Roger Waters: This Is Not a Drill

Last night at the Tacoma Dome, Roger Waters continued the North American leg of his concert tour called This Is Not a Drill. It was a show full of great rock n’ roll music and left-wing politics, both of which I’m a huge fan of. It started out with a subdued version of Comfortably Numb (with thunder and lightning in the background) and went right into the antifascism with The Happiest Days of Our Lives and Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2 and 3. This show churned out the most badass version of Have a Cigar I’ve ever heard. Equally badass were songs like In the Flesh and Run Like Hell. He debuted a two-part song called The Bar, which was described as a community where people can come together and be themselves without fear of judgment. If it wasn’t for me having to wait fifteen minutes before the show to use the toilet, this night would have been completely flawless. Before driving to the Tacoma Dome, I ate at a restaurant called The Southern Kitchen and drank lots of lemonade with my meal (chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, and macaroni and cheese). A bladder the size of a snow tire was a distant memory compared to this wonderful evening with Roger Waters, one of my all-time personal heroes. I have my dad to thank for introducing me to Pink Floyd. I have my brother James to thank for driving me to Tacoma despite his tiredness. And I have Roger Waters to thank for putting on my favorite concert of 2022. Wash THAT all away, Five Finger Death Punch! Oh, I kid Ivan Moody!

Wrong Target

VERSE 1

You wanted to be Rambo, but now you’re Elmer Fudd

You’ll never be Chtulu, you’re just a discount CHUD

You wanted to be Bernie, but now you’re Adolf Hitler

You’ll never be my assassin, you’re just a time killer

CHORUS

Wrong target! X2

VERSE 2

You can’t be Robin Hood if you shoot your own foot

You can’t be Katniss Everdeen, just a spoiled teen

You’re coming after me and you have no reasoning

You’ve got the wrong target, now you’ve got bad karma

CHORUS

Wrong target! X2

BRIDGE

I’m not your mortal enemy, I’m not your worst nightmare

Yet you strangle me with razor wire, always pulling tighter

I did nothing to you or the ones you hold near and dear

You’re probably drunk as shit, I can almost smell the beer

VERSE 3

You wanted to be Floyd, but now you’re Justin Bieber

You got your education from a Scottish math teacher

You used a double negative, now you’re ground meat

All in all, it’s a brick wall, now take your fucking seat

CHORUS

Wrong target! X2

Pimp Daddy Edge Lord

 VERSE 1

It’s the year 2000, so grow a set of balls

Get your individuality from Pink Floyd’s Wall

Watch ECW like it’s going out of business

Arena covered in blood as god as my witness

You’re too good for corporate ass-kissing

Too underground with your vinegar pissing

Photoshop videogame chicks into bikinis

Give yourself a reason to stroke your weenie

Watch Newgrounds videos until your brain rots

Watch Dragon Ball Z while smoking crack rocks

Play Tekken and become a badass karate master

Play DOA and become a future boyfriend faster

Become a comedian who punches down low

Smoke fifty reefers in a motherfucking row

No way the pen is mightier than the sword

Such is the life of a Pimp Daddy Edge Lord

CHORUS

Pimp Daddy Edge Lord! X4

VERSE 2

You’re a grown ass man, all the jokes are gone

Now it’s time to figure out what’s right and wrong

The edgy shit that you’ve come to depend on

Leaves you an empty shell singing a sad song

There’s a world out there that needs your help

Good intentioned politicians pave the road to hell

The old you is now a ghost of your distant past

Along with the jokes about fucking some ass

“Georgie-Porgie pudding and pie

Fuck the girls, make their pussies cry”

You laughed back then, but it’s disgusting now

Like the way you compared fat people to cows

Like the way you compared every race to animals

Like the way you wrote a cook book for cannibals

We’re ready to fight, are you standing beside us?

Or have you always been a slacker-ass D-minus?

CHORUS

Pimp Daddy Edge Lord! X4

BRIDGE

The world is in ruin and you are a shoe-in

To be the next savior of misbehavior

Population is sick while you stroke your dick

To the machinegun chick holding dynamite sticks

The country is fucked and it’s going to suck

But you’re still in luck, you’ve got your big truck

You couldn’t let go of your comedic shit show

Enjoy the next civil war, Pimp Daddy Edge Lord

CHORUS

Pimp Daddy Edge Lord! X4

Meat and Pudding

The putty-faced student marched down the hallway at the instruction of her teacher. She was to remain a few steps behind at all times, never once complaining or having an opinion about any of this. There wasn’t even to be a suggestion as to this meeting with the schoolmaster being a luck of the draw punishment. No opinions or critical thinking of any kind, just marching. The dragons, elves, ogres, and faeries that danced around her brain were reduced to meat shreds by constant conformity. She didn’t mind. She was never meant to mind.

“Halt!” shouted the teacher, to which the student complied. The teacher knocked on the door, awaiting for the schoolmaster to let them both in. There was some hasty wrestling going on in that office. But the putty-faced zombie student had no opinion of it. Once the familiar Scottish accent ordered her to come in, the teacher opened the door and in marched the student like a good little girl.

The door slammed shut and all that remained was a dimly-lit office with books on shelves and degrees mounted on the wall. None of those books probably contained dragons, barbarians, or knights, and the nameless slave didn’t care. Her weary eyes peeked through her clay mask at the Scottish schoolmaster sitting at his desk, drumming his fingers and scowling at her. His white moustache was enough to give away his age and every elderly stereotype that went with it. His black robe and square cap gave away every ounce of authority he had over her, a mere zombie student in a blue blazer, plaid skirt, and brown leather shoes. And that mask. Oh, that mask.

“I understand you’re wondering why you’re here,” said the schoolmaster in a low and sinister voice. “I can assure you it has nothing to do with the constant whining, missed assignments, tardiness, and everything else your generation is known for. It’s not just you, lassie. It’s the student body in general.” He smirked. “Student body.” There would have been a chilling feeling in the student’s stomach if she was capable of critical thought.

“I brought you here today…because I need to vent…and you are going to listen to every last syllable…” The schoolmaster slammed his palms on the desk and stood up halfway. “I hate this job. I hate the people I work with. I hate the ungrateful bastards who goof off in my class like it means nothing to them. I don’t have time for little goblins who don’t take their education seriously. I could just as easily walk off school grounds tomorrow and wish a pox on this entire place.”

He sat back down and folded his hands. “But I won’t do that. You know why? Because I learned the other day that it wasn’t the job itself that was dreadful. It was because it was…missing a certain something. I need something to make my job more…enjoyable. More fun. More satisfying. Work is boring. But you, my lady…you’re not boring at all…In fact…you’re just what I’m looking for.”

The student trembled, but not enough to give away true emotions. The schoolmaster continued. “Do you know why I make you and so many other students wear that faceless mask? Because then, and only then, do I not have to see the look of anguish on your faces when I do what I do. No face equals no guilt. No squinting eyes equals no shame. As much as I like to laugh at the Twilight nonsense of the world, the author managed to get one thing right.” He stood up and revealed that he wasn’t wearing pants underneath his robe. His sausage-like penis lifted the hem of his robe, maggots crawling around it. “The one thing she got right…is that girls with no ambition…are wildly sexy!”

As he slowly crept around his desk, the student’s trembling became more obvious as she backed up against the office door. He continued. “No ambition means no objections. And no objections means…free consent!” His demonic snickers morphed into howling and cackling while his red meat erection grew longer and stronger. “Come to me, my sweet Mary-Sue! Let’s make both of our existences…a lot more fun!”

The dragons and elves in the student’s mind were screaming to be free, screaming for her to snap out of his conformist haze, screaming for her to stand up for herself. She shook some more. She dropped to her butt as the schoolmaster got closer, his yellow fingernails unsheathed. He reached down to touch her neck, most likely wanting some foreplay, some tender moments with his underage pupil.

And then…the student let out a shriek of terror. The schoolmaster reflexively pulled his hand back and covered his own ears, the shriek growing more unbearable by the second. The student stood up and struggled to untwist the doorknob. The schoolmaster wasn’t deterred for long as his yellow fingernails gently raked down her back and his sausage poked her in the skirted bum.

He whispered, “If you don’t eat your meat…you can’t have any pudding…How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat? That starts to take on a whole new meaning, doesn’t it, lassie?”

There was nothing zombie-like about adrenaline chilling the student’s body like a morgue freezer. She stomped on the schoolmaster’s foot and had him hobbling around like a lunatic. She finally opened the door and stormed down the hallway screaming. But there was no such exit for her. Clay-masked pupils formed a wall in front of her and gazed into her soul with empty eyes. On her other side, teachers and administrative staff glared at her while one teacher bounced a ruler in her hand.

The two sides closed in on her every so slowly, playing the roles of zombies to a T. The schoolmaster pushed his way to the front of the teacher wall and snickered at her some more. The closer they got, the less oxygen the putty-faced girl had at her disposal. She clutched her chest in an effort to stay alert, dizziness spiraling through her mind like a stroke. And then her saving grace came in the form of a steel door, which she threw open and bolted down at top speed.

She pumped the brakes as soon as she saw what this was a hallway for: a meat grinder pit clanking and clobbering in search of its next conformist meal. A dead end and a dead body: such was the way of compulsory education. The zombie students, angry faculty, and Scottish schoolmaster blocked the doorway, making both of the student’s escape options result in death or worse. The schoolmaster stalked down the catwalk and edged the student closer to the meat grinder. She did her best to stay balanced, though her dizziness began to cripple every limb on her body.

