He clutched his stomach and resisted the urge to puke his guts out all over the snow. This time Yeti threw a kick and knocked the ninja backwards, rolling him down the hill and causing him to lose his lunch along the way. He sprayed a few snowmen with his stomach acids and melted their faces.

It had been a long and tiring roll to the bottom of the hill. Krimson laid there weak and helpless while Yeti was tromping down the hill looking to end this fight. The ninja’s vision was blurry at best and dark at worst. He was sure he’d join these snowmen in this blatant disrespect for the dead. And that was when he saw the faces of those he threw up on. The stomach acid ate the snow off their faces and caused the masks to drop.

Men, women, children, animals, all of them represented by these mummified snowmen. The markings on some of the adults’ uniforms suggested they were priests and took a vow of pacifism. They came to this sacred ground just to negotiate and bring peace to an otherwise violent world. They did nothing wrong. They were just innocents caught up in the crossfire. They were somebody’s son or daughter. They were somebody’s wife or husband. The dog corpses sickened Krimson to where he’d want to throw up again. The dogs had less at stake than the priests and they were viciously murdered and desecrated anyways.

Krimson felt a clawed hand reach for the back of his uniform and hold him up high. There it was again: that sewage-like smell. It was the feeling of eating rotten fruit that had been urinated on. It was the feeling of performing oral sex on a diseased phallus with open sores. That breath. That horrible Yeti’s breath. The red ninja didn’t think he had anymore food left in his stomach after smelling something like that. Instead he blew out naked stomach acid all over Yeti’s face.

The mummy’s eyes burned to where he had to release his grip of Krimson’s uniform. The red ninja plummeted on the soft snow below while his adversary danced around in pain like his face was on fire. Feeling weak himself, the red ninja didn’t think he could make it back to his feet. But slowly and with every last ounce of strength left, he was standing tall and striking his deadly pose yet again, renewed by the anger of his lost brethren.

“Seven! I’m coming for you, you sick son of a bitch!” shouted Krimson before throwing several haymakers and roundhouse kicks at Yeti’s breaking body. Cracks formed in his skin like broken pottery. Blood oozed out of him like spoiled fruit juice. Punches and kicks to the head, chest, arms, and legs, all of them with brutal speed and ursine strength. The assault ended when Yeti crumbled to the ground and bled all over the snow, his body nothing more than a pile of wrappings.

“Where are you, Seven?! Show yourself! Answer for your sins, you disgusting pig!” Krimson shouted to the sky, huffing and puffing after such an exhausting battle, not to mention the heavy vomiting that saved his life as well as weakened him. He dropped to one knee and glared harshly at the pile of wrappings. A victory well-earned, he thought to himself.

Out of the mummy bandages emerged a mere mortal of a man dressed in a black trench coat and black hat, both of which contrasted with his pasty white skin. Krimson stared at him in shock and then looked again at the mummy wrappings to see that the cracks and “blood” were all just part of a metal costume. “What the hell is the meaning of this?!” Krimson demanded.

“You called out the name of Seven. Now you’ve found him,” said the pasty individual with a wicked grin. “There was never any paradise. There was never any hope at salvation. Sevenism is a business model and nothing more. Just like any religion, it was a business model for controlling the masses. And they fell for it hook, line, and sinker. You can call me a prophet if you want, but I’m really just a salesman with too much time on his hands.”

Krimson pointed a nervous finger at Seven and said, “You…you son of a bitch…what have you done?! I’ll kill you!”

“Go ahead! Take your best shot!” dared Seven. “But what will killing me prove? Like I’ve told you before, the foundations of Sevenism are already in place. If you kill me, there will be another prophet slash salesman to represent my created religion. And another. And another. And another. Somebody is always willing to go down for the cause. And our cause is business! Business is booming!”

“This isn’t happening! No!” shouted Krimson.

