The Brown Ranger

***THE BROWN RANGER***

When I was a kid growing up in the early 90’s, I watched a lot of Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers. There was something about martial arts-loving high school students in colorful spandex suits and motorcycle helmets that made me believe in delicious violence. My favorite Power Ranger was always Tommy Oliver a.k.a. the Green/White Ranger. I don’t know what it was about him that I liked so much, but he was my favorite as well as my brother’s favorite. Maybe I kept having sympathy for him when Rita Repulsa kept trying to take his powers away. Maybe I wanted him to shack up with Kimberly a.k.a. the Pink Ranger. No matter what appealed to me about the show in general, I never forget my creative roots. Hip-hop music helped shape my poetry and Power Rangers helped shape my love for violent stories.

I’ve tried on two different occasions to bring the Power Rangers back into my life through the power of writing. I had to tread carefully both times because I could potentially be sued if I published these stories as my own (despite acknowledging that the Power Rangers are someone else’s property). The first attempt was a black comedy short story called “Kill the Power Rangers”, where a little fan girl named Wendi Kael was doing badly in school and would only do her homework at her stepfather’s threat of “killing the Power Rangers”. When Wendi tried to call his bluff, she found corpses all over the house dressed up in Power Rangers outfits, most notably the Blue Ranger with a garden hoe up his ass (get it? Because the actor is gay? Hee-hee-ho-ho…ugh). While the synopsis of this story made a lot of people laugh, I eventually had to abandon it due to too many plot holes and a painfully obvious Deus Ex Machina ending.

And then we have the second attempt at a Power Rangers homage with a novel idea called “The Brown Ranger”. Mind you, this never actually became a novel and the synopsis is no longer in my archives, so I’m flying blind here. The premise was that Rita Repulsa’s new monsters were too powerful for the original rainbow-colored rangers, so Zordon has to recruit a Bad Santa-esque loser named Shawn Hamlet to be his Brown Ranger. Shawn, who is an avid beer drinker and pot smoker, believes that Zordon is high on drugs himself if he thinks Shawn would make a good Power Ranger, let alone one whose uniform is the same color as shit. It takes a while for Shawn to accept his responsibility as earth’s guardian, but he eventually makes the most of his brown uniform by yelling, “Eat shit, motherfuckers!” as he charges into battle. I guess this too could be considered black comedy considering the main character’s penchant for swearing and drugs, both behaviors completely opposite of what normal Power Rangers preach.

So the question now is, what should I do with these two ideas? One was scrapped, the other never happened. If I had a chance to do them over again, I would. If I knew of a legal loophole that allowed me to use the Power Rangers name, I would exploit it. You could say that I could just publish these stories as fan fiction, but that’s not enough for me. I want them to be official works of mine and not just stories that are at the mercy of the legal system. I suppose I could use parody names, but where’s the authenticity in that? Author problems, ladies and gentlemen. Author problems.

But wait a minute…does the Brown Ranger actually have to be a Power Ranger? Can he instead be a D&D-style ranger who wears all brown and uses shit-themed insults on his opponents? Imagine littering in the forest and having to deal with Shawn Hamlet sticking a knife in your throat. If Carl Hiaasen wrote fantasy novels, this is how it would play out for sure. Maybe it’ll have more creative methods of violence than a knife threat, but you get the idea.

And now that I think about it, parodies aren’t so bad when applied correctly. If I wanted to keep the theme of Hiaasen-esque environmental terrorism, I could call them The Flower Rangers. They could dress up in hippie-themed spandex and save the world from oil tycoons who want to build pipelines in the most inappropriate places. Maybe the Flower Rangers (or the Brown Ranger in particular) could have been perfect foils to the jerk-offs who tried to build a pipeline through Native American burial grounds in North Dakota. So many ideas. So many goddamn ideas. I can actually feel my brain wake up after such a long time in exhaustive mode. Hehe!

But why should I have all of the fun? The question of the day, to you the audience, is how would you book The Brown Ranger? Yes, I know I just used a wrestling term (book), but you know what I mean…hopefully. How would The Brown Ranger play a pivotal role in whatever novel you were writing? Is he an environmental terrorist? Is he an army ranger? Is he a role model for small children? Is he sewer dwelling warrior? If you’ve got an idea you’d like to throw in the mix, feel free to let us hear it. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

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

The new contest started yesterday and the theme this week will be “Round Table”. Any medieval literature fans out there will know where a lot of authors at the WSS will take this prompt. For me personally? I’m doing something a little more autobiographical. In the style of the Awkward Behavior posts in my Garrison’s Library blog, this story will be called “Weirdo Alert” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1.      Denny Smith, Bodily Functions Gimmick

2.      Louise Bradbury, Barista

PROMPT CONFORMITY: The tables at the coffee bar are round.

