This Is Violence

Natron gazed up and down the Tower of Hell with not even mild trepidation. So what if it had spikes and demon masks all over the stone structure? So what if it was crawling with monsters bearing razor sharp fangs and claws? So what if Shivo Black was waiting for him at the top with the intent to disembowel him? Natron wasn’t paid to be scared and he wasn’t paid by the hour. Decked out in black ninja gear and light chain mail while twirling a pair of nunchucks to get his cardio going, the elf warrior stared a hole through the front entrance prepared for battle. It may have been his final battle, but if he had to die tonight, he was going down swinging.

“This is violence!” shouted the elf ninja as he kicked down the wooden door of the tower and faced his opponents with venom in his eyes. Just like he predicted, the bottom level was peppered with little goblins crawling about chewing on the flesh of their victims. Natron bolted inside and whacked the hell out of these bloodthirsty beasts with his twirling nunchucks. Skulls splattered like watermelons as blood and brains decorated the already shit-stained walls. Some of the goblins tried to latch onto Natron and chew him like bubblegum, but they were thrown so hard against the wall that they exploded.

Still leaving goblin cannibals clinging from his arms and legs, Natron ignored the sharp pain and rushed up the spiral staircase while bumping against the walls to get the little bastards off of him. Their slimy green skin peeled off with every bounce against the cobblestone and soon they tumbled down the stairs like a battered slinky. The elf had only murder on his mind and bright red in his vision. Adrenaline surged through his veins like a forest fire. His blood was boiling lava ready to spew.

All Natron could think about was slaughtering Shivo Black for his sins against this world. He took a lovely place like the Ivory Tower and turned it into the shit hole that was the Tower of Hell. This tower was once a holy sanctuary for the elven people and a haven from the demonic forces of this apocalyptic nightmare. Now the beautiful religious artwork and tapestry was torn down in favor of retched demonic masks, skulls of the damned, and strung up corpses of the priests and clerics who once lived here. Passing by these dangling bodies caused Natorn’s muscles to bulge and shiver with raw hatred.

“Must kill…must kill…must kill!” Natron repeated to himself over and over again. His next opportunity to kill came in the form of deformed ogres covered in spiked metal armor and carrying tridents into battle with them. One by one these creatures marched down the spiral staircase swearing at Natron in their native grunt language. The first of them thrust his trident in rapid fire succession at the wily ninja. The elf warrior dodged, flipped, and did the splits to avoid getting impaled. He then delivered a ball-shattering nunchuck blow to the ogre’s groin.

The ogre coughed up a liberal amount of blood and vomited all over the stairs before tumbling down them like a bowling ball. Natron front flipped over the hefty body to avoid getting caught in the avalanche of rotten flesh. The narrow staircase only allowed one ogre to come through at a time, but the next one threw even quicker trident shots than the last. Natron dodged and flipped to evade these shots and then wrapped his nunchucks around his opponent’s neck and threw him down the stairs with a bloodletting jerk.

Instead of wasting precious time dodging trident shots like an acrobat, when the next thrust came, Natron flipped on top of the ogre’s head and dashed across the top of the squadron with his steel sole boots. The chubby warriors tried to thrust their tridents upward, but the ninja was too fast and too brutal for them. His boots caved in their skulls and snapped their shoulders. His nunchuck shots popped their eyes out of their heads. By the time he reached the final ogre, he dropped his knees across the creature’s shoulders and slammed him head first into the corner of the stone stairs.

The ogres were little more than a pile of smelly corpses. Those who lived wouldn’t for long as they rolled down the stairs like whiskey barrels. Blood and muck decorated the walls. The creatures’ saggy flesh lay shredded and slashed across the stairs. Natron stood at the top of the spiral with his hands on his hips while he admired his handiwork. Beneath his ninja mask the corners of his mouth formed a sadistic smirk. “This is violence and nothing more,” he said to himself.

Before he could get too complacent, Natron slowly turned his head toward the wooden door which lead to the top level. This door once held a lovely painting of the elven god Io. Now it held the shackled remains of a skeleton with pieces of flesh dangling off the bones and rats chewing on it like it was their last meal. “Shivo!” bellowed Natron. “I know you’re behind that door! You’d better prepare for the ass-kicking of your fucking life!”

With one savage kick, the rats scurried away and the door collapsed to splinters. The broken door revealed a room full of torture devices ranging from the stretching rack to the iron maiden to the guillotine itself. Dead elven clerics were strewn across the top level with their eyes and tongues cut out. Watching this scene made Natron puke a little bit in his mouth. If he wasn’t burning hot with anger before, he was the embodiment of hell itself now.

