Crossfade vs. The Amazing Yen from Ocean's Eleven

 

All joking aside, it's great to see Crossfade back on the road again. I missed them.

Pull a Knife

VERSE 1

Respect for authority, agree with the majority

Keep the peace, you should only be seen

And never heard, not a single word

Will come from your lips or they’ll rap the tips

Of your fingers with a ruler, you little grammar-schooler

Some rap the knuckles, either way your knees buckle

Stand up to injustice? Do that, you’ll get busted

Assume the position, it’s your life’s ambition

 

DIALOGUE

That all sounds well and good, but I’d rather…

 

CHORUS

Pull a knife! Take their wallet!

Accountability is what I’ll call it!

Pull a gun! Steal their purse!

I don’t care if it makes things worse!

 

VERSE 2

Words have failed, now your life has derailed

Now it’s punches and kicks, stones and sticks

Violence is the language of pain and anguish

Because the rules don’t apply to the suits and ties

The rules mean nothing when the shotgun’s pumping

Shells in the heads of the poor and underfed

It’s kill or be killed, I’ll die on this hill

It’s either you or them, who’d be better off dead?

 

DIALOGUE

I’d love to sing kumbaya with my killers, but I’d rather…

 

CHORUS

Pull a knife! Take their wallets!

Accountability is what I’ll call it!

Pull a gun! Steal their purse!

I don’t care if it makes things worse!

 

BRIDGE

Are they scared of the city? They made things shitty

Flooding the streets with guns and heat

Flooding the veins with heroin, cocaine

Cutting the funding, now the cops go hunting

Expect obedience? That shit’s so devious

Has the opposite effect of what it all meant

What’s the use? You got nothing left to lose

Nothing’s more dangerous than a bullet up their anus!

 

CHORUS

Pull a knife! Take their wallet!

Accountability is what I’ll call it!

Pull a gun! Steal their purse!

I don’t care if it makes things worse!

Do it like Robin Hood! Do it like Luigi!

Scrape their remains off the sidewalk with a squeegee!

They created a monster! Created a killer!

They debate all they want, but it’s background filler!

Pull a knife!

Pull a gun!

Pull a bazooka!

It’s the end of the world, let’s have some fun!

Chainsaw Channing Lugar

VERSE 1

Channing’s paycheck couldn’t buy him a feast

But he’s got beer and Netflix, at the very least

That’s what he gets for selling power tools

At the hardware store right out of trade school

Last thing he needed was the store to be robbed

What was there to steal? Nails and door knobs?

His nightmare came true at his work one day

“Stick them hands up or I’ll blow your ass away!”

VERSE 2

Robber opened the cash box and collected wallets

An act of patriotism is what he will call it

He needed the money to overthrow the “gum mint”

Buy some big ass bombs and some cool gun shit

He turned his back for a second too many

Just when he tried to squeeze out the last penny

Channing Lugar fired up the chainsaw

Morphed from working class stiff to a pain god

VERSE 3

The chase took place across several blocks

Robber left a trail of urine from his cock

Shit from his ass blew a hole in his jeans

Channing smelled Hooters steak and green beans

Even COVID deniers wanted to wear masks

Breathing human sewage is an unenviable task

Not nearly as bad as blood from the slash

Mutilation by chainsaw, corpse in the trash

VERSE 4

Is Channing Lugar a hero or a killer?

Not a rhetorical question or pointless filler

So many questions from lawyers and cops

They wade through blood and biological slop

Local news called him Chainsaw Channing Lugar

Said, “Hold my beer!” to Jason and Kruger

Going too far only works if you’re rich

Powerful too, not a working class bitch

All You Ever Gave Me

If the stack of papers on Rosalina Grayson’s desk got any higher, her apartment would need a sunroof. Her grading assignments would be even more repetitive since her students insisted on using the “raindrops on the window” device every…single…time. In her mind, the definition of insanity wasn’t doing the same thing and expecting different results. It was grading the same papers and expecting a reprieve. “I need a bottle of beer. I need one now.”