SYNOPSIS: Louise is working at a coffee bar at the mall when Denny sits down at one of her tables with a gigantic bucket of ice cream. As Denny eats the ice cream and slops it on himself, he also draws attention by blowing his nose loudly, gagging on his snot, and farting horrible stenches. Louise has to do something before all of her customers walk out on her.

OOC: I sure have a lot of American Darkness 2 characters with “Brad” in their last names. Actually, the only other two characters like that are Beth Bradshaw (D&D cleric from Emoticon Artist) and Eric Bradley (schizophrenic millennial from Cold and Scared).

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

In the wake of Marie Krepps creating a new book cover for and advertising the hell out of Occupy Wrestling (to which I give my never-ending thanks), my next Dark Fantasy Warrior will be one of Keegan’s monsters. He’s a scythe-wielding, psychopathic skeleton named Riley Warpthroat. Marie used to jokingly call him “Really Deepthroat”, but make no mistake about it, this monster is one of Mitch McLeod’s toughest opponents, especially during a time in the story where the World Champ is being worn down from all of these battles.

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

(I think I just found the perfect intro for a song in Necrograph called “Why Are You Laughing at Me?”)

SMALL BOY: That Lacey Sturm is so pretty! When I grow up, I’m going to marry her!

CROWD: Hahahahahahaha!

SMALL BOY: W…why are you laughing at me?

CROWD: Hahahahahahahaha!

SMALL BOY: (sniff)…(sniff)…Why?

ACTUAL SONG CHORUS: Tell me why! Why are you laughing at me?! / Tell me who! Who should I try to be?! / Tell me what! What the fuck is your deal?! / Tell me how! How should I fucking feel?!

Blood Brawl, Chapter 2

Horace, the host at the Dragon Wings Orc Bar, wasn’t giving into any racial stereotypes of being an aggressive brute. On the contrary, he felt weak after the previous night’s events, which were fresher in his mind than a gushing slash wound. The interior of the bar had been reduced to ashes by that…thing. There was hardly any furniture left and the few tables and chairs that survived the assault were covered in blood and ashes. The counter was among the survivors and looked no better than the rest of the furniture.

The distraught bartender stood at the counter absentmindedly running a dirty dish rag along the insides of the same mug for ten whole minutes. With his only customers turned to worm food, it didn’t matter to the public what his state of mind was at the time. His traumatized brain was about to be flooded with cold numbness when he saw a figure standing in the doorway in a black trench coat and a hood wielding a scythe. Horace dropped to the ground and cowered in fear thinking he really was dead after all.

Horace’s heart thumped in his chest and his body had gone cold with dripping sweat. Not another trauma, damn it! And then the orcish voice said, “It’s alright, Horace, it’s me, Ivan. The bartender slowly stood up and saw that the voice indeed belonged to Ivan Blackstone, an orc warrior who for some reason loved to dress up like the grim reaper and carry a scythe to boot. Ivan casually said, “Yeah, I know, weapons aren’t allowed.” before depositing his blade on the ground.

The bartender was both relieved and argumentative at the same time when he continued wiping his mug and said, “Listen, I don’t need a lecture about what happened last night. I’m not in the goddamn mood for another scare. So if you’re not going to order anything to drink, I suggest you take your soapbox somewhere else.”

Ivan slammed his palms on the counter (which spooked Horace into a little jump) and drummed his fingers while giving the barkeep a despising glare. “What did you think was going to happen when you allowed those two to fight each other? Does anybody take kindly to having their head shaved after getting their ass kicked? Do I also need to remind you that Gargoth Trencher, the one who lost that ‘wrestling’ match, was not just this ‘death angel’ everyone’s talking about; he was my best friend.”

“If you consider that monster to be your friend, then you’ve got some fucked up social skills, kid.”

“Anybody who runs a wrestling league from their bar doesn’t have the right to criticize other people’s social skills. Besides, all this death angel chatter is news to me as well. Gargoth didn’t look anything like that when I tried to talk him out of coming here. No warning signs at all. An arrogant prick? Maybe. Hardheaded? Absolutely. Death angel? Never would have guessed it in a million years.”

