Handing Out 51/50 Orders Like It's Christmas

 

The Cars vs. Tammy Sytch: The Title Alone Sounds Like Satire

 

Byron Hadley from Shawshank Redemption: Captain of the Guards, Master of Phil Labonte's Lower Intestines

 

Jerry Sandusky: When He Needs Every Staff Member Available, He Says, "All Hands on Dick, I Mean, Deck!"

 

Scammer Jammer: the Official Guide to Dealing with Telephone Scammers

 

Luke Spencer (Rocked) vs. Ian Watkins (Lostprophets): No Sympathy for the Dead

 

Ian Watkins created and owned child pornography and was imprisoned because of it. He has since been murdered in prison and nothing of value was lost.

Jessica Kent vs. J.D. Delay

 

Enjoy Prison

Uncle Sam taught you the way of the fist

And that murder is the answer when you’re mildly pissed

And that you can blame your crimes on war trauma

Give your own friends trauma, lead to courtroom drama

They describe all the pranks you pulled upon them

And how you told them to take it like they’re manly men

And how you called them every bigoted slur in the book

Lifelong sentence, now you’re on the fucking hook

 

Enjoy prison! It’s the closest thing to war

Being a civilian was just too much of a bore

You went stir crazy without your automatic

Now you can throw fists for free without causing any panic

The prison guards turn the other cheek

While your rape victims can’t shit right for a week

While their purple bruises show the cell block who loses

Their broken bones couldn’t hold partition phones

 

Enjoy prison! Your dinner tastes like diarrhea

It’s like every ration meal since the war in Korea

Maggots here, flies there, maybe some long hair

Taxes could provide better, but the state doesn’t care

But that’s okay, because it reminds you of war

You’re the baddest motherfucker in the whole damn Corps

All those pushups and burpees prepared you for combat

If a riot broke out, you’d get your ass right on that

 

Enjoy prison! What’re they going to do?

Bump it up to never-ever? You’re already screwed

You forgot about solitary, oops, you fucked up

Ask the warden for forgiveness, he’ll say, “Shut up!”

It’s just the darkness and what’s left of your mind

As it eats itself alive just like it did in wartime

Are those pills used to treat the worst parts of you?

No, they’re pebbles, but you can swallow those too

 

Enjoy prison! Because you’re never getting out

You’re a POW with not one escape route

SEAL Team Six ain’t coming to save you

Just be thankful for the medal Uncle Sam gave you

It could have been currency in the prison economy

But you killed all your trust with the bloody sodomy

All you’ve ever wanted was a license to kill

But all you’re killing is time, it stands perfectly still

Prison or Death

CHORUS

Prison or death, fuck all the rest

Torture at worst, oblivion at best

Freeze or fawn until they’re all gone

Their memories haunt from dusk to dawn

VERSE 1

Hurricane is coming, a storm from within

Beat their ass raw, corpse in the bin

Whether it’s over a one-word insult

Or god’s favorite weapon: a lightning bolt

Revenge is a dish best served bloody rare

Don’t try to live well, just go on a tear

Murder feels good in the heat of the moment

But not in a cell where you’re lonely and hopeless

CHORUS

Prison or death, fuck all the rest

Torture at worst, oblivion at best

Freeze or fawn until they’re all gone

Their memories haunt from dusk to dawn

VERSE 2

Froze like a blizzard, the sinners go free

But war flashbacks are all that you see

Four letter words to go with the punches

A mile-high bill to go with the crutches

Raging rapids of red puffy tears

To take away all of your natural years

If you could do things a different way

Would you need a machete to make them pay?

CHORUS

Prison or death, fuck all the rest

Torture at worst, oblivion at best

Freeze or fawn until they’re all gone

Their memories haunt from dusk to dawn

BRIDGE

If passive silence is complicity

Mass homicide is more sickening

Always afraid of making things worse?

Welcome to hell, enjoy your curse

EXTENDED CHORUS

Prison or death, fuck all the rest

Torture at worst, oblivion at best

Freeze or fawn until they’re all gone

Their memories haunt from dusk to dawn

Flight or fight, does might equal right?

In the ICU, who spends the night?

You just can’t win even if you survive

You just can’t live even if you’re alive

You Win

Congratulations! You beat me in a war

Want a fucking cookie? How about four?