She strolled down the street to El Segundo Convenience not giving two shits or a flying fuck if her fleece pants and wool sweater gave off an air of laziness. She washed her long brown hair that morning, so that was a plus. Hopefully, the smell of deodorant would cancel out the booze odor that was about to float from her mouth like an acid rain cloud. Being single and having no roommates would have made masking the beer stench obsolete, but still…

She adjusted her glasses and trudged through the entrance of the convenience store, bell clinging, but nobody calling out to welcome her. Then again, being welcome wasn’t a feeling she was used to among students she gave a shitty grade to. The more she dwelled on the inevitable, the more appealing that bottle of Olde English was. In fact, it seemed to have a heavenly golden glow the closer Rosalina got to it. When she untwisted the cap and took a sip, it was like liquid heaven soothing her dry throat.

“You can’t drink beer in the store,” said the clerk behind the counter.

“Sorry about that. How much do I owe you?” Rosalina approached the counter and her eyes lit up just a little bit when she saw who was jockeying the register. “Raf? Rafael Ortiz? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Miss Grayson.” Underneath his puffy black hair was a facial expression that reeked of tiredness and disappointment. His ratty gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans showed that he gave even less of a shit about this job than he did before. “That’ll be three dollars for the beer.”

Rosalina dug a five dollar bill out of her pocket and paid for the beer, continuing to drink it now that it was accounted for. “How’ve you been? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Congratulations on getting that degree.”

“Eh...” Rafael crossed his arms and rubbed his temples like he was trying to send a subtle message wanting to be left alone.

“So…what are you writing these days?”

“Nothing.”

Rosalina chuckled. “No, seriously, come on, what are you really writing these days? You’re an English major. You’ve got to be writing something.”

Rafael’s tone was slightly amplified when he placed his hands on the counter in frustration. “That’s what I said, I’m not writing anything. At all.”

Rosalina gave an awkward frown. “Oh…I see…So let me see if I’ve got this straight: you spent all that money getting an English degree and you don’t write anymore? Raf, you had potential.”

“I had all the potential in the world, but all you ever gave me was a fucking C+.” He went back to folding his arms and sulking.

“Wow. Do you talk to all women like that or just the ones who give you legitimate criticism? See, that’s your problem, Raf, and that’s what a lot of students these days don’t get: whenever a teacher gives you a mediocre grade, it’s never personal.” Rafael gave her an incredulous look. “Okay, maybe not with all teachers, but for my class, it was never about getting personal. Just because I gave you a grade you didn’t like, doesn’t mean I didn’t think you had potential.”

“Potential doesn’t pay for groceries, Miss Grayson, much less for a bottle of Olde English.”

“That’s true. And that’s why you have to keep working on your craft, so that you don’t get mediocre ratings anymore. The more you do something, the better you’ll get at it. If nothing else, you’ve got a degree that you can wave in people’s faces whenever they give you a hard time.”

Rafael slammed his palms on the counter, leaving a tiny scratch in the glass above the lotto tickets. “A degree? A degree? You mean the world’s most expensive piece of paper?”

“Okay, I’ll admit that college is way too expensive for my liking. I’d love nothing more than to have progressive politicians do something about this, but…”

“It wasn’t just you, Miss Grayson.”

“…Pardon me?” She took another sip of beer hoping he wasn’t going to say what she thought he was going to say.

“You weren’t the only one who thought of me like that. You want to know what my GPA was when I graduated from college?” Rafael leaned in closer. “Two…point…five…”

“…Ouch…yeah, that stings…”

“It does sting. And I happen to be allergic to venomous stings.”

In the middle of sipping her beer, Rosalina gave an approving, “Mmm!” Once she had a clear mouth, she pointed at Rafael and said, “See that? That’s a good line. That shows you have potential. Personally, I would have taken out the word venomous, but other than that, you could use that line in a story someday. Or a poem, either way.”

“Miss Grayson…listen to me…” Rafael’s voice lowered to an intense hush. “I don’t have potential. I never did. That’s why I work here now: because it’s the only job that will let me make at least a little bit of a dent in my student loan debt. Nobody would pay a penny for the words I’ve written. In fact, one teacher said I should be the one paying him.”

“Okay, that’s a little overboard, I agree, but…”

“Miss Grayson…I’m going to die behind this counter. That’s not a suicide threat. That’s not a prediction. That’s a prophecy. This is the only job I’ll ever be good at…what? Something wrong?”

Rosalina sighed in disappointment. “You forgot to give me my change for the beer.”