Sitting across the room in a throne of bone was Shivo Black himself. With his fingers tapping against themselves and a smug look on his demonic face, he didn’t look too worried that Natron had completely leveled his forces. Why would he? Shivo could easily tip the scales at seven feet tall and god knows how many pounds of muscle. His hairy brown flesh, spiraled horns, sharp fangs, and golden armor gave him the appearance of an oppressive warlord. When he stood up and towered over the smaller Natron, the demon king’s muscles pulsated with sadistic might.

“Not even death can save you from me, you little shit weasel!” barked Shivo in a throaty voice. “This tower belongs to me now. Those faggot elves can burn in hell for all I care. Their religion means nothing to me. Their lives mean even less. You’re not a hero to your people. You’re a walking corpse. Time to die, you pathetic child!” The demon spread his metallic wings and soared through the air right at his target.

Natron tucked and rolled on the ground to avoid getting slashed by Shivo’s sword-like claws. It was all the ninja could do since the demon was surprisingly fast for a man his size. Shivo threw heavy kicks that shattered his own torture devices when they failed to hit their intended mark. He breathed fire upon the ninja and Natron tucked and rolled some more. “If you can’t do any better than that, you’re going to lose!” roared Shivo. “Then again, your people should be accustomed to failure by now. They lost their Ivory Tower and now they’re going to lose the last shred of hope their pathetic souls ever had. Die, you little puke! Die!”

Shivo breathed another stream of fire upon Natron, who by this time was huffing and puffing through his mask and drooling wildly to keep his tongue from burning. He had exerted so much energy during this mission that his ribs felt like he was in a sumo wrestler’s bear hug. His legs trembled with such force that he couldn’t stand up all the way. When the ball of fire sailed his way, the fact that Natron collapsed in exhaustion and evaded it that way was pure luck.

King Black folded his massive arms and chuckled in delight. “So this is it, huh?” he said. “This is the man who slaughtered my ogres and goblins like they were small children? I wasn’t expecting comedy tonight, but I’ll take my laughs wherever I can get them.” Shivo flew towards the fallen Natron with his arms extended, intending to impale the ninja upon contact and put and end to this “comedy” as he so eloquently put it.

Lifting his head slowly to see the blades blasting toward him, Natron’s last burst of energy came when he threw a nunchuck shot and shattered Shivo’s claws like glass. The demon screamed in tremendous pain while the tips of his fingers bleed profusely. King Black cursed in his diabolic language while Natron did a weak attempt at a push up to bring himself to his hands and knees. Every little movement felt like he was trying to bench press a small car. He huffed, puffed, and wheezed while struggling to stay on his feet.

“You little piece of shit!” growled Shivo. “I’ll break your ass in half and feed you to my rats!” The demon threw a powerful side kick, but Natron quickly wrapped his nunchucks around the king’s ankle.

With the steel chain cutting off the circulation to Shivo’s legs, Natron gazed at him with nuclear heat and said in a raspy voice, “You know nothing about my people, you ignorant sack of shit!” Natron spun Shivo around by his leg and leaped on the demon’s back before wrapping his nunchuck chain around the beast’s throat. He squeezed with enough tightness to make the guillotine jealous. The iron maiden couldn’t even dream of the sharpness Shivo felt in his lungs. The king’s neck stretched like taffy as his windpipe collapsed into a heap.

When Shivo was down on both knees gasping for air, Natron released his chokehold and allowed the monster to vomit his own blood and organs. With one last twirl, the elf ninja smashed his nunchucks against Shivo’s head and splattered his brains all over the floor while breaking those hideous horns in two. The revenge was complete. The elven race was avenged for their heavy loss. Natron could do nothing but smile with tears in his eyes as he fell backwards into a deep slumber.

This entire scenario played out on a computer screen for a teenaged boy in his bedroom decorated with music posters and dirty laundry. Natron was not only his screen name, but it was one that would be synonymous with gaming greatness. The teenager laughed gently to himself in disbelief that he actually beat this ultra-hard game. He even gave himself a light applause. It was the first time he smiled since his father went away to fight in an overseas war. Daddy was quite the gamer in his day with Super Mario Bros. and Double Dragon to his credit. Now the second generation followed in his footsteps with a victory over the appropriately named This Is Violence.