“Do you want an A+, lassie? Do you want to graduate? If you want that A+…you’ll have to take a D first!” The schoolmaster’s image blurred in and out of focus, the student swearing she was going to faint at any minute. She needed something to hold onto. A railing on the catwalk? Her own trembling legs? No. The piece of maggot-infested meat that dangled from the schoolmaster’s crotch. His smile revealed nicotine-stained teeth and a slathering tongue. “What are you waiting for? Stand still, lassie!”

“Oh, you big tease,” the student flirted. “Uh-oh. Did I just form an opinion of my own? Too bad!” With one yank of his slimy meat, the masked student pulled the schoolmaster past her and launched him into the mincer. Those blocking the door gasped in horror at their one true master being reduced to farmer’s shreds and parasites. He could have worn a mask to hide his pain, but that wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying to the student, who removed her own mask in defiance and threw it into the grinder.

“Just so there’s no confusion, I had a name all along. My name is Jennifer Heath. In my humble opinion…I think this school SUCKS!” More gasping erupted from the crowd. Jennifer lifted her dimpled face defiantly and said, “I guess you’ll have to expel me now. But what will I do with my life? Maybe I can work at McDonald’s and serve up some Quarter Pounders coming from yours truly!” There was a collective, “Eww!” from the crowd.

“Oh, don’t act disgusted!” Jennifer snorted. “If you’re willing to allow a pedophile to run your school, then you have no business pretended that something I said was gross. Why did you let him work here anyways? How many more of you had he fucked?!”

“Watch your language, lassie!” said a random teacher while pointing a ruler at Jennifer.

“Or what?! You’re going to hit me with that little stick?! I’m sure some of you have been hit with a much bigger stick in your day.” The faceless students tucked their heads in shame. “Am I wrong? Am I?!”

Suddenly, the students and faculty had a stare down. Opinions were allowed again, not by the authority, but by someone who dared to resist it. The faculty began backing off and holding their hands up defensively. The students were much quicker on the draw. They threw their masks to the ground and stampeded the teachers with riotous force. They screamed obscenities and threw down with their elders, while the stuck-up teachers begged for help. Their authoritarian ways were all an act. They were tough up until the students sung a different tune.

One of the teachers scrambled into the meat grinder catwalk with Jennifer in an attempt to catch his breath.

“We don’t need no education…” sang Jennifer.

“Yes, you do. You just used a double negative.”

Jennifer Heath cracked her knuckles and smiled at her next victim. The teacher swallowed a cannonball-sized lump as it dawned on him what was coming.

George Floyd the Wall

VERSE 1
Son-shine’s gone up to heaven
Abuse of power was the weapon
A wide shot for the viral streaming
And now a nation is left screaming
And now a nation is left screaming!
All in all, it was just a 9-1-1 call
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls

VERSE 2
We don’t need no execution
We just want a revolution
No guns or tear gas in the streets
We will not cower in defeat
No! We won’t cower in defeat!
All in all, it’s just another 9-1-1 call
All in all, it’s just another 9-1-1 call

VERSE 3
I don’t need your lame excuses
I don’t need human rights abuses
Now that our backs are against the wall
Your racist empire will be the next to fall
Yeah! Your racist empire is the next to fall!
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls

FINAL VERSE
Goodbye, George Floyd
I say in a trembling voice
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
Goodbye, Mr. President
There’s no real reason to keep you elected
Goodbye…

"What I'm Not" Officially Canceled

***”WHAT I’M NOT” OFFICIALLY CANCELED***

It’s not often than I scrub a piece of creative writing I did off the face of the internet. The last time I did it was in 2014 with a PG-13 erotica short story called Tainted Love. Six days after my 29^th birthday, this stinker managed to piss off the entire world with the way I objectified the lone female character and glorified her Stockholm Syndrome. I own that black eye on my track record and promise never to do those horrible things again. So what could I have possibly written this time that would deserve such a thorough cleansing from the web? I’ll tell you what it was: the first and final episode of What I’m Not.

I’ve had the idea for What I’m Not for as long as I’ve been fantasizing about having a You Tube channel. Many of my closest friends encouraged me to do my own You Tube project and I’ve been hesitant to give it a try, for fear that the ungodly amount of stress would send me into a schizophrenic hell all over again. But let’s say for instance that I had the guts to bare my soul to the world in front of a phone camera. What I’m Not was supposed to be a vlog series detailing all of my worst mistakes as a semi-professional author. In other words, it was a cautionary tale to rookies to not fuck up as badly as I did. I made the mistakes so nobody else would have to.

In theory, this would actually be a good idea. I don’t have much in the way of writing expertise except for what not to do. I still can’t craft a 3D character worth a damn. I still don’t know what the fuck a “character-driven story” is. What I’m Not would have been a comedic and lighthearted look into my worst decisions. So when I wrote the first episode, which was about admitting unemployment to strangers, audience members, and bosses, I decided to have a little fun and pepper in some jokes here and there. I was so excited to have this episode written that I didn’t even proofread the damn thing before posting it. That in and of itself would have made a fine idea for a What I’m Not episode.

When I finally read what I had written (twice), I was frozen with horror. There’s no way in hell writing this awful could have come from my imagination. I’m not even talking about first draft standards, because let’s face it, all first drafts by their very nature suck. This episode was by far, no exaggeration, the WORST thing I had ever written. It was so bad, in fact, that I scrubbed it from the internet before it had the chance to be critiqued. At least with the first draft of Beautiful Monster, it had potential despite the glaring flaws in the way I handled the subject of rape. At least with the first draft of Silent Warrior, it was…well…something! This episode of What I’m Not was a disaster from the get-go. It had no such potential. My big fat ass cat Oswald could have written a better episode than this and all he does is lie around and piss himself while waiting to die.

The tone of this episode could only be described as a whiny rant. I whined about my job hunting past. I whined about classism in dating. I ranted against people who were just trying to be nice and make small talk with me. All of this was supposed to be done in a comedic tone, but trust me when I say there was nothing funny about what I had written. A burning orphanage is funnier than this. Childhood cancer is funnier than the garbage I had written. Lily Singh’s “comedy” is funnier than…eh, you get the point by now. Wouldn’t want this blog entry to be a whining mess either, so I’ll quit while I’m ahead.

After I had wiped this episode from my social media pages and taken a few deep breaths to chill my anxiety, I questioned whether or not future episodes of What I’m Not would be just as bad as this one was. Fearing the answer might be an emphatic “fuck yes”, I decided going forward that the What I’m Not series had to be permanently canceled. I’m sure there’s a market for advice on what not to do as a writer, but I’m not the salesman. Not anymore. But did these episodes have to be funny? In my mind, they did, because that was the only thing they had going for them. If I tried to make the episodes serious, it would have sounded even whinier than before.

While my social media accounts have a small audience, You Tube would have had a lot more eyes on it. Can you imagine if I translated my writing into a video and a gajillion people saw it? I consider myself fortunate that I can toe the line between a private citizen and an internet personality. This is not a microscope I want to find myself under. This is not a hill I want to die on. If I ever decide to do a nonfiction series again, I’ll need a different topic and it’ll have to be a topic that doesn’t require a comedic edge. I can be funny from time to time, but not all the time. I don’t have the charisma to keep my funny streak going forever and ever. Drama is much easier than comedy, but whining will not be tolerated.

Will I ever create a You Tube channel given that What I’m Not turned out to be a dud? I think I’m more comfortable writing my nonfiction out instead of being in front of a camera. Yes, I know that staying in the comfort zone is supposed to be a bad thing, but then again, so is falling so badly on my ass that I can’t recover. My You Tube audience wouldn’t have let me hear the end of it. At least on Deviant Art, Good Reads, and Blogger, I don’t have to worry about supreme failure, because the audience for those platforms is smaller. But a small audience won’t bring me a great deal of success. Then again, success doesn’t always amount to fame and fortune. Everyone’s idea of success is different and sometimes it doesn’t mean being glared at under the world’s most powerful electron microscope.

If this blog entry sounds too whiny to keep my message consistent, I apologize profusely. I don’t know who was really looking forward to the What I’m Not series, but it’s been officially canceled as of now. My main priorities at the moment will be editing Beautiful Monster, reading my books, drawing my pictures, and watching my movies. Drawing and movie watching in particular are both excellent ways to get away from the writing grind and restore some of my lost energy. Sure, I write reviews for every movie I watch (Star Wars Episodes VII-IX be damned), but at least I have the energy to do those by the time the movie is over. Funny how that works out. As far as Beautiful Monster is concerned, I still have chapter seven staring me in the face, but that’s okay because it’s not a time sensitive project. Editing jobs aren’t supposed to be. Slow and steady wins the race. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I want to go home, take off this uniform, and leave the show. But I’m waiting in this cell, because I have to know: have I been guilty all this time?”

-Pink Floyd singing “Stop”-

Bands With Gimmicks

***BANDS WITH GIMMICKS***

I can’t remember the exact year, but Nickelback frontman Chad Kroeger once gave an interview where he poked fun at Slipknot for relying on their horror mask gimmicks too much. As much as I love listening to Nickelback, I’m going to strongly disagree with Chad on that one. Who said gimmicks have to be a bad thing? Why can’t bands have fun gimmicks AND fun music. Slipknot frontman Corey Taylor rightfully put Chad Kroeger in his place, saying he has a face like a foot among other topnotch insults. You know the meme, “What does Corey Taylor think of this?” Now you know.