Go grab me a plate and I’ll regurgitate

A whole bag of Oreos that I just ate

Congratulations! You owned me on the mike

Take your gold medal and take a fucking hike

Your precious prize is made out of chocolate

The gold is urine from my manly man rocket

Congratulations! I’ll never recover

Maybe I should be your brand new prison lover

I’ll be the top and you can be the bottom

Smash your ass like a pumpkin in the middle of autumn

Congratulations! You win at everything forever

I’m sure your victory speech will be funny and clever

Tell them how you cheated me out of first place

Then crack your stupid jokes about gender and race

Congratulations! There’s nothing left to achieve

You’re the king of the mountain, it’s what we believe

Play with your riches until you get burned out

All those cars for nothing, so much for your clout

Congratulations! You drove everyone away

Here’s your trillion dollar check on this lovely payday

Now you’re all alone with nobody to talk to

Not even Creepy McCreeperton wants to stalk you

Congratulations! You won against a guy who never wanted to play

The Whole World Is Watching

The whole world is watching whenever you’re botching

A million TV’s tune in

Whenever you shower, their dicks become towers

Tissues flushed into the sewage

Whenever you slide and you land on your hide

They laugh just like a demon

Whenever you stutter and melt into butter

The power dynamic is uneven

When you ask her out and you’re crippled by doubt

The comedy starts to punch down

When your ass gets fired for being too tired

You become their favorite punk clown

When you leave the bar and then you crash your car

The comedy turns into tragedy

When you rot in jail from your epic fail

It’s time to end the pageantry

When you take your last breath and teeter on death

The shock pads wake you up

When they set you free for the world to see

They grab their popcorn and soda cup

When you leave them hanging, their big heads are banging

Against a fucking brick wall

When you’re born for laughs and government graphs

You don’t have permission to bawl

When you’re born this way, at the end of the day

It was God who made the mistake

When death’s a solution in this institution

It’s your only shot at a coffee break

The whole world is watching whenever you’re dodging

The spotlight in the sky

The whole world hates you, they always debate you

Brain tells you to say goodbye

Strip You

 I hereby strip you of your freedom of speech

You fucked the conversation with the hate you teach

I hereby strip you of your right to bear arms

You could take a toy pistol and maximize the harm

I hereby strip you of your right to a trial

The shit you’re accused of goes on for miles

I hereby strip you of your non-prison clothes

In exchange for a jumpsuit and depressive woes

This ain’t no funhouse, people are dying

Yet you shrug off the complaints as babies crying

This ain’t no rally, you have nothing to be proud of

Count the dead bodies, if you’re generous, round up

I hereby strip you of your power over us

You’re drunk on your Kool-Aid, time to sober up

I hereby strip you of your gaslighting techniques

None of it’s romantic, even less of it is sexy

I hereby strip you of your traumatic excuses

None of them justify your emotional abuses

I hereby strip you of your entire legacy

And your purple cushion throne and royal pedigree

This ain’t no kingdom, I won’t fight for you

And your so-called rights to fuck over the truth

This ain’t no ballgame, I won’t bat for you

I’d rather take that bat and beat you black and blue

I hereby strip you of your bigotry

Brought to you by generations of idiocy

I hereby strip you of your ignorance

Everything you love lacks innocence

What gives me the right to take it all away?

You’d do the same to me anytime any day

Freedom for all loses all of its meaning

When the power belongs to the extremist-leaning

This ain’t no safe space for your prejudice

Defeats the purpose of human etiquette

This ain’t no graveyard for your victims

But a mausoleum for a broken system

Johnny Glass's Underage Beer Run

 An elven thief named Johnny Glass walks into a bar. The bartender looks up at him and says, “Can I see your ID?” Sorry if you were expecting a cliché bar joke. To be honest, I was expecting one too when I played a lone session of Dungeons & Dragons with my brother James in Pennsylvania in 1999. What was I doing in Linesville, Pennsylvania at the time? A whole lot of fuck-all, that’s what. To be fair, that’s all there is to do in the super rural town of Linesville. Everything was so far away from my Aunt Ruth’s farm that finding entertainment was damn near impossible. So James and I had to create our own. Dungeons & Dragons was our escape from a place that couldn’t be escaped.

But what about the medieval town that Johnny Glass was a citizen of? Did that have a lot going on in the way of kicks and thrills? The closest thing to that answer was getting plastered at the bar. Or smoking a burned out cigarette until he had extra crispy Kentucky Fried Lungs, that could be done in a bar too. But let’s go back to the point where the bouncer (not the bartender) asks to see Johnny’s ID. It seems like a standard practice for any bar, but there’s actually a lot to unpack here. First of all, Johnny was an elf and the typical age for elves in a game of D&D is somewhere in the fifties and sixties. They’re an immortal race that doesn’t pass away from old age, but goes into isolation when they do. It’s like 2020, but forever. If an elf looks like he’s fifty or sixty, why would anyone question his maturity when it comes to chugging a stein of beer? The only reason I can think of is that the mostly human town holds a deep-seated bigotry against the elven race.

