"Pathfinder, Vol. 4: Origins" by Various Authors

BOOK TITLE: Pathfinder, Vol. 4: Origins

AUTHORS: Various

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: High Fantasy

GRADE: B

It’s a good thing that this book has the Pathfinder name attached to it, because these individual stories of each adventurer read like a session zero from a tabletop RPG. You’ve got a warrior, a cleric, a wizard, a sorcerer, a thief, and a ranger recounting their origin stories to the head of the Pathfinder society in order to prove their worth to her. They start off with a quest or a job of some kind and end with either a life-changing revelation or a desire for more adventures. This is basic character building 101, especially when creating new ones to use in role-playing games. It doesn’t have to be overly complicated, but I appreciate the authors putting in the extra work to make them feel fleshed out. That’s part of the fun in playing a pencil-and-paper RPG, which also overlaps with being an author. Fun is the number one priority of any gamer, but playing D&D or Pathfinder can be training for budding authors wanting to break into the industry. It doesn’t have to be the end goal, but it could be if the player or DM wanted it to be.

Having said that, I do wish the more dramatic and heavy parts of these stories had more time to breathe instead of just bolting from one scene to the next. The wizard discovered that he comes from a family of ruthless slave traders and wants to abandon them. The monk who hires the thief wants to rescue his sister from being traded like a slave herself. The barbarian who saves the fighter’s life has a history of surviving horrible violence. These moments shouldn’t be glossed over so quickly. They need to be drawn out. They need to be expanded upon. Otherwise, it’s over too soon and it’s a wasted chance to make the reader feel everything that’s going on. Sherman Alexie, the author of War Dances, is a master of making everything feel important and heartbreaking. I don’t get that sense when I’m reading this graphic novel. It could be because it’s a graphic novel and they’re fast reads by nature. But still, I would have loved to spend more time in these heavy moments to make the characters feel even more human than they were before.

The closest I got to feeling anything for the characters was Kyra the Cleric’s story. She serves the god of redemption and yet finds nothing redeeming about the prisoners she and a paladin take with them on a rescue mission against blood-sucking demons. Her hypocrisy is a major character flaw that makes her feel three-dimensional. And it’s her experiences with the paladin that make her overcome this flaw. Not all redemption takes place on its own. Sometimes we all need somebody to show us the way. We as people don’t often know that we’re making mistakes or going down a bad path until someone else points it out to us. It’s what we do with that information afterwards that will make or break our redemption arcs. That makes a lot of sense to me and it’s why Kyra’s story is my favorite out of all the ones I’ve read in this book.

Overall this was a fun graphic novel to read. Even if you don’t play tabletop RPG’s, you’ll get some enjoyment out of this as a standalone fantasy story. Yes, I know it’s the fourth volume of a much larger series, but it stands out enough on its own that the reader won’t be confused about which part of the story goes where. That’s what good books should do regardless of where they are in the series: stand out on their own and not have to rely too heavily on their back catalogue for vital information. Pathfinders Origins gets four stars out of five. Not perfect, but ultimately a nice way to spend some alone time with your nose in a book. Well done to everybody who was involved in the making of this story from the authors to the artists.

Run Like a Ninja

The growling in Ashley Garcia’s stomach resembled a demon thirsting for souls. She didn’t care if what she was doing was just as evil as that hell-spawn creature. A bowl of steaming hot ramen took priority over holy-rolling. A loaf of bread swimming in garlic butter was more important than praying on a medieval book for forgiveness. The rumbling in her stomach echoed in her brain like schizophrenia and even a wafer-thin mint would be a perfect antipsychotic. The rattling of her visible ribcage needed to be contained for good and the sacred scroll beneath her would be the key to that lock.

Being a Halfling afforded her the dexterity and balance that she needed to scale down the rope she threw down into the temple’s scroll room. Ashley didn’t want to go too fast for fear of alarming any monks, but slowing down wasn’t an option for her calloused hands and large dirt-covered feet. Just a few more inches, she told herself. A little more. Easy. Easy. Don’t make a sound. Don’t give the monks a reason to wheel kick a thief’s head off.

When she was close enough to drop to the wooden floor, she did so with a feather’s gentleness and breathed a silent sigh of relief. And just like that, the scroll was right there in front of her, resting easily on a piece of ceramic pottery. Ashley’s eyes widened and her hungry stomach settled in anticipation of the lunch money this would bring. When she snatched the scroll from its resting place, she didn’t even bother opening it up. She knew she had what she wanted. She knew any sucker would be lucky to buy such a holy artifact. Ashley would never starve again with this kind of money and that brought a smile to her gaunt face.

And then the sound of a dog growling permeated her fantasies and caused her to swallow a lump in her throat. Slowly she turned around to face the monk she pissed off the most: the captain of the guards himself, Yang Chow. 

He didn’t come armed with any weapons, because his limbs were destructive enough. He didn’t come with any harsh words, because his angry bulldog visage and monstrous growling said everything they needed to say. He didn’t come dressed in thick metal armor, because his red and orange robes were light enough to keep him nimble during times of combat. With his arms folded and his gorgon death eyes locked onto Ashley’s jittery form, it was time to get the fuck out of dodge.