But in all seriousness, what’s wrong with having a gimmick? It’s not just limited to bands, either. Pro-wrestlers have gimmicks. MMA fighters have gimmicks. Artists have gimmicks. Basically, if you take any profession and add a character quirk to it, congratulations, you’ve got one fun-loving motherfucker. A corporate suit with a gimmick? Sure, it can happen. Suppose a corporate stooge walks in the office one day wearing a Slipknot mask and blasting “People = Shit” from his smart phone. I’d want to hang out with that guy all day long!

Having a character trait of some kind doesn’t detract from the actual profession. In fact, as a writer, I encourage it in my characters. I want to write about abnormal characters with creepy face paint. I want to write about elven warriors with superhero costumes. I want to write about highway drifters who dress like Prince. If there was ever a time to talk about three-dimensional characters, a fun and goofy gimmick could be one of those many dimensions.

But let’s get back to the topic at hand, which is about musical acts who use gimmicks in their art. Chad Kroeger can be as bland and vanilla as he wants, but gimmicked bands have been around since rock and roll was even a thing. Pink Floyd could be considered a gimmick band, especially with the many trademarks surrounding their act. The putty faced masks, the floating pig, the rainbow prism, the ass judge, basically, anything from The Wall could be considered a part of Pink Floyd’s gimmick. They made an entire movie out of that album, so who says gimmicks don’t mean anything? By the way, that movie is one of my favorites of all time, not just as a musical, but as a full-fledged story about a man going absolutely bat-shit crazy.

You know who else has a gimmick to go along with their music? Ghost. Their lead singer dresses in a Pope outfit and has creepy paint all over his face. His band mates wear black robes and demonic masks. Their presentation has satanic symbols all over the stage, which reflects a lot of their lyrical content. Ghost is a fun band to listen to and see live, which I’m about to figure out for myself this coming September when they come to Seattle. Yeeeeeeee!

Any other bands with gimmicks? Babymetal has an anime gimmick. Starset has a space opera gimmick. Rob Zombie and Marilyn Manson both have horror movie and satanic gimmicks. Not only do these bands look awesome in concert, but they also produce high quality music to boot. So again, what’s wrong with a musician having a character trait? Anybody? Can anyone answer this without sounding more vanilla and ignorant than Chad Kroeger? Maybe Bill Maher would like to weigh in on this topic. Just kidding, we already know he’s a boring person!

So what kind of gimmick would you like to see in your own characters? A skull-decorated necromancer? A heavily-tattooed alien warrior? A fiendish goblin with a fiery dagger? The possibilities are as endless as your own imagination. But not all characters in your stories have to have gimmicks. They don’t have to be elaborate, especially if they’re passive side characters who don’t add a whole lot to the story. That’s okay.

But if your character drives the entire story, he’d better be interesting in some way. He doesn’t have to have pentagrams tattooed all over his pale body, but he does need to capture your reader’s attention and hold onto that motherfucker for the rest of the story. While gimmicks aren’t always necessary, they shouldn’t be shrugged off so easily by the conformists of the world. In fact, I’d dare say we need a…corrosion of conformity! See what I did there?

I know you all are waiting for me to give examples from my own writing of gimmicked characters (you totally aren’t). So here they are. Beautiful Monster’s main villainess is femme fatale with a libertarian business model and a penchant for vanilla ice cream. Beautiful Monster’s main hero is an elven warrior who worships a lion god and lashes the shit out of his opponents with a chain whip. Incelbordination’s main villain is a Matrix parody who complains about not getting laid and exacts vengeance with a machete and brainwashed followers. Incelbordination’s main hero is a dwarf with a boxing background and plenty of angry reasons to use his fists. Need more examples? Here’s one…

From 2016 to 2017, I wrote a first draft novel called Demon Axe, a chosen one narrative about a titular heavy metal band with a dark fantasy gimmick. They wear robes on stage, they wear creepy masks, they drink bubbling potions before they perform, they have satanic symbols everywhere, and the lead singer’s microphone looks like a war hatchet. This story only a shitty first draft and it’ll be a while before I take it to critiqueville, but I’m proud of it all the same. Plus, Demon Axe brings us back to the original topic of this blog entry being about musical acts. Yay!

Got any fascinating gimmicks you want to talk about? I’m all ears! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight! Hey, there’s another gimmick right there! That sign-off phrase is from a horror anthology called Tales From the Dark Side! Nice!

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

WOLVERINE: Aren’t you going to tell me to stay away from your girl?

CYCLOPS: If I had to do that, she wouldn’t be my girl.

WOLVERINE: Well, then I guess you’ve got nothing to worry about…Cyclops.

CYCLOPS: I bet it just burns you up inside that a boy like me had to save you. You’d better be careful. I might not be there next time. Oh, and Logan? Stay away from my girl.

-X-Men-

***POST-SCRIPT***

Yes, Wolverine and Cyclops are both gimmicked characters. They’re not only superheroes, but they’re awesome to watch on screen.

No Closer Than a Stranger

VERSE 1

You seem to know everything about me

Maybe that’s why you choose to doubt me

No closer than a stranger, all about danger

Taking faraway shots like a sniping ranger

Do your homework, or better yet ask me

How long my life and career are lasting

I call the shots and carve my own path

It’s not rocket science or three-D math

VERSE 2

You seem to know what it is you want

Your loving kisses are more like a chomp

No closer than a stranger, being the angel

Of hell or heaven, both can prove fatal

A seductress so tempting and sweet

Sees me as nothing but hellhound meat

I’ve seen it all before, not begging anymore

For any pretty face who’s rotten to the core

BRIDGE

Money, get back, I’m alright, Jack

Stop spending everything on crack

Money, so they say, is the root of evil

Buying the minds of average people

No closer than a stranger on the streets

Or a dead body buried beneath my feet

Or a priest or politician on television

I refuse to join your corporate religion

VERSE 3

All you had to do was care about me

Not live your life on your dirty knees

No closer than a stranger, yet here you are

Thinking you can set my highest bars

This is why I don’t jump in headfirst

A cracked open skull is the fucking worst

Just be there to catch me when I fall

Then I will tear down my Floydian wall

FINAL LINES

No closer than a stranger, I see your anger

No closer than a stranger, my pain you savor

No closer than a villain, no closer than a punk

You’re no prophet of rage or renegade of funk

Moving On

***MOVING ON***

In all this time of doing blog entries about my distant past, you’re probably wondering why nothing serious comes up. The easy answer would be because talking about such horrible things makes my schizophrenia significantly worse, and that is god’s honest truth. But there’s more to it than just having a numbed out brain. The more important reason is because anytime something bad happens to me, all I want to do is move on with my life. I don’t want to take time to process it or talk it out, because that’s precious time lost that I could have spent doing creative work.

Time didn’t wait for me back then and it won’t wait for me now. High school didn’t slow down because I was in the early stages of schizophrenia. College didn’t wait for me to glue my broken heart back together. My writing career isn’t going to be put on hold because my brain doesn’t want to shut the fuck up. I don’t believe in taking mini-vacations just so I can mentally recover from something that should have been processed within seconds. Minor bad shit doesn’t feel like much to other people, but to a schizophrenic and autistic person like me, it feels like a hailstorm of bullets. I guess that makes me a special little snowflake, but I didn’t have a choice in the matter nor do I have it now.

Don’t get me wrong, nothing bad happened as of late; I’m merely speaking in general terms. Moving on with life without delay is something I cherish even if my mind or other people don’t agree. I don’t believe in slowing down for anything and that’s where I get my strong work ethic from. If my fingers are shooting out blood like a water pistol, I write anyways. If I don’t have hands at all, I’ll still find a way to write. If my brain wants to show me Clockwork Orange flashbacks of something that happened a few weeks ago, I’ll find a way to write. If I’m suffering from sleep apnea, I’ll give myself a quick head massage and slap myself in the face until I’m wide awake.

This is why I take lazy days so personally, because it’s a squandered opportunity to do something with my life, despite the fact that I had no say in the matter. If the lazy day is somebody else’s fault, then that’s extra hatred for that person, because that person stole precious creative time from me. That’s why I chose to beat the shit out of my bullies when I was in high school, to take back what I rightfully own.

But why am I so concerned about losing precious creative time considering I’m only 32 years old and have my whole life ahead of me? Because creativity is what gives me the most pleasure in this world. I look at a chapter of Silent Warrior or a fully published copy of Occupy Wrestling and I can proudly say to myself, “I made this!” The more time I spend away from my creative vices, the angrier I become.

For future reference, if something bad happens to me and I seem irritable, don’t ask me to talk about it and don’t overprotect me. Taking all of the time needed to process the emotions is time wasted. If I allow myself to take breaks from creative life to recover from psychological bullshit, then who’s to say that I won’t take them every single time? One break piles on top of the other and then it spirals out of control to where it’s been ages since my last creative project. For me personally, I see this as complacency and I can’t allow that to happen. If I tell you I want to move on from something, I want to move on as quickly as possible. If some guy says, “Idiot” to me under my breath, I don’t want to take more than a few seconds to process it. That’s the way brains should work. They should be tough and durable. But mine isn’t. It can be if I rush through processing it.