Now it was time to watch the ending, which was usually the reward for such a hard game. The elf ninja woke up in a bed made of the softest material as sunlight caused him to slowly squint his eyes open. Could this really be? Was the elven name restored to its former glory? No.

Instead he was at the bottom floor of the Tower of Hell once again, this time with living goblins holding the corpse of the teenager’s dead father like a hand puppet. The kid recognized the face, the uniform, the haircut, and most importantly, the bloodstains all over his body. As the goblins laughed and chanted, “You’re daddy’s dead! He’s never coming back!” over and over again, the teenager’s sudden elation at beating the game turned into tear-filled sorrow. His cheeks were hot, his eyes were sore, and his screams were leonine. He even banged on the keyboard like a savage several times for good measure.

Somewhere in the goblins’ song and dance, they managed to throw the last bit of salt on this festering emotional wound: “April fools!” The teenager’s raging tears poured like the blood of the elf ninja’s enemies. In a way, he wished he was dead instead of his father. Maybe if he could find a belt somewhere in his room, he could see him again. Wiping away the tears and sucking up the snot in his nose, the teen sat in his computer chair with his head hung low not knowing what the fuck to do. His heart was in more pieces than the skulls of the ogres on the staircase.

Now that he thought about it, This Is Violence wasn’t an official game made by a reputable company. It was given to the kid by a “friend”. The game showed just how friendly it could be when the elf ninja took over the screen and spoke to Natron like he knew him. “Are you going to let those bastards talk to you like that? The world hates you, Natron, but we don’t. Your dad didn’t die because of a war. He died because of the politicians who sent him to war. You need revenge. You need it badly. Come join our outfit and we’ll show you how to get revenge. It’ll be just as bloody and delicious as this game turned out to be. You’ve already completed the first step. Now you can be your own ninja and start a worldwide revolution. Come join ISIS!”

The teenager gazed at the computer screen still sniffing and snorting. He never felt more offended in his life, not when the jocks shoved him around at school, not when the cyber bullies picked on his art work online. What that ninja said was vile, sadistic, and borderline insane. Yet to the kid known as Natron, those words made the most sense out of any “so-called” loved one he knew. “Let’s do this!” he said to the computer screen.

Nunchucks

***NUNCHUCKS***

Yes, you read that right, ladies and gentlemen. I’m dedicating an entire blog entry to…nunchucks. Two wooden or metal tubes attached by a chain or a rope. You can twirl them around, you can spin them overhead, or more importantly, you can whack people with them and cause blunt force trauma. It could be that I’m living under a rock these days, so feel free to correct me if I’m wrong when I say this. Nunchucks are an underrated weapon in fantasy and sci-fi canons. I can count on one hand how many examples of nunchuck usage I can think of: Panthro form The Thundercats, Billy and Jimmy Lee from the Double Dragon franchise, the karateka from the first Final Fantasy game, on rare occasions in Dungeons & Dragons Version 3.5, Guy from Final Fight III, and…holy shit, that’s it!

As evidenced by my WWE fandom of Daniel Bryan, I’m a huge supporter of the underdog and the little guy. Nunchucks are like the Daniel Bryan of fantasy novel weapons. That needs to change and hopefully I can do it with some of my stories from Poison Tongue Tales 2: Warrior Spirit. And while we’re on the topic of WSS short stories, I might as well get this out of the way now. The next contest entry will be called “This Is Violence” and it’ll feature an elf ninja named Natron who uses nunchucks. It’ll be meta fiction since most of the story takes place in a computer game played by a teenaged boy, but those nunchucks will come into play in a big fucking hurry, trust me. Here’s the synopsis for my story:

CHARACTERS:

1.      Natron, Computer Gamer

2.      Shivo Black, Demonic Final Boss

PROMPT: Ivory Tower

PROMPT CONFORMITY: The Tower of Hell is jokingly called The Ivory Tower by those who have easily beaten this RPG.

SYNOPSIS: A teenaged boy with the online alias Natron is on the final stage of a dark fantasy computer RPG called “This Is Violence”. In order to beat this final level, he has to climb the Tower of Hell and defeat a demonic warrior named Shivo Black. It takes Natron a long time to defeat this hellish monster, but when he finally does, he receives an end message that completely shatters his world and leaves him in tears.

FUN FACT: This Is Violence has nothing to do with the first act of a dark fantasy novel I wrote years ago called Fireball Nightmare. That old story featured an army of Gary-Stu warriors, this version of This Is Violence will have relatable characters. The title for both stories was stolen from a Soulfly song of the same name.