Scroll tucked away in her back pocket, Ashley hopped up the rope and scaled as fast as she could. All the motivation to push her body beyond its limits came in the form of Yang barking up a storm and snapping his teeth like a bear trap. She was almost certain she would lose a foot to this maniacal dog demon. She was almost certain a piece of skin fell from her big toe. But she kept climbing even if it meant aggravating that wound and making it sting like a thousand wasps.

Ashley cursed to herself in a rapid-fire cadence as she made it to the rooftop, Yang still nipping at her heels. With the diagonal curvature of the temple’s roof, she knew this was a perfect time to curl into a ball and roll down the decline like a rogue wheel. And off she went, the shingles scraping against her skin the faster she rolled. Her back burned as though a volcano would erupt from her body, which was a better fate than having her head kicked off by a martial arts puppy-duppy. Still, his barks were no less distant than they were before. They just grew louder and more frustrated.

And then the sudden incline at the bottom of the roof launched her wheel-like body into the air and onto the busy streets below. Ashley landed with such grace that going splat on the concrete wasn’t even a possibility. But the minute she leapt to her feet, dizziness turned her brains into mush and her vision into a splotchy mess. She would have fallen on her ass if not for Yang’s barks becoming even louder than before. 

Even in a sloppy zigzag, she ran down the streets with the agility of a ninja warrior. She flipped over garbage cans. She baseball slid underneath an old man’s legs. She leapfrogged over a food delivery bicyclist and nearly knocked him over. Knowing Yang could chew her like bubblegum gave her the adrenaline boost she needed to run along the walls of a restaurant before flipping over a trolley.

Her heart thudded in her chest like a bomb ready to go off. Her brains rotted into mush on account of not giving herself a chance to recover from dizziness. Her legs and back burned as though someone had branded her with a glowing red iron. Her feet could have fallen off long before she got gangrene from not wearing shoes. And yet, Ashley kept on running and dodging. She leapfrogged over another bicyclist. She flipped over a guardrail. She ran along an awning that almost collapsed under her thunderous force.

Ashley had no destination in mind. She couldn’t even think clearly enough to come up with one, because Yang’s barks and growls were like a screwdriver shoved in her ears. When her eyes watered to the point of blindness and her mind faded to funeral blackness, she crashed face-first into a brick wall and flopped on her back, the sacred scroll rolling out of her grasp. The sound of her nose crunching resembled potato chips she would probably never know the taste of. She breathed heavily despite blood running down her nostrils. If overworking herself didn’t kill her, Yang surely would.

Her vision was obstructed by the heavy pus dumplings under her eyes, but even she knew Yang’s angry face when she saw it. There he was standing over her soon-to-be corpse, arms folded, scroll in hand. He reached down to Ashley, presumably to rip out her heart. Or the least likely scenario of them all, to pull her up to her feet. She could barely stand underneath the weight of body-shredding pain. She couldn’t even look Yang in the eyes, blackened pus pockets aside.

“Aren’t you at all curious as to what this scroll says?” asked Yang in an uncharacteristically soothing voice.

Ashley’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Um…what?”

“You mean to tell me that you stole this scroll from my temple and you don’t even know what it is?” Ashley tucked her head in shame. “Look at me, young lady.” Yang opened the scroll and revealed that they were coupons for restaurant food. Five gold pieces for two octopus burgers. Ten gold pieces for a gallon of broccoli cheese soup. Two packages of beef stew and rice for only one gold piece. Shame hit Ashley in the gut worse than any martial arts punch from Yang would have…even though she no longer expected him to beat her ass.

Yang knelt down to meet her Halfling level and put a hand on Ashley’s shoulder. “Young lady…you didn’t just steal a document hoping for a quick buck. You did it at the expense of other impoverished people like yourself. The temple where I work isn’t just a religious institution. It’s a shelter for those who need it the most. If you wanted the coupons, we would have shared them with you.”

Ashley’s tears stung her pus lumps like a scorpion tail. “I…I’m sorry…I’ll just…I’ll find another way to…” 

“Enough. I don’t need your apologies. I wouldn’t know what to do with them anyways.”

“What?...What do you mean?”

“Young lady…what you did was as rotten as the food you find the dumpster. It was evil. It was low even for a desperate street thief like yourself.” Ashley’s tears developed into little floods to mix with her nose blood, giving her the ultimate mask of guilt, shame, and defeat. But then Yang said…”I understand why you did it.”

“Huh? You do?”

“You think you’re the only one to try and steal from us? Look around you, young lady. The economy doesn’t favor the poor at all. Impoverished folk are unfairly categorized as lazy while the rich who live off of their backs are lionized to god status. To take the focus away from their own horrific deeds, the rich have the poor fight amongst themselves, steal from each other, treat every meal like it’s a competition. Stealing is the only life you’ve ever known, because you have no other way.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me, dog man. I doubt you would trust me again if you knew what I was capable of. I’ve slit many throats just to stay alive. How do you know I won’t slit yours?”