“Oh, it is happening, my friend. I’m sure you’ll want to tell all of your friends about it, even those at the Raven Strike Society. Those atheistic fools are already set in their ways. But what about the rest of us who need Sevenism to get through our days? Will they be so trusting? Sure, why wouldn’t they trust the God of Vengeance? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re no god. You’re just a prophet like me and everyone who represents my religion.”

“You bastard!” shouted Krimson as he charged toward Seven, only to get a knife to his stomach by the false prophet. The ninja’s stomach was already aching from vomiting so much, and now his innards were spilling all over the snow as Seven gutted him alive. The ninja dropped to his knees and fell on his face in a slow and gory death.

Seven looked down at him, shook his head, and laughed like the super villain he was. “Time to make another snowman!” he said before licking the blood off of his knife in a lustful manner.

Tiger Bullet Kick

Bob Rua had been through every kind of battle and shed tons of blood in his day, but even he admitted that he hadn’t seen anything yet. There would always be stronger challengers and they would always come in greater numbers. The anthropomorphic tiger wore his battle scars as badges of honor. He purposefully walked around in baggy shorts with no shirt to remind himself of the many hits he had taken. His thick striped orange fur could barely contain the bloody slashes he had endured. Most of his fur was getting grayer with every passing generation. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he would often say to himself.

Old he may be, his job of guarding the Moon Temple Mausoleum was no less important. He patrolled the inside of the stone sanctuary and marveled at the golden treasures buried in caskets with their dead owners. Taking these jewels to the afterlife would make the “clients’” journey into heaven that much richer. Any lowlife bandit who dared rob these caskets would be met with a swift kick to the gut, a punch to the jaw, knees and elbows to wherever Bob felt like throwing them, or he could employ the infamous martial arts technique, the Tiger Bullet Kick.

Bob reflected on all of the times he was forced to use such a brutal maneuver. It not only obliterated anybody who stood in its path, but it took a lot of energy out of the user. Sometimes Bob would be bedridden for three weeks straight after executing the Tiger Bullet Kick. Sometimes he would cough up blood and vomit bile. It was amazing he lived as long as he did. The thought of having to perform such a technique again made him quiver with anticipated sickness and anxiety.

Elderly age afforded him the wisdom to show restraint when it came to the technique. It also caused him to be lost in thought whenever his alertness was needed. It wasn’t until he heard feint whispering that he was snapped out of his old man gaze. With his lantern guiding his way in the dark, Bob shouted out, “Who’s there? Show yourself! Family visitations ended much earlier in the day!”

Bob was getting closer to the source of the whisper and was able to hear that the speaker was using mystical tongues. “Necromancy? Is that why you’re here? Not on my watch, you scoundrel!” The tiger monk’s sandaled feet slapped against the stone floor as hard as they could when he approached the voice further. The whispers grew louder and faster until Bob’s lantern shone on the source.

Standing over a nearby coffin was a woman in red samurai robes with her orange hair pinned in a bun and her arms extended as she was casting her spell. She slowly turned her head around to reveal her monstrous, creepy clown smile complete with sharp teeth, a bloody nose, and bloodshot eyes. Bob let out a small shiver, but at the same time maintained his fighting stance.

“So you’ve come to my temple looking for your own personal minion? You necromancers disgust me! Being dead is hard enough without freaks like you trying to make puppets out of their corpses! I could vomit all over this floor right now!” said Bob.

The clown lady laughed like a horse and arched backwards like Bob’s warning was the greatest comedy in the world. She unsheathed her katana and spoke to him in a raspy voice. “Trust me, tiger man, Viktor the Warlord is hardly the man I came here for! I’ve got much more work to do on these sacred grounds!”

The necromancer samurai licked her blade seductively before leaping into battle with the martial arts tiger. The two warriors threw kicks, punches, and slashes at each other with whooshing sound effects behind them as they dodged like athletes. They continued to fight even faster than before, causing their dodges to resemble acrobatic flips and slides. During one of the slides, Bob Rua slipped on his ass and was vulnerable for a rushing stab from the samurai clown. But as the bladed warrior bolted towards him, he shot right back up and delivered an oxygen-draining spin kick to her stomach, causing her to double over and gasp for air.