Thanks for reading this and understanding why I don’t talk about bad shit. The bad shit I do talk about is so far in the past that it doesn’t matter anymore. Either that, or I’m talking about it in a purely satirical and humorous way. My blog post a few weeks ago about The Thunder Eagles? That’s a funny memory to me, because I’m laughing at what a sore loser I used to be. Beating the shit out of other players because I lost? Come on, that’s self-depreciative comic gold! The heavier stuff will never make it onto my blog, because when people see that, they can’t stop talking to me about it, which results in overprotection, which results in spending too much time processing something and not enough time on creative work. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Hey, you. Out there in the cold, getting lonely, getting old, can you feel me? Hey, you. Standing in the aisle with itchy feet and fading smiles, can you feel me? Hey, you. Don’t help them to bury the light. Don’t give in without a fight. Hey, you. Out there all alone, sitting naked by the phone, would you touch me? Hey, you. With your ear against the wall, waiting for someone to call out, will you touch me? Hey, you. Will you help me to carry the stone? Open your heart. I’m coming home. But it was only fantasy. The wall was too high, as you can see. No matter how he tried, he could not break free. And the worms ate into his brain. Hey, you. Out there on the road, always doing what you’re told, can you help me? Hey, you. Out there beyond the wall, breaking bubbles in the hall, can you help me? Hey, you. Don’t tell me there’s no hope at all. Together we stand, divided we fall.”

-Pink Floyd singing “Hey You”-

Silent Warrior, Chapter 22

“I wanna go home…take off this uniform and leave the show…but I’m waiting in this cell because I have to know…have I been guilty all this time?”

Scott George’s trembling rendition of “Stop” by Pink Floyd was met with a sarcastic golf clap from the shadows of his jail cell. A familiar voice said, “Good one, buddy. You really do have the prettiest little voice. The last time I heard singing that good, you were bawling like a big baby over your daddy’s grave.” With shadows now covering only half of his face like a neo-noir villain, Alan Young’s hideously transformed visage sent chills up Scott’s spine. Tattoos on his arms, a short Mohawk, and scars on his face marked Alan’s metamorphosis from childhood brat to demonic tormentor.

Unwilling to let this bruiser shake him any further, Scott descended into bathos by angrily joking, “What the hell were YOU doing at a graveyard anyways? I was grieving my dead father. What about you? You can’t get laid any other way, so you’re going to give necrophilia a try?”

“Oh, you’re hilarious, Scott. You’re just fucking marvelous. It’s especially ironic considering how you got yourself in this jail cell to begin with. Though I do admit, you couldn’t have found a better piece of ass than Adrienne fucking Simpson, I’ll tell you that right now.”

Scott bolted out of his bunk bed and shouted, “Don’t you ever talk that way about her again, you fat piece of shit!”

“Or what? You’re going to strangle me and get me kicked out of prison like you did on that bus ride? Come on, dude, you’ve got way too much to lose and you know it. You throw one punch at me and it’s off to the hole for you. Me? I don’t give a fuck where I go from here. The only thing I’ve got left to lose is my own sanity and even that’s questionable.”

Folding his arms and giving his cellmate the gorgon death stare, Scott asked, “What do you want from me, Alan? You want to keep making my life a living hell? What for? Why me? Why not somebody else? Answer me, damn it!”

Alan stood up quickly and barked, “You want to know why?! I’ll tell you why. I don’t do it because of your skinny ass body. I don’t do it because I can. I don’t even want your survivor’s benefits from your dear old daddy kicking the bucket. The reason I gave you hell all those years is because of who you are.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t, because you’re too blind to see it. Your massive ego won’t let you. Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re a phony. You like to rage against the machine and all that bullshit. Guess what? I’ve always wanted to rage against the machine too. Growing up with Aloysius tends to do that to a man. All this talk about communities and worms and puppets and shit…if I ever do get thrown in the hole, that’s probably what I’m going to think about the most.”

Scott’s expression softened and his arms went limp at this revelation. But he would still hold his ground against the much larger and much more aggressive cellmate.

Alan wagged his finger at Scott and ranted, “Yeah, that’s right. The old Freudian excuse. I can play that card until the end of time. I abuse other people because I too was a victim of disgusting shit. That would be the convenient answer. But that’s not it. Aloysius is just one piece of the puzzle. It’s the whole world that fucks with my mind the most. And you, you’re the biggest hypocrite of them all. You claim to be about individuality and personal freedom, yet here you are sucking up to the teachers so that you can get the best grades. Don’t you see, Scott? You’re doing what they’re telling you to do. They’ve got you by the balls, buddy! Me? I don’t want a pointless career. I want to watch the world burn. Being in jail waiting for my sentence gave me time to think about it and that’s what I want most out of life.”

Scott half-grinned and shook his head before saying, “So that’s it, huh? Because life didn’t turn out the way you wanted, you want to watch the system around you collapse. Well, guess what, lard ass! My life wasn’t exactly a bed of roses either! I too have nightmares that keep me from getting the sleep I deserve! I haven’t eaten a decent meal in god knows how long! And yes, I’m in jail because the world wants me to be here! But I don’t want to watch the world burn! You know why? Because without a world to live in, there’d be no place for people like Adrienne to grow up. I know not everybody in the world is a Mr. Simpson clone. I don’t paint everybody with the same brush like you do. There are good people in this world and they’re the people I’m fighting for! I don’t care how long I have to stay in this cell, because I won’t let jail break me!”

Alan blitzed towards Scott, grabbed his shirt, and slammed him against the wall. “Bullshit!” the bully shouted. “You’re not going to beat the system that easily! Everybody who comes through here turns into the ugliest fucking monster imaginable! You’re no different from the rest of the losers in this jail! You’re going to break one way or another and if I have to be the one who breaks you, goddamn it, I will!”

“Go for it, Alan! Make a move! You’ll be taking those words to solitary confinement! It’s just like you said to me a few minutes ago! That shit works both ways, my friend! You want to take a swing at me?! Go ahead!”

Alan smiled sadistically and bore his yellow demonic fangs while clutching Scott’s shirt tighter than before. “If that’s what you want, then ask and ye shall receive!” Alan dropped his victim with a right hook to the gut, causing him to cough and wheeze violently. Scott even spit up a few droplets of blood. Alan grabbed his hair and said, “You see that? That’s what happens when you don’t eat your meat, let alone your pudding. Yeah, I can quote Pink Floyd too, buddy. Look around you: nobody’s coming to save you because nobody cares. I bet watching the world burn sounds pretty fucking good right now, doesn’t it?”

The next attack in Alan’s arsenal was a knee to the chest, bouncing Scott against the metal bunk bed and causing even more heavy, blood-laced breathing. “Pathetic. That’s all you are, Scott.” Alan turned around and sat down on his bed while watching his victim collected what was left of himself.

Scott sat against his bunk and heaved some more, his lungs and heart working overtime to make sure he didn’t drop dead right then and there. And then he mustered up enough oxygen to get these words out in a clear voice: “Is that all you got?”

Alan’s hamburger face morphed into monstrous rage when he stood back up and shouted, “No, it’s not all I got, you dumb shit!” He pulled a shank from under his pillow and glared down at his prey with venom and fire in his bulging eyes. “You just don’t know when to break, do you? That’s alright. You don’t ever have to worry about breaking ever again. As your daddy will tell you…dead men tell no tales!”

The bully jerked Scott up by his neck and held the blade to his throat, drawing a tiny droplet of sweet red juice. “You see that, Scotty boy? That’s what jail is really like. You haven’t been here that long and you’re already knocking on hell’s gates. Say hello to your dear old daddy for me!”

Scott’s rage glowed a brighter shade of red than the goop pouring out of his mouth, nose, and throat. A night in solitary confinement would have been a welcome time to rest his bones if it meant he could live another day. He forgot all about the possibility of losing his sanity in a dark room. Did he really have it to begin with?

Scott swung his leg backwards and made Alan a permanent cast member of the Nutcracker Suite, causing him to drop the blade and leaving him open for a sharp elbow to the nose. Alan’s already demonic face looked like it went through a wood chipper after that blood-curdling blow. Both combatants lay limp on the floor floating in and out of consciousness while the sounds of boots pounding the cement floor flooded their ears.

Scott could hear the cacophony of swear words and authoritative threats as both he and Alan were being dragged out of their cell, though in different directions. He could distinctly hear one of the guards threaten, “You’re in a lot of trouble, little boy!” Although, he couldn’t discern who it was being said to. Either way, Scott knew he was up shit creek without a paddle, judging from how roughly he was being dragged away from the scene of the fight.

Was it this easy to break in prison? Was there anybody out there truly strong enough to withstand such a torturous grind? Scott couldn’t think of one person that fit the bill. Even superheroes would go crazy in this shitty place if they didn’t get brutally murdered. Getting out on a sweetheart deal didn’t mean shit either. The prisoners were dead inside by the time they tasted freedom, thus ensuring this place’s status as a graveyard rather than a real housing facility. At least when death or insanity washed over Scott, he would be reunited with his father, which wasn’t much of a silver lining considering he would also lose Adrienne forever. Scott took a temporary vacation from the ultra madness when his vision faded to black.

Screaming Into the Abyss

VERSE 1

Scream out loud, but nobody hears me

Open my heart, but everyone fears me

Messages of love fall on deaf ears

Fireballs of rage, no fucking tears

Where the hell are the masses going?

Why the hell is the world slowing?

All I need is just a minute of your time

Out of the abyss is where I will climb

CHORUS 1

Screaming into the abyss!

Ignorance is the new bliss!

Go ahead and rip the piss!

Give me the goodbye kiss!