“My martial arts training aside, you know deep down that slitting my throat wouldn’t bring you closer to another meal. Prison food doesn’t count. You deserve better than a prisoner’s life, young lady. When was the last time you even experienced a loving home?”

Ashley swatted Yang’s hand away. “Love? You think love is going to give me something to eat every day? You think it’s going to keep me from sleeping in a dumpster? What makes you think love is going to do anything for me?”

Staying true to his bulldog nature, Yang licked the tears and blood off of Ashley’s face, which made her produce even more tears. The more Yang licked, the more pieces Ashley’s heart broke into, which was saying a lot considering the near-death exercise she put herself through. In a rare act of gratitude and love, Ashley hugged her stubby arms around Yang’s neck, breaking into a full-on crying spell over his orange and red robe.

“Thank you, dog man. Thank you so much! Please, don’t leave me here!”

“I won’t, young lady. In spite of what the privileged believe, nobody gets left behind on my streets. Come with me. Let’s get some food in your stomach.”

The dog monk and Halfling thief walked hand in hand together, Ashley’s waterworks never once drying up. In a world that didn’t care about her, she found someone who did. Life was very much worth living even though she had to learn how to do so all over again. There would be no more thievery and dishonesty, because they weren’t necessary in a truly loving home.

The Dwarf with Bad Aim

When I was an edgy little shithead during my pre-teen and teenage years, I laughed my ass off at Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles jokes. The cheese grater was the best book they’ve ever read. The fastest thing to go on land was their speedboats. The best way to torture them is to rearrange the furniture. Get it? Because they’re blind? Oh-ho-ho-ho! Blindness is so funny, isn’t it? You know who probably wouldn’t think those jokes are funny? The level one dwarf fighter I played as during a D&D campaign in the 90’s. I don’t remember a whole lot about that campaign, so the details might be a little fuzzy. Hell, I don’t even remember the dwarf’s name. Let’s call him Clark. Not very fantasy-like, but fuck it, I’m calling him Clark anyways because I like the name Clark.

So why is it that a level one dwarf fighter named Clark wouldn’t have a sense of humor about blindness jokes? It’s not like he’s blind himself. He could surely set his empathy aside for a few chuckles, right? Well, not exactly. He could see just fine, but you wouldn’t know that from how often he missed his enemies during combat situations. He had this hulking battleaxe that could rip any monster to shreds. The original Axe Body Spray could have been Clark slashing a poor son of a bitch goblin in half…emphases on could have been.

The campaign was DMed by my brother James and played by me and his friends Nathan and Chris. I don’t remember their characters or their names. I don’t remember what the name of the campaign was (it was pre-written by Wizards of the Coast). All I remember about the campaign is that it used to be really popular among D&D nerds in the 90’s. The players had to transport a prisoner to the gallows only to find out that an elf thief was a mole in the group all along. Now the end goal is to send them both to the guillotine. There would be our fair share of obstacles along the way, all of which required Clark and his comrades to swing their weapons and actually hit something for a change. Nathan and Chris’s characters hit their targets with a sniper’s precision. Clark? Not so much.

The first battle during this prisoner transport was already underway with some bandits wanting to steal our riches. Clark had the opportunity to swing his axe and shed some blood all over the forest’s most beautiful features. He swung his axe…and missed. He swung again…and missed. He swung yet again…and missed. Nathan and Chris’s characters picked up Clark’s slack and left the bandits’ corpses stacked a mile high. And then we encountered some gnomes with a broken down war machine. The gnomes naturally blamed us for their misfortune and attacked right away. Clark swung his axe…and missed. He swung again…and missed. I put the twenty-sided die in my mouth and spit it out hoping it would improve the result. Not only did Clark miss again, but I got chewed out for being weird and getting saliva on the dice.

There were many battles to be fought whether it was with knights, mages, or the prisoners themselves. The story was the same: Clark swung his axe and missed horribly. There was even a time when I rolled a nat-one and had to skip an extra turn to pick up my weapon again. Nathan and Chris’s characters did the heavy lifting for me and laid waste to our enemies. Yada, yada, yada, the prisoners were executed and everything was happy in fantasy land. By the time the campaign ended, I had tears in my eyes due to how poorly Clark performed in battle. Every swing he took, he missed like a bitch. He let his team down, though his teammates didn’t show any hint of anger at him. But Clark knew he deserved their scorn if they had any. He was just extra weight freeloading experience points from their labor. As the tears poured from my eyes, I bemoaned the fact that I wouldn’t get any experience points. But James gave me some anyways, though I didn’t do anything significant to deserve them.

Because this was the 90’s and wisdom wasn’t my strong suit at the time, I didn’t see an opportunity for a compelling story when it came to Clark’s misfortune. All I saw was a series of misses. It wouldn’t be acceptable in a game of Final Fantasy IV or Chrono Trigger, because that’s how your characters die. But Clark lived through it all. He leeched off of his friends and never once paid them back. If there was a story to be had there, my younger self couldn’t see it and no, that’s not a blindness joke.