So why did I just now decide to give Natron’s RPG character nunchucks? Surely, a sword will have sufficed just perfectly. Everybody and their uncle uses swords these days and they seem to do a good enough job of hacking off limbs and exploding hearts. But that’s the thing: everybody uses swords. Everybody! Cloud Strife used swords, Conan used a sword, Cecil Harvey used a sword, so many goddamn swords! Where are the nunchucks? Even in a game like Diablo II where there’s a huge variety of weapons and a martial arts-based character class, there are no fucking nunchucks!

While it is true that it’s nearly impossible to decapitate someone with a nunchuck attack, bludgeoning weapons shouldn’t be cast aside so easily. Nobody scoffs at war hammers and maces, so why should they scoff at nunchucks? They’re blunt, they’re deadly, and they crush bones when used by the right kind of warrior. You know what I’d like to see? A heavily armored paladin with a pair of bamboo nunchucks. A bloodthirsty barbarian with a pair of steel nunchucks. Even a feeble gnome wizard could use a pair…of nunchucks. What did you think I meant? Huh?

It’s not that hard to take down an enemy of considerable fortitude with a pair of nunchucks provided you know how to use them. You could break arms and legs with one fierce whack. You could break hands and feet and disable a lot of their attacks. Even the weakest strike could concuss an enemy worse than an NFL player. Or it could make their head explode like that creature from Pink Floyd’s music video for “What Shall We Do Now?” There’s no reason for a warrior not to use nunchucks. They’re quick, they’re light, and they hurt like shit. So why the underrated status?

You don’t even have to use them in a combative situation. When I was rehabbing my shoulder in physical therapy a year ago, they had me twirl a pair of nunchucks to get blood circulation in my labrum. While it’s true that I ended up hitting myself a lot with these things, it was an intricate part of the healing process and my arm hasn’t popped out since those sessions.

Whether you’re a monk named Chip or a nun named Chuck, these weapons are for you. They take practice, sure, but what weapon doesn’t? Personally, I’d rather accidentally whack myself in the nuts with nunchucks than accidentally chop my arm off with a katana. Wouldn’t you just love to see Jason Voorhees or Freddy Kruger with a pair of these bad boys? They’d be exploding limbs left and right and it’d be just as creepy!

So come on, fantasy authors, let’s see some nunchuck action! Don’t be like the main character in They Call Me Bruce and use them as chopsticks to get out of an arrest for possessing weapons. Chow mein doesn’t taste nearly as good when it has blood on them. Or maybe it does…if you’re sick enough to be into that sort of thing. But wait, doesn’t that just prove my point that Jason Voorhees should use nunchucks too? Hehehehehe! I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

***WONDER WOMAN***

Remember a few blog entries ago how I said I was going to review movies more often as part of my creative contribution to society? Well, I haven’t done jack shit in that department as of today. But tomorrow, that will change. I’m going to the movie theater with Reina to see Wonder Woman and I’m already anticipating an Extra Credit grade due to the strong feminist tropes, which we need in world run by a misogynist orange blob named Donald Dump. I hope Wonder Woman lives up to the hype! Or in the case of an Extra Credit grade, exceeds it!

***THIS IS ME***

While the movie reviewing process begins tomorrow night, the book reviewing process is still going strong as evidenced by my thoughts on “Basket Case” by Carl Hiaasen, which, surprise, surprise, received a passing grade. The next randomly chosen book will be one that Marie Krepps recommended to me as a favor to her author friends. It’s called “This Is Me” by C.E. Wilson and from what I can tell it’s a cyborg romance novel. I like a good lovely-dovey ooey-gooey romance story every now and then. I’m not always about bloodbaths and beyond. I hope it’s a good one!

***AUTHOR ADVICE FOR THE DAY***

If you’re an author and you’re describing an intense foot chase between a serial killer and his prey, don’t say the victim “ran like a Baywatch character”. I don’t have any cases where an author did this, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened at least once in this lifetime.

"Om" by The Moody Blues

It’s easy to create art out of the remains of destruction. Just a few posts ago, I created three new characters based on the internet arguments I had with the members of Play By Web in 2002 and 2004 over age limits: Zeal, Chakko, and Natron (The Undertaker doesn’t count since he’s copyrighted by the WWE). Three new characters are all well and good, but their births don’t change the fact that I still had depression and anger within me. Creativity is a great healing agent, but it doesn’t solve everything.