VERSE 2

I can see the writing on the wall

No reward for the longest haul

No recognition for this mission

Blind eyes for my deadly vision

CHORUS 1

Screaming into the abyss!

Ignorance is the new bliss!

Go ahead and rip the piss!

Give me the goodbye kiss!

VERSE 3

If I told you of my intentions to murder

You wouldn’t listen any fucking further

If I confessed my romantic intentions

It’d be as useless as divine intervention

Still I scream into the darkest abyss

My loudest voice, my clenched fists

Who will be there to answer my call?

A faceless stranger or a brick wall?

CHORUS 2

Screaming into the abyss!

Like I’m fucking pissed!

Screaming into the vortex!

Still you leave me for dead!

Screaming into the darkness!

Like a heavy metal artist!

Why won’t you listen to me?!

Too deaf to listen, too blind to see?!

STOLEN LINE

Is there anybody out there?!

STEAM

***STEAM***

A few weeks ago, I wrote a song for Lunatic Justice called “STEM Sell”, where I argue that having a STEM degree doesn’t necessarily equal happiness despite the job opportunities and abundance of money. In case you don’t know, STEM stands for Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics. The kinds of jobs that come with a STEM degree include medical doctor, mechanic, computer expert, and architect to name a few. As much as liberal arts majors like me hate to admit it, STEM skills are in higher demand than creative ones.

But think of how boring this world would be without art. If everybody had STEM jobs, you can kiss Harry Potter, Pink Floyd, Wonder Woman, and everything else considered fun goodbye. Speaking of Pink Floyd, there’s a scene in The Wall movie where Pink’s math teacher beats him for writing poetry in class instead of doing homework. That scene is based on Roger Waters’s childhood. If he had caved in to the hate and got a “real job” instead of singing in a band…well, you know how this conversation is going to go.

Want another real world example? Jim Carrey gave a college speech about how his father could have been a professional comedian with the sense of humor he had, but instead took a financially safe job as an accountant (the M in STEM). Jim Carrey’s father was laid off from his job, which proves that failure isn’t something only artists experience. Imagine if Jim Carrey took the “safe route” and became an accountant like his dad. Actually, no, don’t imagine that, especially if you’re prone to crying your eyes out.

Ever see the bumper sticker that says “Earth without art is just eh”? Well, every time I hear a STEM student brag about how he’s better than liberal arts majors, I think of that bumper sticker. That same braggadocios student is probably wiping his tears away with those hundred dollar bills. That’s not to say STEM doesn’t have a place in modern society, but it shouldn’t be the only thing we have available jobs for. We need to find a balance between happiness and financial stability.

All you have to do is stick an A (Art) in between the E and the M and you’ve got STEAM. Think of all the creative fields out there and how they’re interconnected with STEM. The music industry is a prime example of this. Of course, the creative side comes from the songwriting and performances. But if you want to put together an album or put on an elaborate concert, you have to have a fairly extensive knowledge of the equipment involved. Rammstein concerts are fun as fuck, but without sound engineers, lightning designers, and pyrotechnicians, I don’t care how good they are as musicians, because their concert will sound like shit without those essential crew members.

The movie industry has STEAM applications as well. Sure, there’s the acting, screenwriting, directing, makeup art, and all of that. But you still need a STEM guy to know how to work the camera, create special effects, edit the film reels, and engineer the sound effects.

Take any creative endeavor and it will have connections to STEAM no matter how much someone argues otherwise. And since I’m an author, I might as well throw my personal experience into the mix. My job is to put words onto the screen and edit the final product so that it’s nice and polished for publication. If you plan on publishing, you have to have an extensive knowledge of economics (math), computer skills (technology), audience psychology (science), and…help me out here, I’m trying to think of an engineering example. Or perhaps your STEM experience can reveal itself in your actual manuscript. Maybe you’re writing a spy novel where someone has to use explosives (technology). Maybe you’re doing a combat scene and have to diagnose the traumas of each fighter (science).

STEM jobs and artistic jobs both require a great deal of dedication and hard work in order to succeed. Failure is a part of both sides of the spectrum and being able to dust yourself off and get back up is the true test of success, not money or college experience. I’ve experienced my fair share of failures in my career. I’ve had two-star reviews, angry criticisms, and plenty of doubters who simply thought I sucked.

I could go with the safe route and be a computer specialist, but would I experience the same amount of joy as I do when I create a story or poem out of thin air? Hell no. STEM jobs are important and highly abundant, but there’s more to life than changing oil in somebody’s car. If you’re a STEM employee and you’re happy with life, good for you. But that’s no excuse to put down liberal arts majors when you’re just as capable of failure as they are. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***

It’s a new week at the WSS and it’s time for a new story. This time we’re dealing with Baby Steps as the major theme. What better way to conform to that prompt than by writing a story called “Where’s My Damn Money?” What else am I going to call it? Here’s how it goes:

CHARACTERS:

1. Chetty Claymore, Elf Necromancer
2. Pia Caine, Cat Wizard

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Pia’s small payments against her debt are considered baby steps toward the larger goal of being financially free.

SYNOPSIS: When wandering mage Pia is wounded in battle, Chetty saves her life in return for a whopping amount of money. A year has passed since these events and Pia is no closer to paying off her crushing debt. One night while concocting a potion in her lab, she is visited by the impatient Chetty, who threatens to kill her and the ones she loves if she doesn’t pay what he’s owed. Pia believes she can simply fight her way out of debt, but Chetty is part of a much larger organization of debt collectors and even if she wins, he won’t be her last opponent. Chetty also reveals that Pia’s personal information has been shared with her attacker from one year ago.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Earlier tonight, I posted my non-WSS story called “Lionize” and Andrea Lovell, the CEO from that story, is next on the chopping block. Andrea was originally a character conceived by my old D&D friend Heather when the two of us would do private role-plays together on MSN Instant Messenger. She’s usually cool with me using her RPG characters in my stories, but if she isn’t this time around, then I’ll happy use someone else. I think she’ll be happy with what I come up for her as a drawing.

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

WWU stands for World Wrestling University and WWE stands for Western Washington Entertainment. Both acronyms are said the Michael Cole way, which is by pronouncing them with extra emphasis on the W’s. Wait a minute, something’s not right here.

Brit Floyd Concert

***BEFORE I BEGIN: ROGER WATERS CONCERT***

Of all four times I’ve seen Roger Waters in concert, last Saturday night was by far his best performance. He may be north of 70 years old, but he hasn’t missed a step. I especially liked when he played Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2 and had those black middle school children come out and sing with him. They wore orange prison suits and then once they were done singing their part they took them off and had “Resist” T-shirts underneath. That was a huge theme throughout the concert: resistance to Trump. Pigs (Three Different Ones) and Money were the most insulting songs to our piggish president. Speaking of pigs, the inflatable pig happened to have Agent Orange’s face on it. All in all, it was a tremendous show and I hope he does another one soon. Pink Floyd in general has always been my biggest musical influence and Roger Waters brought out those feelings within me that night.

***MAIN SUBJECT: BRIT FLOYD CONCERT***

These two subjects couldn’t have segued any better together. This coming Saturday, it’s yet another concert slash one day vacation for me. It seems as though 2017 has been famous for these kinds of getaways. Even as I write this journal, my mom and step-dad are both in Denver, Colorado enjoying Paul Simon’s final performance before he retires. And then when they come home, Mom and I are taking a trip to Seattle to see Brit Floyd, a tribute band to, you guessed it, Captain Obvious, Pink Floyd. Last Saturday featured the real deal and now this Saturday will be an excellent tribute. Two weekends bookended by the music of Pink Floyd. That’s a lot of putty-faced schoolchildren, screaming teachers, colorful prisms, saggy-jowled dogs, and flying pigs. Pink Floyd’s music had a huge impact on me during my younger days and it continues to mean the world to me in today’s life. Whether it’s Roger Waters himself or someone else playing his music, I can still hear that sense of rebellion screaming vulgar lyrics in my ear. As far as WSS stories go, I’ll try to get my story submitted before the day of the concert. Speaking of which (another seamless segue)…

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

TITLE: A Weasel and a Thief

CHARACTERS:

1. Ozzy May, Gnome Rogue
2. Laurel Tate, Human Marine

PROMPT: Slumber

PROMPT CONFORMITY: The rest of Laurel’s platoon are in a state of slumber for the evening.

SYNOPSIS: Laurel is an active duty soldier assigned to stand guard for her platoon at night. Midway through the shift, she realizes her radio is missing and is scrambling to find it. She eventually catches a little thief named Ozzy in the act of stealing weapons and money from her platoon. Laurel chases the little bastard, but he is too quick for her even when she’s opening fire on him. If she doesn’t get the equipment back to her platoon, she will be punished severely by her commanding officer.

FUN FACT: The title of this story is WWE inspired. Back in 2015, Brock Lesnar was giving an interview about his upcoming WWE Championship match against Seth Rollins at the Battleground pay-per-view. Lesnar described Rollins as “a weasel and a thief” because of the way the latter won his championship and basically stole it from Lesnar. The WWE is always such a huge source of creative fuel for me. Why shouldn’t it be? It’s pretty much the only thing I watch on TV these days.

***FACE BOOK STATUS OF THE DAY***

(From mid-June of this year.)