And while we’re on the topic of anti-elf racism, if I had the storytelling abilities back then that I do now, there might actually be a plausible reason why an elf would have an ordinary human name like Johnny Glass. Maybe where he’s from, his culture was suppressed by the conquering humans, so all the Legolases and Grimlords became Johnnies and Jackies. Names say a lot about a person’s cultural background. So when you see an ethnic minority with an ordinary white guy name, you know some ordinary white guys had major influence over the conquest. There’s a whole story right there! But alas, the only reason I chose the name Johnny Glass for my character was because it was convenient and it was all I could think of at the time. Little did I know or care that everything has a back story if you look hard enough.

Getting back to the ID check at the bar, how exactly is Johnny Glass supposed to produce a document that didn’t even exist in medieval times? The only way an ID would ever work is if photography was invented. That’s the whole point of it: to put a face with the name. There’s no photography in D&D. So what was Johnny supposed to show the bouncer? A painting? A magical seal? A doodle? Oh, god help him if he gets a doodle. The artist might actually make him look like a caricature goofball if racism was the true reason for this campaign. Maybe he’d draw Johnny with a massive nose, Dumbo ears, and a saggy belly, which is not only humiliating on its own, but it wouldn’t grant him access anywhere since that’s not what he looked like. He looked like any other elf: pointy ears, light green skin, blond locks, and a skinny build. He looked like any other elf because with a name like Johnny Glass, that’s what he truly was under the thumb of the dominant humans.

Naturally, Johnny didn’t have any ID papers on him, then again, who did since photography doesn’t exist yet?! The humans never had their ID’s checked, but Johnny did. And because he entered a bar where his age was questioned over and over again, he broke the law. Thieves breaking the law isn’t anything new, but at least said thieves stay hidden in the shadows when they commit their crimes. Not Johnny. He walked into a bar a (somewhat) free elf, came out with his hands and feet shackled by law enforcement. Johnny served himself on a silver platter to the racist humans. Not a good way to start a D&D campaign as a stealthy thief.

But don’t worry! Surely a trickster like him could slip out of prison and never be found again, right? Well, there’s a lot to unpack in that department as well. First of all, this was my first time ever playing a thief. Beforehand, I played loads of fighters, one paladin, and one wizard. I had more fun being a fighter and a paladin than any other class, because I could actually defend myself in a brawl and look badass doing it. If a wizard doesn’t have his spells studied and ready to go, he’s fucked since he can’t wear heavy armor or wield heavy weapons. Plus, wizards naturally have a low amount of hit points. Unless the goal was to try something new and exciting, why would I ever want to play a thief? If I ever got caught, I couldn’t defend myself against knights with gigantic battleaxes and claymores bigger than their bodies. Backstab wouldn’t do me any good, because that only works if I’m undetected.

But here I am in a prison cell with no chance of parole. No fair trial, either. Democracy and photography had a lot in common in D&D: they didn’t exist. The prison guards told Johnny they were going to lock him up for life. But that turned out to be a joke that Johnny would never laugh at in a million years (or however long elves lived). He instead was sentenced to five years. He could do five years standing on his head, given his elven immortality. But why would he want to unless he had an escape plan? You think I would have learned one by now given that my brother loved locking my characters in prison and using that as the main storyline. He did this a lot. I never got away once, but he still insisted on doing prison campaigns. Would Johnny Glass be the one to finally break the curse? Well…not exactly.

There he was shackled to the wall of his own eight-by-ten cell. In case the shackles weren’t enough, the prison cell had a barred door and there were guards on the other side of the cell block. It was time for Johnny to show what a master thief was all about…or at least until he failed a roll to pick the locks on his shackles. Then he failed a strength check. Then he failed a dexterity check. Then he failed pretty much every other roll in his arsenal. I can’t remember how exactly Johnny got out of his cell, but that just goes to show how unprepared I was for life as a thief. What to do next? Well, in order to simulate the idea of thinking fast, James, my DM brother, gave me only enough time until his fist dropped to his lap. Because I freaked out and couldn’t think of anything on time, the guards came through the door and threw me back in my cell before shackling me to the wall again. And then Johnny Glass was back to square one.

So I rolled a lock pick check and failed. I rolled a strength check and failed. I rolled a dexterity check and failed. Whatever rolling tactic I used to try to break free, it failed. And then…James mercifully pulled a Deus Ex Machina out of his ass. There just so happened to be another thief in the cell with me. He asked, “Do you want to get out?” I said yes, so he unshackled me and opened my door. That was it. I was a free man. All I had to do was wander down an underground maze and my freedom would be solidified. One drawback to all of this is that I got no experience points for what I went through. I figured I wouldn’t get them anyways since I wasn’t involved in any fights. But that’s not how thieves gain experience points. Fighters get them through fighting. Wizards get them through casting spells. Thieves get them by being sneaky as fuck. I don’t know how I would have gotten those points since I failed all of my rolls.