 Bob shook out his shoulders and said to his victim, “Is that all you’ve got? Are you going to finish this fight or are you just going to lie down and moan?” The clown’s answer came in the form of mocking laughter, to which the tiger monk marched over to her and lifted her head by her hair. “You think disrespecting the dead is funny? I should snap that skinny neck of yours right fucking now!”

The coffin the necromancer was working on exploded into green fire, knocking pebbles into Bob’s chest and stinging him slightly. Out of the fire came his worst nightmare, Viktor the Warlord, a seven-foot tall mummy wrapped up in filthy tape with maggots crawling all over his rotting purple skin. Viktor’s moans at first sounded like someone getting out of bed on a Monday. The moans then started to become animalistic, like a pack of wolves hungry for meat.

Bob tossed the samurai to the ground and rushed up to Viktor to deliver a furious beat down. His punches were like wrecking balls, his kicks were like sledgehammers, his elbows and knees were like battering rams, but all they did was stagger Viktor a few inches backwards.

The mummy wrapped both of his worm-infested meat hooks around Bob’s neck and hoisted him in the air while squeezing the life out of him. As the tiger man struggled to pry Viktor’s hands off, he threw even more jackhammer-like kicks to the midsection and groin area, but all he did was expend energy and darken his vision even more. Before he could completely fade away, Viktor released his grip and dropped Bob’s nearly limp body to the stone floor, causing him to nearly lose his lunch and his lungs as he coughed violently.

“Come on, tiger man,” taunted the necromancer. “Why don’t you use that Tiger Bullet Kick you’re so proud of. I know exactly who you are. You’re a dying breed of the Rua clan. You’ll probably be dead if you use that Tiger Bullet Kick one more time. Go ahead. Try it. You’re all alone in this temple. Nobody’s coming to help you. It’s do or die, my friend. Mostly just die, but you get what I’m saying.”

“Yeah, like I’m going to let you sneak out of here with the treasure once I’m dead and gone. Get lost, punk!” said Bob in a raspy voice as he staggered to his feet. This time Viktor grabbed him by the fur on his head and hoisted him high off the floor.

“It’s kill or be killed, Bob! What’s it going to be? You know you want to do it!” taunted the samurai as she did cheerleader-like hops and flips in evil happiness.

Viktor smiled at Bob with worms swirling around his teeth and tongue. His breath smelled like cow shit, almost bad enough to earn himself a KO victory. But then a bright yellow aura glowed around Bob Rua. The light radius grew beyond his prone body and the samurai clown was cheering him on. She knew what was coming and danced around like a madwoman. Viktor challenged him with an even nastier smile and said, “Do it!”

“It could kill me, but I don’t fucking care anymore! Tiger Bullet Kick!” shouted Bob. With fire and light surrounding his legs, he threw one powerful flying kick to Viktor’s chest, sending a heavenly show of golden aura throughout the temple, turning night into day and turning the moon into sunshine. The mummy warlord laughed like the monster he was before turning into a heap of dust and leaving Bob on the ground taking short and weak breaths.

The samurai spun around and tiptoed up to Bob’s lifeless body, to which she saw blood pouring from his mouth and nose. She clapped her hands happily and extended her arms to cast another necromancy spell. After her obligatory haunting whispers, she explained, “Truth is, Bob, I didn’t come here for Viktor the Warlord’s services. He was just a byproduct of a much bigger plot. I came here for you, tiger man. Forever more, you will be my undead minion. You will know your master as the great and powerful Makoto Lionheart, Gatekeeper of Souls. Now rise, you worthless scum! Rise from your slumber so that you may do that lovely Tiger Bullet Kick over and over again! Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with you!”