I seem to be having plenty of dreams about going to rock concerts lately. Last night I dreamed I was going to a multi-band festival that took place…in an art museum. I guess anything can qualify for an arena these days. Hell, I once had a dream where Pantera performed “This Love” in an abandoned grocery store. Back to the topic at hand, the first band that performed at this festival was Brit Floyd (a Pink Floyd cover band obviously). They kept having equipment problems and had to move to different stages throughout the art gallery. I got so mad at them that I went online and called them Shit Floyd. Then I woke up and the weirdness was over. Truth is, I do plan on seeing Brit Floyd in Seattle on July 1^st, but I know for a fact my dream was just a dream. I’ve seen them on TV before and they were fucking stellar!

Dark Side of the Wall

Every chant of his last name sent a biblical flood of adrenaline through Ryan Warrior’s veins. He stood backstage with his fists clenched tightly by his sides, his painted up face a shield of rage, and his leather jacket a suit of armor for this musical war. The dimly lit stage splashed purple and red on the violent faces of the heavy metal crowd. All that could be heard aside from the crowd’s excitement was the ethereal music created by fast-paced war drums and the haunting wooden flute. As the war drum pounded louder in the ears of all, the shouts and screams became more deafening and more motivating to Ryan Warrior.

With the grinding, heavy sounds of an electric guitar, bass guitar, and drum kit to guide his way, Ryan marched out to the stage and was met with a thunderous ovation. They gave him a battle, he would return with a war. He snatched the microphone off of its stand and shouted, “What’s up, Ghost River Amphitheater?! You want some heavy ass metal?! One! Two! Chainsaw Samurai!”

The drum kit and war drums players dueled with each other. The guitar and bass players banged their long locks and bounced around the stage. The flute player calmly let out another wave of ghost music. And Ryan? He jumped up and down along with his audience, rowdy as they were.

With a throaty, demonic scream, he shouted, “Forget about your fucking dishonor / And focus on your eventual slaughter / Which one of your limbs must go first? / Your arms, legs, or German bratwurst? / Slice off your head, a mummified trophy / He opens your mouth and says, “Blow me!” / A bloodbath is coming from the Rising Sun / Violence and gore became a shit-load of fun!”

The raw passion of the outdoor crowd could be seen with every shove, every throw, every drop of blood, and every bruise. To get out of this mosh pit alive and well would be a miracle rivaling Jesus Christ himself. It was all fun and games until Ryan Warrior stopped bouncing and head banging. He looked out into certain areas of the crowd with disgust on his face, like he had just smelled raw sewage. “Stop the music! Stop the goddamn music! Guys, enough! I got something to say!”

Once the band discontinued their music, the crowd erupted into a fiery roar with volcanic passion and their bruised fists in the skies. Ryan’s disgusted face turned to a deathly scowl as he shouted into the microphone, “Are you guys fucking stupid or what?!” Like the bunch of idiots they were, the audience cheered at that rhetorical question.

“I look around at this crowd and I don’t see metal heads. I see grown ass men groping teenaged girls. I see little kids getting their heads smashed in. Hell, I just caught one of you assholes shooting off a rocket at my guitarist! You nearly hit him in the fucking face! What is wrong with you people?!” No more fiery passion from the crowd, only boos. Whether those boos were directed at the sociopathic audience members or Ryan Warrior was unknown, but the oratory continued.

“You know what? I’m starting to understand why Roger Waters built the wall! I trust you all know who the hell he is! He was the driving force behind a band called Pink Floyd, a band I have a lot of respect for! And right now, I feel like building a wall between you guys and my band! Boo all you want, but it ain’t wrong if that’s how I feel! Go ahead! Boo! Boo like a bunch of babies!” Ask and ye shall receive. The flying beer bottle that pinged off of Ryan’s shoulder was a bonus that sent the Native American into a nightmarish frenzy.

“Where the hell are the goddamn bouncers?!” he screamed. “How come nobody is trying to remove these guys?! I see neo-Nazis over here doing their thing! I see a teenaged girl trying to get away from you morons! Seriously, where the hell is security?! Where the hell is alcohol enforcement?! Why are the goddamn cops just sitting around munching on donuts?! I’ll tell you what, dip shits! If you keep this crap up, you’re not getting a show tonight! You haven’t shown me that you deserved one! You know what? To hell with it! I’m going backstage and I’m going to have a banana daiquiri! Screw you bastards! Screw this show! I don’t need this crap! I’m out of here!”

Ryan dropped his microphone with a resounding thud and walked backstage with his brethren, flipping off the booing crowd as he exited. The tour bus was in the back parking lot ready to roll on to the next town, which was hopefully less criminal-minded than this one at the Ghost River Amphitheater. The boos and reckless behavior out in the crowd caused Ryan to clutch his head in pain as he took a seat next to the mini-fridge. While his band mates disappeared behind the dressing room door, Mr. Warrior pulled a banana daiquiri out of the fridge and formed a small smile on his face knowing his night would at least end on a high note.

“Ryan! What the hell are you doing?! You’ve got a show to play, damn it! Don’t do this to me!” shouted his manager, a pudgy, balding, olive-skinned fellow in a gray suit who was flailing his arms as he shouted.

The singer tossed aside his bottle and stood up to look his manager square in the eyes. “Do you not see what’s going on out there? They’re acting like animals! I’ve played rowdy crowds before, but these guys are turning this concert into a goddamn prison riot! Where the hell are the bouncers? Do they not give a damn what’s going on out there?!”

Pointing a sausage finger at him, the manager said, “So that’s it? You’re going to give up on your dream because you don’t like what’s going on out there? Yes, you’ve played wild crowds before, but this ain’t no small piss-ant nightclub! This is the big time! You can’t back down from a crowd that size just because the security detail doesn’t swoop in right away! They’re not the Justice League, for Christ’s sake! Hell, they’re probably busy with parts of the crowd you can’t even see from the front stage!”

“Is that really what being a rock star is all about? Hanging around with a bunch of criminals? Having people shoot fireworks at you? What a bunch of crap!” said Ryan.

“You’re right! It is crap! But it also comes with the territory! Yes, there are a bunch of wild and crazy idiots right now who are probably being dragged away in handcuffs! But there are even more people out there who paid good money to see you perform! By walking off stage, you’re not only spiting the drunken jerks, but you’re also slapping the faces of the true fans! Do you want your true fans to remember you as the guy who quit in the face of criticism? If they think you’re getting soft for one minute, that’s the end of your career, buddy! And it’s a career that barely got off the ground! It’ll be over before it begins! Welcome to heavy metal, Ryan! Or I could welcome you to the unemployment line, how about that? It’s up to you, big guy. What’s it going to be?”

Breathing deeply and shakily, the seething Ryan Warrior glared into the eyes of his manager and said, “If that’s your way of psyching me up and getting me to earn my paycheck…” Mid-speech, he pulled a feathered hatchet out of his leather jacket and grinned at it like a psychopath. “I’m going to collect interest from these motherfuckers!”

In a calm and collected manner, the manager asked in a semi-whiny voice, “Ryan? What are you doing with that thing?”

Leaning his slasher villain face into the manager’s, Ryan said, “You’ll see. You think I’m soft? You think I’m cowardly enough to run away from the biggest dream I’ve ever had?” He shouted, “Do you think I’m stupid enough to walk away from a big payday?! Do you?! You can put all the stipulations in the contract you want, but no matter who the record label is, this is my show and I’m going to burn it to the ground!”

The manager backpedaled in pants-wetting fear as he shakily sat next to the mini-fridge. Ryan grinned and shouted at the dressing room in a feral voice, “Guys! We’re going to give the audience our…special treat!” The band mates exited the dressing room laughing viciously and sending the manager into even more violent shivers. The entire band walked passed him with villainous grins on their faces while the manager weakly asked, “What’s the hatchet for?”

The audience cheered and roared like bloodthirsty lions at the reappearance of Ryan Warrior and his band. As the lead singer slowly picked up his microphone and breathed in a raspy voice into the device, he swirled his tongue around his lips as he saw the undesirables being dragged away by security and law enforcement. Neo-Nazis were being pulled out of the arena by their legs. Child molesters were being dragged by their thick hairy arms. Drunkards staggered and fell on their way to the bus stop. While there may be some cretins left behind, the unmistakable chants of Ryan’s last name were music to his ears.

Ryan glared at the hatchet in his hand and said in a monstrous voice, “You see this? I carry this into battle with me every damn day of the week. It brings me more than just good luck. It brings me pleasure. It brings me pain. It brings me…bloodlust!” On that last line, he licked the flat end of his blade like it was his lover. “But if you think I’m so pissed off that I’m going to carve up a bunch of drunken idiots and join them in prison, you’re dead wrong. I’m not throwing away anything for those assholes, certainly not my dream, certainly not my life. Instead…I have a message from a little band from Iowa called Slipknot.”

The “true fans” shouted their approval at the name drop and raised their bloodied fists to the skies. Ryan continued his demonic speech with, “Mr. Corey Taylor couldn’t make it tonight. He sends his apologies. He also sends a very poignant message to everybody here who ruined your evenings by acting like mindless thugs. Nah, I take that back. Your evenings are far from ruined by those jerks. Our night of heavy metal is just getting started. It’s going to continue with a little Slipknot song that everybody here can relate to. It’s called…People = Shit!” With the fans riled up and ready to rock, the stage pyrotechnics burst into flames and the music was far from dead. Heavy metal will never die.

Sleep Study Results

***SLEEP STUDY RESULTS***

Warning: this journal about my sleep study results will be so boring that you yourself will fall asleep reading it. Hopefully, you’ll be listening to new age music and snuggling with a kitty while you’re sleeping. If you’re snoring loud enough to wake up the whole household, you too will want to undergo a sleep study. Read at your own risk.