So…now that everything happened and Clark is a broken man, where does he go from here? As a wiser storyteller than I was in the 90’s, I see many angles this can take. Obviously, Clark is overwhelmed with guilt. But how does he handle it? Does he train harder and get better? Does he use his pay from the campaign to sign up for fighting classes? Does he push himself beyond what he’s capable of and jeopardize his health? 

Or does he let the guilt take a stronger hold of him and instead of using it as inspiration, he uses it as an excuse to quit. Maybe Clark retires from adventuring altogether. Maybe he spends his money on alcohol to silence his guilty conscience. Maybe he meets a woman who finds him attractive, but he pushes her away because he “can’t satisfy her”. Ever hear the phrase “those who can’t do, teach?” What if Clark feels so guilty that he thinks he would suck as a teacher as well as a real-world fighter?

What you have to remember as a D&D player is that this is a story above all else. It’s more than just swinging axes, casting spells, and slaying dragons. Everything is an opportunity for a story. And when your characters go through those stories with newfound experience, they, you guessed it, gain experience points. And then those characters develop into three-dimensional people. They feel real despite the fact that they’re in a fantasy setting. They feel human despite being a dwarf, elf, or orc. They have thoughts, opinions, dreams, ambitions, and goals. Sometimes those goals are self-destructive, sometimes they reach beyond the cosmos. The more you develop your story and your characters, the more invested you and your audience will become. If you only care about your misses and failures, that’s all your audience will care about as well.

Everything has a story behind it whether you see it or not, even the ordinary aspects of life. That bookshelf you’ve got in your room? It has seen a lot during its time. It was crafted by creative hands. It’s had many owners who used it for purposes other than storing books. It’s collected dust and formed cracks in the wood and paint. There will be a day when your bookshelf breaks down completely and has to spend its final days in a landfill somewhere. Or the wood from the shelves could be refashioned into something else like a nightstand or even firewood for a camping trip. If an ordinary bookshelf can have this much of a story behind it, so can Clark. But Clark is not an inanimate object. He’s a person with thoughts and feelings. How he deals with his thoughts and feelings is what will determine how three-dimensional he really is. Okay, Clark, so you missed all of your shots and let your teammates down. What will you do next? That’s a story very much worth telling.

But maybe Clark can’t do a whole lot anymore because he really is going blind. Maybe it’s time for him to put down the axe before he hurts someone he didn’t intend to. Maybe he has to spend his time in a home for disabled dwarves. But then Clark has to deal with ableism and people who whine about how their tax money is being spent. If the aggression against him gets so bad, he might have to pick up his axe again to defend himself. But he’ll have help from that woman who found him attractive. She’ll guide his every step and he’ll get progressively better at swinging his axe and murdering ableist assholes. And then…he’ll believe in himself again. His self-esteem will grant him the willingness to marry that woman and start a family with her. And just like that…you have a compelling, three-dimensional story about Clark a.k.a. The Dwarf with Bad Aim!

Johnny Glass's Underage Beer Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The House of Hathaway

Ah yes, the year 2003: a time in my life marked with bad mental health, suicidal thoughts, shitty education, and fights with online friends over inconsequential BS. So what’s the cure for all of this? Playing D&D with my brother James, of course! Whenever my mind wasn’t being bombarded with schizophrenic voices, I could put it to good use and guide my character through an epic adventure filled with magic and wonder! Or I could completely waffle it and confirm everything my head voices ever told me. Whoever said mental illnesses produce the best creativity needs to have their head mounted on a trident.

Speaking of tridents, guess what my character’s weapon of choice was! Everybody else in the campaign used a long sword because they had war in their bloodlines. I used a trident because I allegedly had fishing in my bloodline. Never mind the fact that the minimum damage on a trident cushioned every bad roll I could have made in combat. Nope! I’m just an angry fisherman named Regal. No last name, just Regal. My brother’s player character was named Riant, which apparently gave him a license to call my character Reg...which is short for Reggie…which rhymes with wedgie! Ugh…

But before we could get into the actual campaign, there was a mild disagreement between my brother and I over where in my bedroom we should sit. He sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor and I sat in my computer chair. He urged me to sit on the floor with him, but I refused. So our campaign began with Regal tending a barn full of animals during a thunderstorm. Weird, but okay. I moved the animals all over the place until lightning struck me and killed me. This was all an elaborate April Fool’s joke to coerce me to sit on the floor with him. I of course didn’t catch on, because, you know, schizophrenia and all. Plus, I had just argued with an online friend the night before and pretty much terminated our relationship, so there was that weighing heavily on me.

Now that I was cross-legged on the floor with James, the real campaign could begin. The House of Hathaway (very British-sounding name if I’ve ever heard one) put a bounty on some guy’s head because he stole something valuable from them. There was a poster on the city walls with his likeness and price printed on it. The poster said he was last seen out in the countryside. So naturally, my first move would be to go out to the countryside to look for this thieving bastard. Riant disagreed. He wanted to go to the local jewelry shop to ask a bunch of questions. Regal didn’t see the point of this, but played along nonetheless. He even asked, “Are you ready to go?” Apparently, this came off like an invitation rather than a demand, so Riant dinged Regal for that one.