I wouldn’t get the answer until a few years later when James put me in another prison campaign, this time with a different character. He was shackled to the wall. His cell door was locked. There was a loony tune in the room with him who wet himself. The piss was traveling like a river toward my general vicinity. So what did I do? James gave me advice this time: use my surroundings to my advantage. There was a pile of stones next to where I was sitting. I smashed the stones against the shackles and evaded the slow-moving piss trail. That was somewhat satisfying. But I have to ask: wouldn’t the builders of this prison have foreseen this happening? What exactly is a pile of rocks doing next to shackled prisoners? That to me is even more of a Deus Ex Machina scenario than Johnny Glass being let out by a cell mate he never knew he had.

So…what can be learned from this experience now that I’m a storytelling adult? First of all, I should probably ask the DM what my surroundings look like so that I’m more aware of what the fuck’s going on. It feels like such a minor detail to ask for, but authors have to do this too when describing an unfamiliar setting. They don’t want to describe too much, but just enough of the relevant parts to create visuals in the reader’s mind. Okay, so Johnny Glass can’t pick his way out of prison. What else can he do? Provided there are no stones this time, he could hoot and holler until a guard paid attention to him. Then he can hide in the shadows to make the guard think he’s gone. When the guard investigates, Johnny could spring on him and strangle him with the shackles. He grabs the key and frees himself. Wah-lah!

There are lots of ways in which a thief can be clever. There are lots of ways in which a player can be just as much of a storyteller as the DM. The biggest lesson above all else…be prepared for the role you’re playing! Study your characters! Refine them! Develop them! Give your elven thief a reason for being called Johnny fucking Glass! Maybe it’s not racism from humans, but racism from within. Maybe he’s the Candace Owens of elven lore. Or maybe he just wants to blend in, like a forty-year-old woman named Karen. The more you know about your characters, the more solutions you can come up with for their problems. I wish I would have invested this much time into developing characters for my first draft novels. Fixing them would have been a hell of a lot easier! Thank you, Johnny Glass, for opening my eyes. You can open yours too since the bartender wouldn’t let you have that beer after all.

Help Me, Walter Hollywood

 He lights a cigarette, compromises his health

Fresh lungs don’t matter in this neo-noir hell

Every day someone is murdered and forgotten

Until the corpse makes the streets smell rotten

“Help me, Walter Hollywood,” says the dame

Every transaction starts to all sound the same

An envelope of cash, smoke the last of the ash

Hope to god her lover isn’t thrown out like trash

But before he slings the questions around town

Obligatory sex scene with hushed moaning sounds

Almost makes the lover a complete afterthought

But there are bills to be paid, killers to be caught

Every fedora-wearing wise guy takes a swing

Until Walter’s eyes water, nose bleeds, ears ring

Anymore snooping and he’ll be full of bullets

Take his scalp until he’s only left with a mullet

Walter taps the dame up for a little more money

She laughs like his misery and bruises are funny

Admission of failure is just another part of the job

She winks one more time and turns the doorknob

Another body just washed up on the riverbank

Bricks around his ankles ensured that he sank

His face was so familiar despite the taped mouth

And the two black eyes and his nose cut out

Finding the lover was as easy as reading the paper

Nothing about this mystery made Walter feel safer

The money he was paid made him look like a hit man

Police would arrest him, lock him up with a big man

Capitalism made people do the weirdest things

Wait tables, scrub floors, stand on the streets and sing

Taking unclean money seemed like the way out

Why isn’t the dame’s freedom in any kind of doubt?

It’s a system that abuses everyone who struggles

Locks up the failures with big men who snuggle

Gangsters and politicians sip from a glass of wine

And every femme fatale continues to look so fine

Born to Trauma Bond

VERSE 1

All my enemies are fighting with AK-47’s

And all I’ve ever had was a wet toothpick

Might as well raise my tattered white flag

Because anything else would just be useless

We sign the peace treaty at the break of dawn

They get to have all the gold and the silver

All I ever get is some scraps from the table

Asking for more means bringing out the killers

CHORUS 1

Stop telling me to man the fuck up

A thick skin doesn’t mean jack shit

To a kid who was born to trauma bond

Until the day I’m fitted for a casket

VERSE 2

Everyone and their uncle push my boundaries

Until there’s nothing left to knock over

Could fight them off with a bastard sword

Until they leave me punch-drunk, never sober

And when every broken bone is finally healed

I still come out of it looking like the villain

They controlled the narrative from the first word

It’s what they pass on to their budding children

CHORUS 2

Stop telling me to grow a set of balls

A heart of stone isn’t in my nature

I’m a kid who was born to trauma bond

With every lover and every little hater

BRIDGE

They say I’m too sensitive

It’s a hallmark of my generation

I just need some military instruction

To shake me from my comfy situation

They say if I can’t handle the heat

I should fuck off from the kitchen

I should cowboy up and lock and load

And most of all just quit my bitchin’