Still wiping down the same mug, Horace said, “So you think there’s some hocus pocus bullshit going on here? Hell, I’d probably learn some magic too if someone was bold enough to shave my head. That death angel gig can be pretty nice after losing a wrestling match.”

Ivan grabbed Horace by his shirt and pulled him closer for an even more intense stare down. “If you’re suggesting that Gargoth did this on purpose, then you’ve got more problems on your hands than a messed up bar. You’ve got a pissed off best friend to deal with!”

Horace’s initial fear was replaced with screaming anger when he said, “Best friend?! You call that monster your best friend?! You’re actually making excuses for someone who’s beyond redemption?! I always knew you were loyal to your friends, Ivan, but this is downright evil! Take a look around you, buddy! Look at all those burned corpses! Look them in the eyes and tell them your little theory about how Gargoth Trencher is an innocent man! I’m sure if they were alive today, they’d completely understand!”

The trench coat-wearing orc found himself unable to argue with that point and let go of Horace’s shirt. The bartender went right back to cleaning his glass when Ivan finally pointed it out to him: “You realize you’ve been wiping that same glass since I got here, right? Do you even know where the hell you are right now?”

The frustrated host threw the glass on the ground and stomped on it several times, “Of course I know where I am. I’m in hell! And there’s no way out! Come to think of it, you’re in hell too, my friend! It’ll only get worse when your so-called best friend lays those fiery eyes on you and turns you to shit with just one stare!”

“Trust me, Horace, I’m ready to scour the earth for Gargoth. This isn’t just about friendship. This is about getting the answers that I deserve. Maybe your dead patrons won’t like my innocence theory very much, but they probably would like some answers, at least their families would.”

Horace made a flat tire noise and said, “Okay, so you think you can find him before every other bounty hunter does. That’s right, buddy. If I know King Lovelace like I think I do, he’s probably offering hundreds of thousands of gold pieces just for that bastard Gargoth’s head. He doesn’t offer that kind of money unless the bounty head is really goddamn hard to find. So, not only do you get to play chit-chat with your little butt buddy, but you also get to make some money off of the whole thing. If I had that much money, I’d stop walking around dressed like the grim reaper.”

“Money? You think I give two shits about the money?” said Ivan Blackstone in an angry whisper before clutching Horace around the throat and squeezing with his muscular hand. “I swear on my mother’s grave, Horace, if you make one more shitty comment about my friend like that, I will rip out your liver!”

The bartender would have passed out if Ivan didn’t release his grip shortly after hearing a noise from upstairs. Horace sat on the ground coughing up spittle, snot, and blood while sucking in every last breath of air he could. Ivan picked up his scythe and tried to make his way up the stairs to the attic when Horace stopped him with harsh words.

“That’s right, Ivan! You keep on defending that piece of shit! You keep telling yourself that he’s being controlled by someone else and this whole death angel gig is just a ruse! I’m sure even you will believe it someday!” Horace sucked in deeper breaths and said, “But know this…although I could never beat your ass in a fight, there’s someone out there who will have had enough of your bullshit and will rip YOUR liver out!”

Instead of engaging in another heated struggle with Horace, Ivan frankly said, “We have a spy in our midst. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to be able to find whoever’s up there!” The scythe-wielding badass stormed up the stairs and into the attic, where the light, fast-paced footsteps confirmed to Horace what Ivan just said.

By the time Ivan made it to the top, he scoped around the dingy and dusty cluster bomb of whiskey barrels, but whoever was up here before was giving him a good slip. The squirrel-like footsteps sounded off from seemingly in all directions. Ivan’s eyes shot around everywhere until from out of the corner of his right eye, a pair of booted feet flew toward him and smashed him in the face. The orc was knocked backwards by the stinging, possibly bruise-forming kick, but he didn’t fall on his ass until tripping over a barrel.

Ivan was only slightly dizzy from that drop kick, so while he was lying on the ground, his vision was clear enough to spot a young female human rogue dashing toward the glass window and throwing another drop kick to break it open and make her escape. Such a powerful kick would have been enough to keep normal men down.

But this wasn’t any normal man. This was Ivan freaking Blackstone. He may not have been an orcish stereotype, but one thing he acknowledged as part of his race was his ability to endure beatings. He got up instantly, grabbed his scythe, and ran toward the window after whoever was spying on him and Horace. He screamed, “Get back here, you sneaky bitch!” and then jumped out the window himself in pursuit of this mysterious lady.