Rafael opened the register and gave her two bucks. “I guess that doesn’t make me a very good clerk, does it. Almost worthy of a C+, right?”

She tucked her head and almost missed her pocket when she put away the change. “Actually, I was thinking more like a D-, but they’re practically the same thing…at least in your mind, anyways. I’m sorry that my class was a waste of time for you. Have a nice life, Rafael. If you ever want to change your mind…I’m in the directory…maybe…I don’t know…” She sighed in defeat. “Goodbye, Raf…I’m sorry you don’t believe in yourself…”

“It was bound to happen one way or another.”

“I guess so.” Rosalina trudged out of the store sipping her beer the entire way. The more she thought about that conversation, the bigger her swigs became. She didn’t even care if she was stopped by a cop for public intoxication. Maybe she belonged in prison for the crime of denying an entire generation their dreams. She crossed the street, not caring about the honking car almost hitting her. She was lost in her own world as she continued sipping her beer.

At first she thought nothing of the screaming going on in the convenience store. Something about opening the “goddamn register”? Something about not being a “hero”? None of those things mattered nearly as much as the sound of gunfire, which caused Rosalina to drop her beer bottle on the ground and retreat for cover behind a garbage can. She held her knees to her chest and shivered while the robbers fired even more bullets and swore like sailors. The crash of the register echoed in her ears and made her tuck her head further into her knees. Her only saving grace was the sound of gangsters laughing and driving away with their stolen loot.

Rafael was right. He was going to die behind that counter and he just did. He never did have potential because corpses didn’t pen the next great American classic. Rosalina wanted to think that a necromancer in somebody’s story would bring Rafael back to life and make his memory immortal again…but immortality was never meant for mediocre students. All that promise…gone. His soul was crushed by his 2.5 GPA and his body was crushed by a hailstorm of bullets.

All Rosalina had to say about this was…”I need another beer…”

She could have just as easily went back into the store to grab a freebie, but she didn’t want to see Rafael’s body mangled by bullets. She couldn’t even hear him breathe. All those grating noises…and then there was just silence. No spitting up blood. No shallow breaths. He was gone. All gone. But in reality, it was the college, Rosalina included, who pulled the trigger, not the robbers.

“I definitely need another beer…”

"The Blade Itself" by Marcus Sakey

BOOK TITLE: The Blade Itself

AUTHOR: Marcus Sakey

YEAR: 2007

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Crime Drama

GRADE: Pass

Seven years ago in the darkest parts of Chicago, Irish thugs Danny Carter and Evan McGann attempt to rob a pawn shop only to get caught by the owner. Evan murders the owner in cold blood while Danny runs away from the scene to avoid getting arrested. Evan takes the fall and winds up in a maximum-security jail. Fast forward to the present day and Danny has a new life for himself: a construction job, a beautiful girlfriend, and cozy living arrangements. When Evan gets out of jail for “good behavior”, he begins stalking Danny and muscling him into doing one more job at the threat of killing his loved ones. Danny wants to keep his normal life, but knows that he’s running out of options when it comes to helping Evan get one last score.

In order to get as good as he is at writing crime fiction, Marcus Sakey shadowed police detectives and conducted his research up close. The effort put into such research is evident in “The Blade Itself”. Mr. Sakey knows all of the angles and limitations a criminal or cop has to go through just to get by. He knows when it’s appropriate to do one thing and when it’s best just to hang back. As he states multiple times in the story, this isn’t like a cop drama on TV. There are no easy solutions in the criminal underworld. Danny Carter constantly finds himself getting trapped in his situation with Evan and is desperate to try anything. He can’t go to the cops, he can’t confront Evan himself, and he can’t rely on anyone else to help him. Danny is truly on his own and he’s going to need every bit of street smarts to get himself out of this mess. The sense of impending doom is every bit as realistic as it is genius storytelling.

Let’s talk about Evan McGann for a minute. His characterization as a hardened criminal with bulging muscles, a swift mind, and nasty dialogue is legitimately terrifying to think about. The way he talks about “prison queers” is unsettling, especially considering he breaks into Danny’s apartment uninvited and tells him all about it. Evan truly has all of the cards in this game whether it’s political leverage or physical brutality. That makes him a main villain to be taken seriously. One wrong move around him could mean one more dead body to leave in his wake. He’s not just a big bulky guy with Golden Gloves experience: Evan McGann is a psychopathic monster. He keeps his cool while terrorizing Danny and his loved ones; that makes him even scarier than he needs to be.