Bob started moaning like he had sleep apnea as he got on his hands and knees and slowly stood up to face his new master. In a zombie-like drone, he said, “I shall do whatever you wish, my lord.” Makoto spun around and cheered to herself while smiling like an innocent child. “There’s just one catch,” Bob said before reaching out and grabbing Makoto by both sides of her head. “I said that the Tiger Bullet Kick could kill me, not that it would.” Makoto trembled in his vice-like grip. “I’m ready for the world’s longest nap. Would you care to join me?”

With his tiger claws buried deep into the sides of Makoto’s head, he spun her skull around multiple times before her neck muscles loosened and her neck bone snapped in two, leaving her a lifeless heap on the floor as soon as Bob released her. The tiger warrior smiled at his handiwork, but not without coughing up chunks of blood and sprawling over the corpse of his victim. As his body relaxed on what might be his last night on earth, he softly said to himself, “Man, I’m getting too old for this shit.”

Tyler Cutty

NAME: Tyler Cutty
AGE: Immortal
OCCUPATION: Mummy Serial Killer
CANON: World of Darkness: Washington 2

You’re looking at Tyler Cutty’s occupation and are probably wondering if he’s goes around randomly killing mummies or if he’s a mummy who happens to also be a serial killer. The latter is what I was trying to imply. But why is an ancient Egyptian creature running around with the name Tyler? Cleopatra, Ramses, Xerxes, and now Tyler. Such progression, I know. Evolution couldn’t have come up with a better byproduct than a fucking American mummy named Tyler! With his invincible undead body and a sword bigger than he is, it’s more believable than it sounds.

Although the second installment of World of Darkness: Washington never came to fruition, the first one was a real thing at one point and now it’s digital dust. The idea behind each WOD:WA story is that three different kinds of undead creatures are tracked in three different cities in Washington state, my current home. In the first novel, mummies lived in Bellingham, vampires lived in Seattle, werewolves lived in Chehalis, and they all congregated to start life over again in Aberdeen.

In the second novel, which would have been Tyler’s home, mummies, vampires, werewolves, and hunters lived in Tacoma, demons lived in Port Orchard, and changelings lived in Purdy. Although Tyler is a mummy to the core, he would actually be a part of the third act in Purdy with the changelings.

If you’ve never been to Purdy before, don’t forget to bring your blanket and pillow; you’re going to need them in such a boring backwoods area. Purdy is so boring, in fact, that it’s a perfect place for a serial killer like Tyler Cutty to take residence. Nobody would ever think to look for him there. Granted, he has to actually go out and venture into the bigger cities to look for victims, but he’s more than capable of doing that, because he looks completely normal riding a city bus in his mummy wrap.

Unfortunately, because WOD:WA2 never got realized, Tyler Cutty never got developed past his name, race, and occupation. All we know about mummies from the first novel is that they become those creatures by allowing magical wrappings to snake around their bodies and turn their innards to dust. The only way to kill a mummy, as pointed out by Egyptologist Dr. Shawn Phoenix, is by cutting at their wrappings with a 12-inch knife. No more, no less. Only a knife of that length could ever possess the combination of strength and precision necessary to perform such a surgical strike.

Dr. Shawn Phoenix got the shit kicked out of him in the first novel, so those who actually know the 12-inch blade secret are few and far between, and they’re certainly not out in Tyler Cutty’s part of Washington state. Which means of course that Tyler is free to either slowly torture his victims by ripping their limbs off or slash them to bloody pieces with his oversized sword, which is far more than 12 inches, I can assure you that. If you’re a changeling, which is basically a kind of faerie in World of Darkness terms, how do you stop a guy with infinite strength and sadistic urges to back it up? You might be able to do it if you found out about the 12-inch secret, but even if you did, you still have to be a better fighter than a super powerful mummy. Good luck, little fairies!

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Maybe I should let her go, but not until she loves me.”

-Slipknot singing “Killpop”-