So Regal goes over to the jewelry shop to interrogate the clerk. When I, the player, couldn’t think of any questions, James urged me to think like Vic Mackey from The Shield. How would he interrogate someone? What kinds of questions would he ask? If you’ve seen The Shield during its heyday in the 2000’s, you would associate Vic Mackey with ass-beatings galore. That’s how he got all of his information. Was James suggesting that I beat this clerk’s ass? Seemed unreasonable to me. Riant started the conversation with, “Any word of thievery?” I continued the line of questioning with a bunch of “personal questions” that got us kicked out of the shop when the clerk got offended. Why did he get offended? Why was he not cooperating with our line of questioning? My first guess would be because the clerk was a dick who didn’t respect our authority. But Riant insisted that Regal was “asking the wrong questions”.

So after that little kafuffle, Regal and Riant finally agreed to go to the outskirts of town where the real clues led. Regal went home to get an ox to ride on and Riant gave him a weird ass look for it. Regal also got weird ass looks from ordinary citizens for carrying a trident around with him. Never mind the fact that every weapon in the D&D franchise has a sheath and that’s what I was trying to do: put it in a sheath. James insisted that tridents didn’t have sheaths (they totally do), so this was the result: a bunch of crazy stares from the extras of the campaign. Oh, excuse me, the “background artists” of the campaign.

So as Regal and Riant make their way to the countryside (with no ox to ride on), Riant gives Regal a lecture about his poor performance in this bounty hunting mission so far. “Why am I always the one helping you? I wish you’d help yourself.” This would have been the perfect time to mount Riant’s head on a trident, but Regal held back and also held his tongue. The reasonable answer would have been to complain about everybody no-selling the seriousness of what Regal was doing. They treated him like a clown for reasons I would never understand. Then again, understanding everything isn’t in the schizophrenic’s arsenal, especially under heavy medication.

The two bounty hunters go out to the countryside to interview various farmers about the last time they’ve seen the House of Hathaway’s prized thief. Regal goes up to one farmer and says, “Excuse me, can I talk to you for a moment?” The farmer says, “We’re talking now, aren’t we?” Another example of NPC’s no-selling the gravity of the situation. We weren’t talking before, that’s why Regal asked the fucking question! I can’t remember what questions Regal asked after that, but the conversation took another steep turn when the farmer asked why he was being interrogated. Regal admitted to being a bounty hunter and the farmer lectured him about how that lifestyle could get him killed or arrested. To be fair to me, I had no idea bounty hunting was a sensitive issue since bounty hunters are on the same side as traditional law enforcement. But oh well. Can’t put the words back in my mouth now!

Regal and Riant go out to the forest to look for clues and they find a series of footprints in the dirt. Regal’s assessment of the situation was that there was a struggle taking place due to the awkward angle of the foot prints. Maybe a cult had gotten the thief. Was the thief even here? Who knows? Before I had the chance to find out more, our campaign ended when James and I were called away from the game by our parents.

This campaign was supposed to be a tribute to The Shield, but it looked more like The Three Stooges…except there was only one stooge and multiple straight men. That stooge was named Regal. He was a stooge because he couldn’t figure out basic detective protocol. To my young mind, The Shield wasn’t about nuance and politics. It was about ass-beatings and edginess. If Regal tried any of the tactics Vic Mackey used on The Shield, he would have been locked up a long time ago. Regal had no official authority; he was a freelancer and didn’t have any of the privileges of a traditional cop.

I don’t want you all to think that the House of Hathaway campaign was a microcosm on its own. My role-playing abilities suffered all throughout the 2000’s due to my mental illnesses and general naivety. You talk about NPC’s no-selling the gravity of the situation? That happened in pretty much every RPG I was a part of, including ones where I was the game master and had complete control. From 2010-2011, I took the role of Dungeon Master once more, but this time had better results. My players were actually being receptive to my awkward and insane ideas. It’s because of this newfound success that I decided to write fiction on a regular basis, not just movie scripts where the characters went along with each other despite the awkward writing.

To this day, I still have ups and downs when it comes to mental health. The one rule I follow to keep D&D campaigns and creative writing pieces from getting too weird is to not work on them while I’m having a bad mental health day. If the schizophrenic demons keep me boiling with anger or the depression keeps me tired and unmotivated, that would be the perfect time to take the day off. The other important rule I have to follow is to not shame myself for needing a personal day. I shame myself a lot and I think it contributes to my mental health being worse overall. Then again, mental illnesses depend on the victims cycling through negative thoughts. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be mentally ill in the first place.

I can look back on the House of Hathaway campaign and laugh about how silly it all was. Even if failing miserably hurt my self-esteem for a while, I think I’ve gained some of it back over the years and that’s why my writing career has picked up along the way. Come to think of it, writing novels is basically just playing D&D by myself. Or playing WITH myself, depending on the adult content of any one novel. Hopefully, I’ve come a long way from Regal in 2003 to Garrison Kelly in the present day. I’d like to think so. Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know. Could you repeat the question?

Pants Down

Red-handed, pants around your feet

Dirty ass pasted to the toilet seat

Porno magazine covered in dude soup

Should I give you more time to regroup?