VERSE 3

Word of advice to the assholes of the day

Don’t teach me how to shoot a gun

One of these days, I just might use it

A bullet is something you can’t outrun

You’re cocky and arrogant, what else is new?

You also have some narcissistic tendencies

One of these days, I’ll catch you slipping

And spill the blood of my favorite enemy

CHORUS 3

Stop telling me that being brave is easy

When you’re blessed with your privileges

I’m a dude who was born to trauma bond

Just like a good model American citizen

Stop threatening to put me in prison

When you’re the one who deserves it

If it means I don’t have to trauma bond

I’ll pump you with lead like I’m in the service

FINAL VERSE

I’m free from the prison of my mind

But now I’ve got brand new confines

A hellhole with bars on all four sides

And some beatings if I dare even cry

The cycle of abuse begins yet again

Every orange suit is my new best friend

Every guard is my brand new mommy

Be sure to open wide for the salty salami

We Love You, Alejandro Cherrystone

 Every last page of his love letter collection

Breathed new life into his bloody erection

“We love you, Alejandro Cherrystone!

We can do it in your cell or on the phone

We know you’ve skinned your victims raw

We know you broke a prostitute’s jaw

We know you mutilated neighborhood pets

It doesn’t make us lust for you any less”

Every last page of the dirtiest magazines

Is filled with beauty nobody’s ever seen

Long black locks and androgynous lips

Tight black Speedo clinging to his hips

A six-pack that he worked hard to sculpt

Smooth legs that could start his own sex cult

It’s easy to forget his towering body count

Even when formaldehyde assaults your snout

Every last page of the stenographer’s notes

Crushes every baby girl’s romantic hopes

A heart like his could never be warm

Neither could his corpses left out in the storm

A life behind bars is what he so deserves

Not to be sexed up by the youngest of pervs

Not to be a wet dream for teenage queens

There’d be no debate if he looked like a fiend

Every last page of his death certificate

Makes claims of innocence insignificant

Stabbed to death with a rusty shank

While making a deposit in the sperm bank

Shower water washed away his blood

And the mess left by his supermodel butt

Never mind leaving flowers on his grave

Unless it’s necrophilia which you crave

Every last page of his docudrama script

Now smolders in a pyromantic abyss

No glory for killers, no cinematic thrillers

But compensation for his victims’ tear-spillers

They don’t have to forgive for Jesus’ sake

If Alejandro was alive, he’d continue to take

Never giving back to the world he bloodied

Except for hybristophilia to his favorite honeys

Rest in piss and we’ll see you in hell

This is the only story we should tell

Until the next killer casts a horny spell

Until the next cult forms, oh fucking well

3 From Hell

MOVIE TITLE: 3 From Hell
DIRECTOR: Rob Zombie
YEAR: 2019
GENRE: Serial Killer Horror
RATING: R for violence, language, and nudity
GRADE: Fail

Being a naysayer isn’t easy for me, especially when the director is a musician I’ve seen twice in concert and own every album of. I went into this movie with an open mind like I always do. And really, who wouldn’t want to watch a bloody movie with gritty dialogue and three serial killers for main characters? You’ve got Otis Driftwood, a Charles Manson-like murderer with a nihilistic agenda and the mouth of a sailor. You’ve got his half-brother Foxy Coltrane, who howls like a wolf and shoots like a redneck. And then you’ve got Baby Firefly, Otis’s psychotic sister who could basically be described as Harley Quinn on steroids. The performances of these three characters were…kind of convincing? I guess? Maybe their body of work in this movie was overshadowed by the cheesiness of the story and side characters. That’s unfortunately a theme going into this review: cheesier than a pepperoni pizza. Some people don’t mind cheesiness. Me? It became too much for me.