Lastly, I’d like to talk about the writing style Marcus Sakey employs. Yes, the story moves at a brisk pace, but he still takes the time to be as descriptive as possible. Every punch to the ribs, every psychological trauma, every sour feeling in Danny’s stomach, the reader feels all of that while getting treated to street smart and vulgar dialogue. There’s even one time in the book where Marcus refers to Evan as “The Architect of Danny’s sorrow.” There’s another time where Mr. Sakey refers to Danny as “The Engineer of his boss’s suffering”. The author doesn’t overdo it with these wonderful descriptions, but it’s just enough to keep the reader imprisoned in this violent and frightening world, much like the way Evan McGann was imprisoned in a maximum-security jail for seven centuries, I mean, seven years.

The Blade Itself is realistic, crafty, violent, and smoothly-paced. There’s not a whole lot more you could ask for in a wonderfully-written book like this. Nothing seems out of place, no stone is left unturned, and no death or assault will be in vain, neither will the tears shed nor the trauma experienced from those violent acts. Danny is an imperfect hero, Evan is a smothering villain, and everybody else’s lives are placed in both of their hands, for better or worse. A passing grade shall go to this awesomely-crafted piece of crime fiction that keeps you guessing what’ll happen and reaching for solutions until the end.

Nail Bomb

Riding public transportation can be a daunting task all by itself, judging from the peculiar characters who occupy those bus seats. On this particular day in cyberpunk city, it was downright dangerous. The city bus had its usual colorful characters such as the war veteran with a loud voice, the old man who wanted to know how everybody’s “trading stock” was doing, the mentally ill woman who was talking to herself, and the overweight mother of a baby she never made any effort to keep calm while the little one screamed like a demon.

The only person on that bus who wasn’t bothering anybody and was only minding his own business was the black hoodie-donning Psymon Nordonus. The only movement he made was with his head bobbing back and forth to “Killpop” by Slipknot on his MP3 player. Such aggressive heavy metal was sure to block out the cacophony of weirdoes, all of which were being ignored by the hefty bus driver.

Psymon was barely looking out of the corner of his eye at the large mother and the war veteran arguing with each other. At least one time during that conversation, both parties reminded each other that America was a “free country”. No, Psymon didn’t actually hear that, but he had been around those kinds of people before. Pathetic, he thought to himself.

The verbal spat turned into a shoving match and the baby in the stroller was even more obnoxious to listen to than before. Once the woman was shoved into her seat again, a baldheaded baby doll dropped out of the stroller and started coming to life. The sudden animation put everyone back in their seats as they watched on in terror. This doll was jerking around like it was being electrocuted and then started dancing like a creepy ballerina.

When the little guy in the stroller refused to stop crying, the doll sprayed him with green gas and knocked him into unconsciousness, to which the mother also passed out due to the fright of it all. “Ah, that’s much better!” the baby doll said to itself. The mechanical nightmare started yelling “booga-booga-booga” at everyone and causing them to jump out of their seats. Things really got horrifying when the doll revealed it had a bomb strapped to its back and a dead man switch in his hand.

“Alright, you disgusting cretins, listen up!” screamed the doll. “My name is Baby and I’m here for one reason: to collect all of your wallets and gadgets! You hand them over to me and you can all go home happy! If not, I can let go of this goddamn switch and send a rainstorm of nails flying in every direction! Ooo, the thought of that much blood splattering all over the place gives me the chills! It must be one of those ASMR things!”

The war veteran, whose voice suddenly dropped a few octaves, said, “Listen here, Baby. I don’t keep a wallet on me. I’m just a beggar trying to make enough to get by. It took an entire tin can full of coins just to get on this damn bus.”

Baby’s neon red eyes shot up in mock surprise before the wicked doll pretended to cry like his namesake suggested. He even rolled around on the floor and kicked his legs for added dramatic effect. When the homeless veteran knelt down to see what was up, he was greeted with a metallic head butt to the skull, opening a gash on his forehead and knocking him into a deep slumber.

“You little scumbag!” shouted the doll. “I don’t give two shits if you’re a bum off the streets or a ghetto whore living on welfare! You’re handing your belongings over to me or I’m going to take my thumb off of this goddamn button!”