You got caught, you’re fucking busted

No need to have your fingerprints dusted

It’s your fault, own up to the mistake

Before I find one of your limbs to break

You’re sorry? Why do I not believe you?

I’m not the one who’s trying to deceive you

You spent a whole lifetime telling me lies

This is where I finally cut our damn ties

Pants down and fake tears on your face

As you scramble to find another place

Pants down and your whole life story

All of it is drama and none of it is glory

Pants down and Mary-Sue privilege

Nobody in town sees you as the villain

One day you’ll piss off the wrong guy

And he won’t care when you cry

Rest in pieces when you convert to Jesus

Bang on heaven’s gate for all four seasons

Stealing from me has all led up to this

I hope you enjoyed your riches and bliss

I know I enjoyed the lesson I just learned

That trust isn’t easy and must be earned

One strike and you’re out, get off the plate

Before I leave your nuts in a sterile state

Batter on deck, play baseball with your balls

Thunderous crack echoing off the walls

I’m in love with my newfound courage

As I finally pull these theater curtains

On toxic people and toxic friendships

On future prisoners, courtroom defendants

Somewhere over your heavenly rainbow

Is a lot more of the same old, same old

Matthew Must Die

My voices tell me that I am hope

I forgot to take my dosage of dope

Smoke wagon tucked in my pocket

Blast off like a motherfucking rocket

Roll into this rundown ghost town

The birthplace of slanderous sounds

My old foe has a price on his head

Bring him alive, but I prefer him dead

Some things are more important than coin

Like never forgetting that kick to the groin

Like never forgetting his evil laughter

And the bigoted slurs shortly thereafter

Has anyone seen my man Matthew?

I promise it’s all I’ll ever ask you

Drunk in the gutter is what you tell me?

Criminal rap sheet loaded with felonies?

Shoplifting and trespassing while stoned?

Burglarizing other people’s comfy homes?

Easier than shooting fish in a barrel

It’s time to make his gene pool sterile

Sure enough, he was a cinch to find

Drowning in a bottle of cheap wine

Scraggly beard no different from Chewie

The cigarette odor so thick and dewy

Every drug on the street in his system

Let’s find out if anyone will miss him

Pull out the smoke wagon and aim

Should I shoot to kill or shoot to maim?

Ah, who cares? He’s already dead

Among the living, but not in his head

He fucked up his life so very badly

That nothing else could be so damning

I give him another twenty-four hours

Before he dies in his own golden shower

I’m going home for the rest of the day

To my feline friend with whom I lay

You Tried to Kill Me

VERSE 1

You call it a trigger, I call it something bigger

I call you liquored, you’re the one who’s sicker

You tried to take away what I hold highest

My heart, mind, soul, and beautiful silence

Kleptomancy is your magic of choice

Obnoxious bullhorn is your style of voice

I would have screamed to the skies for help

How can anyone hear when I’m chained in hell?

CHORUS 1

You tried to kill me!

You tried to end it all!

You tried to kill me!

You made me take the fall!

VERSE 2

Your empty talk is like a buzzing wasp

Stinging me until my brain goes pop

Pop goes the weasel, down go the people

You make fun of everyone? That’s your spiel?

I don’t buy the idea that this shit’s not personal

You wished me humiliated, wished me terminal

I want to wrap my hands around your pencil neck

Watch shit and piss run down your fucking leg

CHORUS 2

You tried to kill me!

You tried to end my life!

You tried to kill me!

You might as well pull the knife!

VERSE 3

I want to take your inner demons

Turn them against you to make us even

Every ass kicking you have ever taken

Every sad-ass smile you’re just now faking

Every time you were told to go to hell

Every time the crowd laughed when you fell

You’re in my shoes, you’re singing the blues

To say otherwise is nothing but fake news

CHORUS 3

I tried to kill you!

Put your memories to rest!

I tried to kill you!

Make you famous, not like the rest!

You tried to kill me!

You tried to make me small!

You tried to kill me!

How does it feel to curl in a ball?!

You tried to kill me!

A Weasel and a Thief

The early morning darkness did wonders in comforting Private Laurel Tate’s battle scarred mind. Maybe it was the way her platoon snored like little kittens as they laid in their sleeping bags on the desert ground. Maybe it was the vanilla ice cream-like texture of the full moon that night. Maybe it was the way the stars twinkled brightly across her field of vision. Whatever this comfort was, Laurel envied her platoon mates as she marched back and forth with her AK-47 drawn ready to shower any insurgent with bullets at a moment’s notice.

There seemed to be no need for such a brutal weapon that moment. It was surprisingly quiet for a war-torn desert. No bombs going off, no machinegun fire, just peace and quiet. Because of the strangeness of it all, Laurel had to be extra vigilant and the caffeine pills she took before her shift would help her do that. Every once and a while she would drift off while she was on her feet, but only for a few seconds at best. A lifetime of drinking coffee made her somewhat immune to these military-grade caffeine pills. Nevertheless, she remained steadfast in her night watch.