Five days after my 31^st birthday, I finally had the sleep study that I’ve been meaning to do since forever. I filled out a questionnaire describing my symptoms (snoring, waking up drained, lack of motivation, etc.) and the doctor said they were all consistent with sleep apnea and being a night owl. In order to combat the night owl syndrome, I’ve been waking up earlier in the morning with no excuses. The first week it was 10:30, the next week it was 10:00, the next it was 9:30, and from this point forward, it will be 9:00. It seemed like I was having more energy, but I was still taking naps in the middle of the day that lasted hours.

A few days ago, I took a home sleep test where I wore a heart monitor around my chest, had tubes in my nose, and a patch around my finger. If my bed was capable of spinning, I would be able to empathize with Crazy K from “Tales from the Hood”. All joking aside, the equipment was pretty goddamn uncomfortable to wear to bed and I never got a good night’s sleep. I went to bed at one in the morning and took the gear off at five. Despite only wearing the gear for four hours, the heart monitor was still able to get a definitive result.

Later that morning, I had a weird ass dream where Smokey was kidnapped Final Fight style. There were grizzly bears in my backyard, but I don’t know how they fit into the dream. I got out of bed and scoured the neighborhood for Smokey while trying to blast a confession out of everybody with an energy shotgun. Nobody confessed and I couldn’t find Smokey, so I wrote a heavy metal song about this incident called “Scour”. I couldn’t remember the lyrics when I woke up. Otherwise, I would have written and posted it to my social media accounts. It was a damn good song if I do say so myself.

A few days later, I get a call from the doctor in charge of my sleep study saying he has the results of the home test. Not only do I have a bad case of sleep apnea, but it was worse than he expected. He ordered a CPAP machine for me to use at home for thirty days. I have yet to pick up the machine, but it’ll definitely happen. My mom’s friend from high school Sandy uses one and she sleeps very soundly at night. Hopefully, it’ll give me the same amount of energy.

This past Monday and Tuesday, I spent most of the day helping my family move a bunch of heavy crap out of their storage locker and into our garage. After both sessions of moving, I felt so exhausted that I took a five hour nap. No creative work got done during those days, which I will talk about in further detail in the next few sections of this journal.

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

Before the contest in which I posted “Zion Heart” ended, I told the WSS that I wanted to take a one-week vacation from the next contest so that I could catch up on my backburner creative projects, which included editing the shit out of Poison Tongue Tales, beta-reading for my Deviant Art bestie Zero Urrea, building a WWE Lego set that I got for my birthday, and catching up on watching the last few episodes of NCIS: Los Angeles. I also planned on catching up with reading the “Final Curtain” stories and voting for my favorite one. But like I said, the last few days have been exhausting for me, more so than usual, so I can’t work under those tired conditions. Hopefully, the next few days will be more productive. It’s probably best that I opted out of this week’s contest since the topic was “Game of Thrones”. I’ve never watched that show or read the book a day in my life, so I would be flying blind the whole time. Plus, there aren’t any story ideas in my archives that could take “Game of Thrones” as wordplay. A game and a throne? That’s two prompts in one. What am I supposed to do with them? Sorry if I sound like a whiny bitch. That wasn’t my intention. I’m just sleepy today from all the heavy lifting and getting up early in the morning.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“We don’t need no education. We don’t need no thought control. No dark sarcasm in the classroom. Teacher, leave them kids alone. Hey! Teacher! Leave them kids alone! All in all, you’re just another brick the wall. All in all, you’re just another brick in the wall.”

-Pink Floyd singing “Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2”

***POST-SCRIPT***

It’s funny that I should randomly select those lyrics from my quotes archives, because “Zion Heart” is about Roger Waters and his “controversial” statements about Israel. It also takes place in a high school, so there’s an added bonus. I swear this is just a coincidence. Maybe. It could be. I don’t know. Anyways, we have ears, say cheers!

Zion Heart

“Ladies and gentlemen, our next act for the Central River High year-end talent show is a classic rock acoustic guitar piece. Please put your hands together for Miss Eleanor Paris!”

From behind the curtain, hearing Mr. Jeremy Land’s voice on the microphone accompanied by applauding hands sent chills through Eleanor’s body. She thought back to all of the times older kids shoved her against lockers and called her sexist names. She thought back to all of the teachers who doubted her guitar-playing abilities. And now here they all were to see what she was made of.

The redheaded, beige dress-wearing Eleanor took a deep breath to calm her nerves and treaded through the curtain to take her seat on the stool. She took a moment to survey the crowd before her. Some of the boys were chuckling silently and pointing at her. Some of the girls put on their best bitch faces with their arms folded. Another deep breath later and it was show time.

She rested her acoustic guitar on her lap and adjusted the microphone to her height before she started strumming away. She was gentle with every chord, almost putting her worst critics in a siren’s trance. And when she sang her lines, she had a voice of pure angelic gold.

“The child lay in the starlit night. Safe in the glow of his Donald Duck light. How strange to choose to end a life. How strange to choose to kill a child. Hoover, Blaupunkt, Nissan Jeep, Nike, Addidas, Lacoste and cheaper brands. Cadillac, Amtrak, gasoline, diesel. Our standard of living, could this be a reason…that we would choose to kill the child? That we would choose to kill the child?”

Those dark and heartbreaking lyrics put thoughtful frowns on the faces of her audience. No more were they giggling and pointing. Eleanor had these dopey teenagers at full attention. She strummed her chords with even more passion than before only to find her microphone silenced as she sang the second verse. She patted the microphone head a few times and then pounded it with her fist to try to get it working again. The once doubtful students were now in shock.

“I assure you, Miss Paris, that there is absolutely nothing wrong with your microphone.” There was nothing wrong with Principal Gary Weinberg’s microphone either as he sat in the back of the auditorium with a disgusted look on his pudgy face.

“However!” he said with a booming voice in his Jewish accent. “There is something wrong with that song you’re singing! For all of our younger students who didn’t live with this kind of music, that song was written by former Pink Floyd bassist Roger Waters! His recent comments in the news about the Jewish people reek of racism and hatred! This school prides itself on its anti-discrimination policies! Because you, Miss Paris, have played a song by a raging bigot with the intent to incite trouble, you by proxy are in violation of those rules! Get off the stage! As a matter of fact, get out of my school!”

The student audience went silent as Eleanor ducked her head in shame and shed silent tears. She didn’t want to appear weak in front of the same people who put her down so many times. She wanted to get up from her stool and hide in a corner somewhere, but her legs were shaking with anxiety.

The dark haired, purple dress shirt and jeans-wearing Mr. Land approached the stage and gave Eleanor a gentle hug to try and comfort her. All it did was make the tears pour like a flooding rainstorm. “It’s okay, Eleanor. It’s okay. I’m here for you.”

Mr. Land pounded the microphone until it started working again. With a stern look on his face and his finger pointed at Principal Weinberg, he ripped into him with, “As a history and political science teacher, I thought I should correct you on something. If you actually paid attention to Roger Waters’ comments, he was attacking the Israeli government for their treatment of the Palestinians. It had nothing to do with Jewish people in general and certainly had nothing to do with little old you, Principal Weinberg! And quite frankly, I agree with what Roger Waters has said!”

Principal Weinberg laughed in jest and said, “Oh, this is rich. You’re actually debating me on this. You think you know more about my culture than I do.” Gary’s face turned serious when he said, “The fact that you’re even arguing this with me is hysterical. Actually, there’s nothing funny about it. It’s disgusting. It’s disgraceful. It’s unbecoming of someone like you, Mr. Land, who’s supposed to have an intricate knowledge about worldwide cultures!”

Eleanor held her hand up like she would if she wanted to be called on in class. She weakly said, “Um, excuse me, Mr. Weinberg, but this isn’t about…”

“Shut up, Miss Paris!” yelled the Jewish Principal as he stood up and pointed a commanding finger at her. “I’ve said pretty much everything I wanted to say to you! Now take your guitar and play that vile racist crap somewhere else!”

“Don’t you talk to her like that!” shouted Jeremy. “You never talk to your students that way! And by the way, if you’ve actually paid attention to anything Roger Waters has done over the course of his life, you’d know that you’re reminding everyone of how depressing your school system has become! Do you know why he says, ‘We don’t need no education?’ It’s because people like you make school a dangerous place to go! These students depend on you for guidance and wisdom! They don’t want to be talked down to by a power hungry, bottom feeding snake in the grass!”

That last line got a round of applause by the student audience while Gary Weinberg smiled sarcastically and shook his head. “You guys like that?” The audience cheered louder. “You want him to keep going?” They cheered even louder. “Well, he’s not going to do that! You’re fired, Jeremy!” The audience went silent and formed frowns on their faces. “As the Principal of this school, it’s my job to keep order around here! Are you surprised by the fact that I fired an insubordinate employee? You kids are lucky that the worst that happens to you is detention! In the real world, if you don’t conform to the rules, you sleep on the corner! Get out of here, Jeremy! Out right now!”

Mr. Land, seething with hot rage, threw down his microphone and broke it in two before marching his way down the aisle and through the exit. Before making his departure, he said, “You can take the microphone replacement out of my severance package!” He slammed the door with a thunderous thud.