One of the ways in which the cheesiness hampers the film is in the violence. Stabbing, shooting, skinning, torture, these are all things that are supposed to look disturbing on the screen, especially considering this movie is in the horror genre. But something about these killings made them lackluster. Maybe it happened too often to be special. Maybe it’s recycled bloodshed from movies of the past. Or maybe there’s not a whole lot creative about stabbing and shooting in the first place. Even the scene where a Mexican gangster is burned alive felt like a moment of meh. While Otis, Foxy, and Baby were all convincing as serial killers, they didn’t actually scare me to the point of this movie qualifying for the horror label. The actors did everything they could to bring the bloodshed to life, but it wasn’t enough. Something was off about this brand of violence and I can’t quite put my finger on it. I wanted to care, but I couldn’t.

Something else that bothered me was the idea that the antagonists had multiple chances to off the three killers and they didn’t capitalize. These antagonists had guns, knives, and everything in between. They even had numbers on their side and still couldn’t get the job done. You know what really sets the tone for this theme of going too easy on the killers? In the beginning, they were shown getting life-saving treatment at the hospital just so Captain Spalding (from the previous Rob Zombie movie) could die by lethal injection and be replaced by Foxy. If these killers are so dangerous, why even bother saving their lives? Why bother giving them their own fan club? Yeah, I know hybristophilia is a real thing, but even that came off as cheesy and forced.

Are we going to get a fourth movie in this Rob Zombie franchise? Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? If the negative reaction to 3 From Hell is any indication, then maybe it’s time to hang up the boots. Perhaps if there is a fourth movie, it’ll rejuvenate the franchise. But getting the audience to go to that fourth movie would require a lot of faith, most of which was broken by this cheesy effort called 3 From Hell. A failing grade goes to this piece of horror cinema. I wanted to like it, but I couldn’t get into it, especially as the story progressed and somehow got boring after the initial shock wore off. This movie is no good. Sorry, Rob. You tried.

"They Called Us Enemy" by George Takei

BOOK TITLE: They Called Us Enemy

AUTHOR: George Takei

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Political Memoir

GRADE: Extra Credit

In 1942, over 120,000 Japanese-Americans were taken away from their homes and placed into dingy prison camps all over the US. They did nothing wrong, but had none of the legal means to prove it to the racist authorities. They were paying for the sins of their home country after the Pearl Harbor bombing. Classic ignorant thinking at its worst: because a small minority of the group committed the crime, the entire group is guilty. George Takei spent most of his tender childhood living under this kind of oppression as he and his family were among the Japanese-American families locked up in internment camps. Reading about this shameful experience through his eyes makes everything that much more heartbreaking. His young mind couldn’t comprehend the ignorance of those in charge. He tried to make sense of the barbed wire enclosures, deplorable conditions, and abusive army guards. Fast forward into adulthood and George Takei does everything in his power as an equal rights activist and Hollywood actor to make sure this terrifying history doesn’t happen again.

This graphic novel is nothing short of a brutally honest look into the politics of fear. Powerful politicians will use their influence and charisma to rile up their supporters into believing that the less fortunate are what’s wrong with this country. We saw it with the Japanese internment in George Takei’s book and we’re seeing it today with the Muslim ban, the family separation policy at the Mexican border, and black people getting harsher treatment from law enforcement than whites. The one thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history. But it doesn’t have to be this way. This book has the power to educate its readers. When you familiarize yourself with your fellow world citizens, you’re less likely to judge them. That’s what “They Called Us Enemy” means to me and that’s one of the reasons it’s getting a perfect five out of five stars. The more educated we are, the better off we’ll be. That means leaving behind comfortable bigotry and thinking about what it’s like to be the other guy, which is often a horrifying reality.

But of course, there will always be those contrarians out there who say, “It wasn’t all that bad!” These same people say it about black slavery, they call Mexican border detention centers “Summer Camp”, and they’ll no doubt say it about Japanese internment camps. Having guaranteed living conditions doesn’t mean those conditions are necessarily good. Did I mention the barbed wire fencing around the camps? Did I mention the abusive treatment from the soldiers? What about the fact that George Takei’s family had to live in a horse stall that smelled like rancid feces? What about the infighting among Japanese prisoners who joined the military to prove their patriotism and the prisoners who stayed in the camps to protest? Had enough harsh reality? But wait, there’s one more juicy detail: institutionalization. Some prisoners were so familiar with the routine life of the camps that they couldn’t imagine getting back on their feet in a normal society. Now imagine a child as young as George Takei feeling that way upon leaving the camp. You get to see all of this through the author’s eyes whether you want to or not. It won’t be pleasant, but it’ll be a necessary kick in the butt for the apathetic and fearful.

Despite the shortness and quick pacing of the book, you will feel as though you’ve taken an entire US history course in one sitting. Let this be a message to you all. Treat your neighbors with kindness and respect. Treat your inferiors with the same level of understanding and love. If you see an injustice happening, don’t stay quiet. Be the activist you were meant to become. Be a passionate enough voice in this battle for equality that those in power will have no choice but to listen. Let your words haunt them like schizophrenic ghosts. Will this change anything? Let me put it this way: we don’t have a choice but to activate our activism. The world can’t survive without making progressive leaps and bounds. That is the nature of time. Any questions?