She reached for the radio on her hip and said into it, “Coast is clear, over.” But when she hit the button, the entire device popped like a balloon and gave Laurel a quick jump scare. “What the hell?” she asked herself as she saw that her radio was indeed a clown’s balloon. With wide eyes and a tight trigger finger, she looked around at her platoon and saw that their weapons had been replaced by balloon animals and their radios were replaced with bicycle helmets.

“Hey! Wake up! We’ve been made!” shouted Laurel, but the mechanical snoring continued. “I said wake up, goddamn it! We’re under attack!” Still no answer from the drowsy crew. “Fucking morons! Wake your asses up, now!” she barked with even more sauce in her voice. She even squeezed off a few rounds of her assault rifle in the air, but that too turned out to be an exploding balloon animal. “What the fuck is going on here?!” she asked while tightly squeezing the remains of her inflatable giraffe.

“You can yell all you want, sweetheart, but they ain’t waking up!” said a cartoon voice with two honks of a bicycle horn to follow. Private Tate’s what-the-fuck face was cranked up to eleven when she saw a tiny gnome in a clown suit waving at her and peddling a child’s bike with a wagon full of AK-47’s and other military equipment. “Turn that frown upside down! Without these bad boys, you won’t have to go to war anymore! Smile, you silly goose!” From the gnome clown’s gigantic sleeves shot a volley of crepe paper in Laurel’s now red hot face.

The marine private slowly wiped the paper off her face while maintaining a contorted look of disgust and vitriol. “You little shit weasel! You better give that shit back or else…”

“Or else what? You’ll get a spanking from your daddy?” mocked the gnome with a sarcastic hand of concern over his mouth. “You really need to loosen up, baby cakes! Here, have some music to brighten your day!” The clown flipped the switch on a radio mounted to his handle bars and played church organ circus music. He laughed like a hyena and started peddling away in his little bicycle while waving goodbye.

While she wouldn’t get “a spanking from her daddy”, Laurel would get an earful from her commanding officer if she allowed this little freak of nature to get away so easily with expensive military equipment. Physical training until her body resembled a skeleton. A firing squad that put more holes in her than a mesh fence. God knows how many years in a military prison that would rival most shit houses. Any one of these possibilities shook Laurel to her core and her nerves fired off like the assault rifles stolen from her platoon.

“Get over here, you little creep!” grunted Private Tate through gritted teeth while she darted after her thief at a deadlier speed than when she ran obstacles in boot camp. With every ounce of strength she pumped into her thick legs, she crept inches closer to her elusive assailant. Her heart pumped at a million beats per minute and sweat poured from her brow like a water park. She reached out her hand only inches away from her slick thief’s rainbow-colored hair. Two fingertips turned into three and three turned into an entire handful of clown hair.

With one clean jerk, Private Tate yanked the little fucker off of his bike and started raining punches down on his face. She could feel the molten lead pumping through her veins as well as the blood and juices splashing against her already red eyes and face. She finally relented her attack when she saw that she had been punching a watermelon this entire time. The burgundy in her face flashed a mixture of boiling anger and douche chills of embarrassment.

Standing right beside her and laughing like a lunatic, the gnome clown said, “Gotcha! I gotcha good, didn’t I!” before cooling off Laurel’s face with a spray of lapel water. The clown rolled on the floor laughing and kicking the air while slamming his fists into the desert sand.

With her anger hot enough to make her head explode like a car bomb, Laurel finally got her hands wrapped around the little bastard’s throat and squeezed so hard that the gnome’s facial redness was easily visible through his white makeup. “Alright, you little shit head! Tell me who you are and what the fuck you’re doing here! I’ll make your death quick and painless if you listen to reason!”

The clown’s head popped in balloon fashion once again and his real head slid through the neck of his jacket. “Gotcha again!” said the diminutive booger as he rolled around laughing yet again. Laurel could do nothing but remain on her knees and watch this nut job with burning red eyes.

Upon witnessing the marine’s frustration, the clown stopped laughing and changed his expression to mock sadness. “Aww, what’s wrong? Don’t be sad, little girl. I’m just having some fun with you tonight. I suppose introductions are in order. My name is Ozzy May. Nice to meet you!” The two of them shook hands only for Laurel to get a jolt in her fingers and for Ozzy to have another reason to chuckle and hee-haw.

“I give up. I fucking give up,” said Laurel with a low and solemn voice. “I didn’t sign up for this goofy shit. I’m supposed to be shooting terrorists, not little shit stains like you!”

Ozzy nipped up and sat on the seat of his bicycle with his legs crossed and big red feet swinging. “So what of it? You want to go home? You want to see your husband and daughter again? Have you finally had enough of this god awful war that nobody needs to be fighting?”

“I need to fight it!” barked Laurel. “I joined the marines so that I could protect my country and if I have to protect it from little punks like you, then I’ll gladly do it!”

Ozzy May rested his jaw on his fingertips and said, “Really? Who told you that? A politician? A recruiter? A TV pundit? Come on, little girl, you can’t really be serious about all of that rhetoric. The only reason why there aren’t any bullets flying tonight is because nobody’s alive to shoot them. I’m not just talking about whackos with bombs. I’m talking about women and children too. You’ve seen their bodies up close and you can’t get those images out of your mind. Those aren’t caffeine pills you’re taking. That’s trauma medication!”