Eleanor Paris remained sitting on the stage with tears in her eyes, snot in her nose, and a contorted frown on her face. She knew she was next on Weinberg’s shit list, but didn’t have the strength in her convulsing legs to get up and go. The Principal encouraged her with, “Well, what are you waiting for, Miss Paris? Get going! The final curtain has dropped on this talent show! Move it!”

She stood up and staggered off the stage, tripping many times in her high-heeled shoes. There were times when she just crawled across the floor with the helpless audience watching in pity. This demeaning scenario put her mind back to those dark places. This crippling anxiety was what she felt whenever another student physically or verbally assaulted her. It was what she felt when she doubted her own guitar playing abilities. It was amazing she could hold onto her guitar at all with her shaky fear as she took the walk of shame.

Eleanor Paris was ready to give up the fight against a corrupt system and walk out of the door with tears dominating her beautiful visage. She held onto the door handle for support and took one last sorrowful look at Principal Gary Weinberg’s jowl-covered face. This man had just fired his best teacher, expelled his best student, and silenced an entire crowd of students before turning them into conformist, putty-faced zombies. Come to think of it, what did she have left to lose? Who the hell did this guy think he was? What the fuck was she going to do about it?

She turned to face her tormentor with a different reason for trembling. It wasn’t anxiety; it was anger. Pure, white hot, volcanic anger for the authoritative bullshit that served as Roger Waters’ creative fuel. Eleanor steadied her lips and asked, “What was that thing you said about kids only getting detention for punishment? Well, seeing as how detention and expulsion are really just vacations in disguise and summertime is already here…”

An evil, quivering, rage-induced grin spread across Eleanor Paris’ face as she raised her guitar in the air and smashed it over Gary Weinberg’s head, knocking him to the ground and giving him a reason to abuse a bottle of Advil the next morning. The students and teachers alike gasped in shock while Eleanor shrugged her shoulders and said, “Do we really need an education from a guy who just lost fifty IQ points?” The student audience burst into raucous cheers while the teachers were frozen with fear. 

Scary Masks

***SCARY MASKS***

If you go to my Face Book page (which is under my real name Garrison Haines-Temons), you will see that my profile picture is me wearing Corey Taylor’s Slipknot mask. I wore a different Slipknot mask on Halloween, but the scariness was the same as evidenced by little children crying, screaming, and parting from my walking path like the Red Sea. Scaring the shit out of everyone around me is fun because I already get enough grief for being socially awkward, so why not go the full nine when it comes to traumatizing people? Why does Halloween terror only get to happen once a year? This journal will document some of my favorite creepy masks throughout history and maybe give you all ideas for scaring the shit out of people on October 31^st. Starting with…

　

***SLIPKNOT HORROR MOVIE MASKS***

If you wear one of these masks, you’re a part of something special. You open your ears to the grinding vocals of Corey Taylor and the thrashing heavy metal music the rest of Slipknot brings. Although the music comes off as angry, energetic, and devilish, the people of this band would never inflict harm on another human being. The violent fantasies are just that: fantasies. Each mask comes from classic horror cinema and was designed to carry out the legacy of psychological torture. Corey Taylor’s most recent mask comes from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Mick Thomson’s mask is a modification of Hannibal Lecter’s hockey mask. Shawn Crahan’s clown mask is based off of Stephen King’s horrifying monster Pennywise. Though his name escapes me, the guy who wears the gimp mask with the long leather nose drew inspiration from Alex’s mask from A Clockwork Orange during the rape scene. If you’re not chilled to your core, you were dead from pants-pissing fright a long time ago, my friend. Then again, that’s how most close-minded folks meet their fate.

　

***PINK FLOYD THE WALL PUTTY FACES***

If you wear this kind of mask, you’ve lost so much of your individuality that you blend in with the rest of the crowd. A flesh-colored mask with two large holes for the eyes and one large hole for the mouth, that might as well be your driver’s license photo. But you didn’t give up on your individuality without a fight. It had to be taken from you via negative reinforcement, which came in the form of coercion, violence, or most common, insults. When someone insults a part of your life, the insulting words leech onto that part of your mind like parasites. Try as you might to derive pleasure from that part of your life, all you’ll get is a playback of those negative words, so you avoid it as much as possible. And when you avoid it, you avoid other things that give you pleasure and hope until you no longer have a face of your own. Fighting for your individuality has become more important now than it ever has been with the emergence of the millennial generation, a group of youngsters who follow their own paths to success and prefer creative expression over dull corporate politics.

　

***PHANTO FROM SUPER MARIO BROTHERS 2***

You don’t have to worry about having this creepy visage on your face, because Phanto is a sentient being. Two downward curved eyeholes followed by a wide grin, Phanto has one job in Super Mario Brothers 2: to guard the golden key and punish those who take it with intimidation and incessant ramming. Not all Phanto masks have this assignment. Some of them are hanging on the walls of whatever dungeon Mario is in just for a frightening ambience. The hallway leading to King Wart and his vegetable machine is lined with a row of dormant Phanto masks. They won’t hurt you physically, but mentally, you’re on high alert even after King Wart is nauseous from being force-fed vegetables. Looking into those pitch black eyes and knowing you’re being smiled at is enough to give most Nintendo-playing millennials lifelong nightmares. If Phanto’s mouth was capable of forming words, what would he say to you? “Run!”

　

***HOLLYWOOD UNDEAD GANGSTER MASKS***

If you’re wearing one of these masks, you know the struggles of the originators of these visages. Hollywood Undead is a rap rock band who in their words have nearly died for the music they made. Hollywood isn’t exactly the safest place on earth with its history of gang violence, police corruption, and influx of dangerous drugs. To be a member of Hollywood Undead means you’ve survived these mean streets and you live to tell your tales through rapping lyrics and heavy metal instrumentation. You played a million empty shows to only family and friends, but the minute My Space discovered you, your popularity took off and your scary visages are recognizable from miles away. Keep on rhyming, boys. Keep on head banging. If anybody wants to deliver their negative hate to you, let them know just what it’s like to survive California’s toughest neighborhoods. Most trolls would crap their pants at such visuals, as if the masks aren’t scary enough.

　

***OCCUPY WALL STREET’S GUY FAWKES MASKS***

Every Guy Fawkes mask is identical with the curved moustache, soul patch beard, and debonair face. But make no mistake about it: you didn’t lose your individuality by joining this movement. You joined it because you’re sick of the top one-percent trying to strip you of everything you love. You ask for “free shit” because getting it with today’s wages would be impossible with bills and screw jobs serving as obstacles. Though vocal you may be, you still are capable of the same amount of peace and serenity as any other legitimate protester. But the corrupt police department doesn’t always know this. If they see you with a Guy Fawkes mask, they will not hesitate to beat and pummel you while pinning false charges and making false arrests. The one-percent think they’ve won after such a bloody battle with authority. But they haven’t. They’re merely proving a point we’ve known all along and the Guy Fawkes clan is here to spread that awareness worldwide. Those who listen to you will feel empowered. Those who don’t will feel unjustifiably safe.

　

***THE WYATT FAMILY’S SHEEP MASKS***

Unlike the members of Slipknot, the WWE’s backwoods cult known as The Wyatt Family enjoy the opportunity to bring violence and hatred to every battle with other WWE superstars. It’s not enough that Erick Rowan (the white sheep) and Braun Strowman (the black sheep) are nearly seven feet tall and weigh in excess of 300 lbs. of muscle and murder. They also have to wear creepy-looking animal masks that do little more than solidify their loyalty to not only their brother Luke Harper, but their leader Bray Wyatt. Very few people have waged war with the Wyatts and emerged survivors, let alone victorious. These men are huge, they have scraggly beards, they stink like a swamp, and two of their members feel the need to wear sheep masks. If they carried sickles, chainsaws, and knives to the ring with them, they would complete their serial killer images. When Bray Wyatt tells you to “Run!”, that’s the wisest advice anybody can give you. Stretch your legs, get your cardio in, because it’s going to be the longest and most exhausting marathon you’ll be a part of.

　

***CONCLUSION***

If somebody calls you a coward for “hiding behind” one of these masks, just allow them to get a better look at you and then we’ll see who’s shitting their pants at the end of the confrontation. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

　

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

A new week is already here, which means a new prompt has been released. This time we’re dealing with the topic of “homecomings”, which is good news for me because I happen to have a synopsis ready for such an occasion. My story will be called “I Owe You Nothing” and it goes like this:

　

CHARACTERS:

　

John Link, Sexual Harasser
Tina Williamson, Victim
Kenny Williamson, Tina’s Father
Melissa Williamson, Tina’s Mother

　

PROMPT CONFORMITY: The story begins with Tina returning home from school.

　

SYNOPSIS: Prior to the events of this story, John had repeatedly asked Tina out on dates during school time and Tina’s answer was always a definitive no. Fast forward to the actual story and Tina comes home from school to see John in the living room chatting with her parents and buttering them up. Tina continues to resist John’s advances despite coercion from him, Kenny, and Melissa. The situation reaches its boiling point when John pulls a gun out of his coat pocket and demands a yes answer at the threat of Tina being shot.

　

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Danielle Courtney’s drawing yielded some…interesting results, particularly those of Marilyn Manson comparisons. I can’t say they’re wrong. Hehe! This next drawing will be different because the character is actually supposed to look manly. He’s a human necromancer named Angelo Rude and he’s the lead villain of a short story that used to be called “conform”, but is now called “Dead Man Walking”. Dance, skeletons! Dance!

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“If you’re 555, then I’m 666!”

-Slipknot singing “The Heretic Anthem”-