Low Bar

You’re still nicer than a murderer in prison

You’re still tougher than a newborn kitten

You’re still smarter than dirty toilet paper

Still more put-together than a meth taker

Still wiser than a screaming kid on a plane

You’re still a better brother than Cain

You’re still a better writer than E.L. James

Still more tolerable than hemorrhoid pain

Still more beautiful than a razor-fanged demon

Still more innocent than a pedophile’s semen

Still healthier than grandpa on his deathbed

Still less ironic than a rapist going to heaven

Still younger than the corpse of Cleopatra

Don’t let these low bars become a distraction

You wanted some good news for once

This is all I’ve got and it was what it was

I’m sorry the universe is working against you

I should say that for the whole earth too

We’re all in this together, are you in or out?

If you do nothing, there’s no reason to shout

Bad days will come and go like everything else

If you’re up for it, let’s storm the gates of hell

Good news won’t come unless we make it so

This opportunity is yours to claim or to blow

The Crazy Ones

The background bickering should have been an obvious harbinger of things to come for Tai. But all that clouded his imagination was Mother Nature’s most beautiful features. Rolling ocean waves washed away the harsh noise. The mountain breeze cooled him off. The desert sun baked him like a batch of fresh cookies. An angelic harpist plucked her strings while her gorgeous voice haunted his mind. Tai could have stayed in this meditative trance forever had it not been for two cellmates who didn’t have gorgeous voices of their own.

“You are such a goddamn idiot!” yelled Electra Shadowwolf, her barbed voice snapping Tai’s eyes open. Of all the muscles on her barbaric frame she could have used that day, she decided her index finger was the most powerful one as she pointed at her partner in crime.

Diesel Reznor swatted Electra’s hand away with his dragon claws and snapped, “This is your fault, you dumb bitch! I don’t know why you’re pointing that ugly ass finger at me! You should be pointing that shit at yourself!”

Tai held his exposed skull in his hand as the dragon man and the barbarian’s conversation degenerated into a cacophonic mess. He couldn’t even tell what they were saying anymore. “Could you two shut the hell up for a minute?” he calmly said to no response, just more shouting. The way their voices echoed off of brick prison walls gave Tai an explosive migraine. He wished someone would smash him over the head with a club and give him a permanent route to peace.

When the throaty voices began to give him schizophrenia, Tai sat up from his cross-legged position and slowly approached his arguing comrades. Despite having a creepy skeleton in an orange kung fu robe staring them down, Diesel and Electra’s attention spans remained on each other and the screaming continued to give aneurisms to anybody who listened.

“Shut!” belted Tai as he snap-kicked Diesel in the stomach and doubled him over. “Up!” He did the same to Electra, causing both of his cohorts to cough and wheeze. Tai didn’t wait for them to catch their breath. He grabbed Diesel by his purple scales and Electra by her brunette hair.

“You two dimwits had one job,” Tai silently seethed. “One…fucking…job. All you had to do was guard the front entrance and you couldn’t even do that correctly. That’s why we’re in here and as far as I’m concerned, it’s both of your faults.” He gave them both a gorgon death stare and whispered, “Shut your asses up and let me meditate. If I have to tell you one more time, I’ll kick you in the head so fucking hard you’ll forget how to wipe your own asses! Are we clear?”

Electra’s fearful expression showed that she understood loud and clear. Diesel, on the other hand, shoved Tai to the ground with one clawed hand as soon as he regained his breath.

“You’re just as much to blame as we are,” Diesel argued while Tai glared at his opponent, unafraid. “If you’re that good at kicking somebody’s head off, why didn’t you do it to the goddamn guards?” Diesel burped, his saggy belly wiggling over his black trousers. “You’re supposed to be some kind of ninja samurai badass, right? Well, all I saw back at the bank was a skinny little prick! And why the hell was I the one guarding the door? I should be the one smashing heads and taking names!”

“You know…it’s not too late to give it a try, you fat bastard. Go ahead. I’m lying on the ground. I’m practically begging you to show me what you’ve got!” said Tai, waving a hand over to Diesel to summon him over.

“Speaking of idiots!” said Electra, her beefy arms crossed over her fur tunic. “If you morons keep this shit up long enough, the guards will throw us all on solitary! We need a plan! We need to talk to our fucking lawyers!”