The bus driver had no idea what to do but to keep driving, as if any release from the acceleration pedal was going to aggravate this terrorist doll some more. He barely had the strength to softly say, “That gentleman needs to see a doctor. He could die.”

“Keep driving, you donut-munching lard-ass! If you even think about going to a hospital or anywhere else where there’re cops waiting, I’m turning this entire bus into a reverse porcupine! Hell, there are already enough pricks on the inside, so I guess it doesn’t matter what I do with the dead man switch!” threatened the evil doll.

One by one, the bus patrons threw their wallets, change, and electronic devices on the floor without further resistance. Baby laughed like a wicked hyena as he went around collecting these items to put in a garbage bag. While he was scooping up his riches, he felt a sudden jolt that bounced his head in all directions and shot out a few sparks. This only lasted seconds and he was back to his old form in no time.

As soon as he recovered from that shock, Baby had eyeballs on the one man he neglected to extort: Psymon Nordonus, who continued to rock out to his heavy metal like it was just another day on the bus.

“Son of a bitch…” said Baby to himself as he walked over to Psymon and kicked him in the ankle to get his attention. The mysterious passenger shook off the slight pain, pulled his hood backwards, and took off his headsets.

“Can I help you with something?”

Baby smiled sarcastically and said, “Yes, I would like something. I want two pieces of chicken, a buttermilk biscuit with extra butter, a large order of French fries, and an extra large Diet Coke to wash all of that down. I can only do so much to watch my weight.” The cuteness was over when Baby screamed, “What do you think I want?! Didn’t you hear a damn thing I said?! Are you crazy?! Have you been listening to that god-awful music this whole time?!”

Psymon said, “Hey, don’t diss Slipknot, okay? They may look like a bunch of serial killers with those masks, but those guys know how to rock. Take a listen and judge for yourself.”

Baby ripped the MP3 player from Psymon’s hands and pressed the volume all the way down so that he didn’t have to listen to the “god-awful” music. “Word of advice, shit head: the next time you try to be a smart-ass to someone with a nail bomb attached to his back could be your last! Seriously, there’s nothing stopping me from letting go of this button right now! I could just lift my thumb and bam, you’re all dead!”

The metal head cleared his throat and said, “Well, that seems to be our situation. I have no idea what being blasted with a nail bomb feels like and I don’t care to find out. But seriously, man, you should try that music sometime. It’ll set your soul on fire, bitch.”

“I’m warning you!” yelled Baby as he raised the MP3 player with his good hand. He was about to lash out at Psymon when he finally saw what was on the device’s screen. Coding. Lots and lots of coding, particularly of the zeros and ones variety. “What the hell? Were you trying to hack into my system? Is that what the jolt was? Oh, that’s it! I’m taking this bus to hell right here and now!”

Before Baby could lift his thumb off of the dead man switch, Psymon made a split second move to hold onto the detonator with one cyber arm and tap the screen on his so-called MP3 player with the other. The last thing Baby saw before dancing and jolting into oblivion was the fact that Psymon Nordonus was a true cyberpunk in every sense of the word. This bus was only supposed to be full of “losers” and “wash-ups” who gave up on their dreams. A vigilante hacker? Not in a thousand years would Baby have anticipated that.

With one square-toed boot, Psymon kicked out the window and threw the thrashing Baby out with his hand on the detonator. When he released it, the storm of sharp metal nails exploded all over the outside of the bus. They dented nearby cars on the highway and cracked a few windows. The drivers were pissed off as evidenced by their obnoxious honking, but otherwise unharmed.

“Driver, get this thing to a hospital. That guy still needs your help,” ordered Psymon, to which the driver complied. Everyone on the bus was in silent shock. The most fearful response in this entire vehicle was traumatic shaking. The real baby started to come around and was crying painfully yet again. The mother? She was snoring the ride away while other people were tending to the unconscious veteran’s wounds.

Going back to his usual introverted self, Psymon didn’t lose himself in an MP3 player this time, but to the computer chip he snagged from Baby’s body before throwing him out of the window. It was marked as property of the DX-Corporation, a fact which made Psymon smile to himself and say, “Oh, the fun I’m going to have with this thing when I get home. You bitches are dead.”