Music, on the other hand, is a very powerful drug that can be taken with any dosage of creativity. Creativity can be Prozac and music can be Abilify, if you really understand the power of medicine metaphors. In the case of 2002, the song that laid those fiery feelings to rest was “Om” by The Moody Blues. They already have a reputation for being peace-loving, leftwing hippies, but now that “Om” is on the market, they’ve taken it to a whole different level. “Om” is a word yoga masters use whenever they want to achieve a quiet mind through meditation, so it’s not much of a coincidence.

It’s a gorgeous piece of music complete with flutes, bass bongo drums, sitars, and of course, Mike Pinder’s Melotron keyboard (where would an early Moody Blues song be without it?). I’m not sure if it would put me to sleep due to the relaxation, but it definitely put my demons to sleep back in 2002 after the verbal battles were over. I was able to concentrate on my schoolwork and get the good grades I rightfully deserved.

If you have a fiery mind, “Om” by The Moody Blues is the tidal wave that will put out those destructive flames. If nothing else, it reminds us all that life is too short to be pissed off all the time. Metal fans will probably argue against that point since anger is a huge part of that aggressive genre of music. To those people, I argue there’s a huge difference between being psyched up for a metal song and pissed off at the world. When you’re psyched up for a metal song, it’s positive energy that will lead to having a good time. When you’re pissed off at the world, nobody wants to be around you and you will ultimately destroy yourself.

Not every situation calls for grinding, loud, explosive heavy metal. Sometimes you have to take a moment to calm down and assess the situation. Sometimes you have to lock yourself in your bedroom and let peace wash over you like warm Hawaiian beach water. You don’t necessarily have to do the whole “hippie-dippie” meditation routine in order to achieve this moment of peace. All you need is a moment to yourself and a deep look into your thoughts. Thinking is the best way to travel and it’s reiterated in “Om” by The Moody Blues. And once you’re done thinking, you can go back to the real world without unnecessarily spilling blood, especially your own.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“People on the internet like to take cheap shots at me, but they’ll never be more critical of me than I am of me.”

-Dave Batista-

The Play By Webbers (Zeal, The Undertaker, Chakko, and Natron)

During my tenure at Playbyweb.com, I have assumed four different identities (not at the same time, though). The first of these was Zeal, a 16-year-old porn addict who raged against the machine and lost. The second was The Undertaker, a slightly less offensive version of Zeal, but still only a temporary fix since my schizophrenia made it harder for me to role-play. When I turned 18, I came back from my sabbatical from the site under the name Chakko. I raged against the machine over stupid age limits and lost once more. And finally, when I created Natron in an attempt to be diplomatic, my peaceful ways were shut down and that was the last time I set foot on Play By Web’s hostile territory.

Four different usernames, four different agendas. It would be a shame to let these guys go to waste. So I had the brilliant idea of making characters out of them. Although, if I wanted to use The Undertaker, I’d have to fight an uphill legal battle with WWE over the name and to that I say hell no. That’s like a pigmy warrior going up against an army of Greek titans. So now we’re down to three characters: Zeal, Chakko, and Natron.

What could I possibly do with these three? I know! Let’s make them teenagers in a dystopian hellhole who want access to porn! Yes, that’s what I was fighting for back in March of 2002: the right to view porn despite my young age. I may have argued that I was only two years below the benchmark of 18 and two years makes zero difference. I may have also argued that there was no real reason for my adult opponents to keep me from doing whatever the hell I want. The way I saw it, only a hardcore religious zealot would ever object to me masturbating to porn.

Therefore, when I construct a group of antagonists for Zeal, Chakko, and Natron to face off against, they will be paladins. They will wear heavy suits of armor and carry flails that can turn skulls into blood bombs with one smack. And just like in Diablo II: Lord of Destruction, these zealous paladins will have auras to give them magical powers. Do the three teenagers feel overwhelmed yet? That’s exactly how I felt when I argued with the entire website over my personal freedom: overwhelmed and traumatized.

In order to combat these heavy-handed head smashers, Zeal, Chakko, and Natron will have to be smooth and slick as they move about the dystopian city in search of good porn. Their official character classes will have to be somewhere between a rogue and a wizard, maybe both. They can sneak up on their opponents and stab them with magically energized daggers. They can steal smaller weapons and imbue them with lightning or fire. My only limit is my imagination. It should be known by now that porn enthusiasts have vast imaginations, hint, hint, wink, wink.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“You know that scene in As Good As It Gets where Jack Nicholson tells his girlfriend, ‘You make me want to be a better person.’? You know how often that happens? Never.”

-Bill Maher-