“You really think some piss-ant public defender is going to get us out of here?” growled Diesel, his scaly nose inches away from Electra’s cavewoman visage. “We’re done for, Electra! This is the last hurrah! And besides, is it really that bad being in solitary confinement? I could use a vacation away from you two dorks!”

Tai nipped up and scowled at Diesel. “And how exactly are you going to benefit from being in a dark room all by yourself? You’d go crazy within the first five seconds. You’d have tears running down your disgusting face like a goddamn waterfall. At least I have my meditation to keep me at peace. You? You’ve got a whole lot of nothing going on in that thick skull of yours. Then again, thinking never really was your strong suit and if it was, we wouldn’t be in jail right now.”

“You little bitch!” snorted Diesel, throwing the first punch in this eventual battle. His heavy arm whooshed right past Tai’s ducking head. Diesel threw another punch and missed again. Then he attempted a kick to Tai’s ribs, but got his leg caught by the wily skeleton.

Tai wagged his finger at his opponent before laying backwards and cinching in a leg lock on Diesel’s thick calf. The dragon fell backwards and wailed in agony while Tai twisted and cranked on the leg. Diesel even tried tapping out, but Tai cinched tighter and tighter while Electra watched on apparently not knowing what to do or who to cheer for. A bone snapped and Diesel’s screams were even more obnoxious and annoying than when he was arguing with Electra, who stood in the corner with her hand over her mouth in shock.

Tai nipped up and gazed down at his writhing opponent, shaking his head in contempt. He then fixed his wicked stare upon Electra, who shook uncontrollably at what she’d witnessed. “You’ve got a problem?” asked Tai, who stepped on Diesel’s injury on his way to hunting down the barbarian woman before him. “I asked you a question, you ditzy piece of fuck. I said…is there a problem?!”

Electra’s breathing intensified and her eyes widened as she slowly dropped on her butt. “Guards! Help!” she cried out, prompting Tai to grab her by the throat and yank her back up to her feet. His skeletal fingers squeezed her trachea until blood leaked from behind her teeth. In one last desperate attempt at freedom, Electra threw a weak punch to the side of Tai’s temple, but he just smiled and shrugged it off.

“I love it when my favorite women scream for me. Maybe that’ll be something I can meditate on once this is all over.” Tai took a bite out of Electra’s face and chomped off her nose, causing blood and brains to spew out from the gaping hole. While she choked on her life juices, Tai grinned widely as he slowly masticated and swallowed Electra’s nose. “Delicious! It can’t be any worse than the food they serve here in prison, am I right?” No response, only chokes. “I said am I right?!” Too late. She plopped on the ground in a necromantic mess.

“Where are the goddamn guards?!” whined Diesel as he tried to crawl backwards to whatever safety he could muster.

“Funny you should mention that, Diesel. I’ve been asking the same question since you botched our bank robbery. I never did get the answer I was looking for. That’s okay. I don’t need one.” Tai stomped on Diesel’s broken leg repeatedly until it was completely detached from his body. Blood pooled out of the dragon’s wound and his screams became weaker and weaker. Tai smiled down upon his former friend and stomped on his sternum, rubbing his foot in the wound and exploding his massive, fat-covered dragon heart.

“What the hell’s going on in here?!” shouted one of the guards as they rushed in from behind their post. They stared with horror through the bars at the bloody scene: Tai smiling like a demon while Diesel and Electra laid on the ground mangled and obliterated.

The martial arts skeleton mockingly did backstrokes over the puddle of blood on the ground while asking, “Well, boys…are you going to take me to my special little room? Have I been a bad boy today?” Tai laughed like a savage as the guards unlocked the door in a big fucking hurry and yanked him by the arms to solitary confinement.

The darkness soothed Tai’s nerves and kept that hideous grin plastered to his bony face. “Ah…no more idiots screaming at each other. I can finally relax.” He did just that. He sat cross-legged on his bed. He dreamed of the mountain breezes. He bathed in the cool waters of the beach. He breathed in the cologne-like scents of the forest. Diesel and Electra argued about stupid shit. Again. And again. And again.

“No…no…NO! Stop it! Make them go away! Let me out of here!” shouted Tai as he clutched his skull in agony. He could scream all he wanted, but nobody would hear him except the darkness itself and the schizophrenic voices that haunted his mind. Electra and Diesel’s bellyaching grated against his ears. The vessels in his brain enlarged as if they were ready to pop at a moment’s notice.

Then the bank guards taunted him. Then the angel with the harp played the same annoying tune over and over again. If only somebody would smash Tai’s skull in and put a permanent end to his agony. But how does he look for a tool of suicide in such a dark place? Where were the walls? Where were the bars? Where was anybody? “HELP ME, I’M BEGGING YOU!” Nobody answered. Nobody cared.