Laurel’s facial expression melted into softness upon realizing that this little guy had a point. The tears were building in her eyes, but she didn’t want them flooding and Ozzy noticed that. She couldn’t let this clown see her cry. Instead her sorrow turned to rage when she bolted to her feet and spear tackled Ozzy to the ground with her fist raised high. “What do you know about the shit going on in my head?! Huh?! What makes you a fucking authority?!”

“I know this because that’s how my gnomish race was wiped out,” said Ozzy with rare seriousness in his voice. “Too many of them were blown to bits while others lynched themselves into a peaceful death. That’s the reality of war, but no politician will ever tell you that. But of course, what does a gnome like me know about war? I’m too small to fight other people’s battles for them. Even if I wanted to be a soldier, nobody would recruit me because I’m small enough to get my ass kicked by normal sized men. If you need proof, just look at you and that raised fist!”

Slowly lowering her hand, Laurel’s tears burst from her eyes, but she refused to sob in front of this tiny man. “Why are you telling me these things? You’re just a clown. You’re here to torment me!”

“Exactly!” said Ozzy. “If I don’t set you straight, these desert warriors will. I’d much rather you’d be pranked by a clown instead of blown up by a rocket launcher. Is that really what it’s going to take to get you home? A blown off leg? A mindful of shitty memories? A hole in your chest the size of a sewer lid? Or maybe you prefer to travel home in a wooden box with an American flag draped over it!”

Even more tears poured from Laurel’s eyes as she rolled onto her back and gazed at the night sky. It still looked beautiful despite her tormented mind. She could have more nights like this if she came home alive and well to a family that depended on her for income and love. She didn’t want to admit it, but Ozzy May was right. But the more she pushed away his talking points, the stronger they hit her.

“How the fuck am I supposed to go home now?” asked Laurel wearily. “It’s not like my commanding officer is just going to let me go. He’ll probably punish the shit out of me before that happens.”

Wrapping his tiny arm around her shoulders, Ozzy said, “Did I mention that those weren’t caffeine pills you were taking? At least those are allowed. Illegally obtained prescription drugs? Not so much. The marines don’t want drug addicted trauma victims on their team. They want young healthy soldiers who can run into battle and beat some ass with the best of them. Your CO will find out sooner or later. But in your case, it’s as soon as you decide to wake up!”

That final sentence was punctuated with a cream pie to Laurel’s face. She coughed and spit up the pieces of whipped cream before angrily wiping it from her field of vision. By the time her eyes were clear enough to see, it was the break of dawn and her once snoring marine friends were gathered all around her with scornful looks in their eyes. Was this whole thing just a dream? A fucked up god awful dream about midget clowns?

One of them had a prescription bottle of pills with the name Dr. Ozzy May on the top of the label. That same marine knelt down to Laurel’s side and said with stern conviction, “We need to talk.”

“Am…am I busted?” asked Laurel.

“You’re goddamn right you are,” said the head marine.

Raggyd

***RAGGYD***

What do you get when you combine minimal reading experience, a massive ego, and four fantasy characters who have no earthly business being together? The answer is Raggyd, a medieval fantasy novel idea I had in 2004 when I took a creative writing class at Olympic College. As horrible as it ended up being, it was also the launching pad for my poetry skills. Ergo, if it wasn’t for Raggyd in 2004, I wouldn’t have published Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage in 2013 nor Necrograph in 2016. I’m halfway through another book of poetry called Prophecy, so that’s in my near future.

With an underdeveloped plot, Raggyd was little more than an excuse to use four characters I really had an affinity for. There was the pit fighting barbarian Graf Lunge, the gothic samurai Eron Putris, the acrobatic thief Baby, and the witch hunter zealot Futez Mysida. Somehow these four characters were going to come together to fight a super powerful enemy named…are you ready for this…Vine Wielders. That’s his name, folks. Vine fucking Wielders. Sounds threatening, doesn’t it?

The first chapter I wrote for Raggyd was an interaction between Baby and Futez. Futez wanted Baby to join his religious organization and Baby declined by making a smart-ass remark about how the only thing Futez plans on stealing is the altar boy’s virginity. Naturally, the witch hunter was less than pleased and sicked an entire squadron of ball and chain-wielding soldiers upon his would-be charge.

As much as the class enjoyed Baby’s dig about fucking altar boys, Raggyd was a critical flop among the students. They had all criticisms for me and no compliments. Other students had compliments for their stories, but I didn’t and that put a huge dent in my massive ego. What really set me off was when a fellow student named Patrick flat out said the story sucked. You know you have a hair trigger temper when the words “it sucked” causes you to blow a major gasket. Of course, I didn’t actually explode in the classroom, but I was boiling over on the inside. I needed some kind of revenge on Patrick in the worst way. Beating the piss out of him would land me in jail, so I needed something a little more…legal.

Around this time in my life, I was watching a lot of WWE (surprise, surprise). Since this was the autumn of 2004, John Cena was still over with the crowd during his white rapper gimmick. I’ll always tell people that hip-hop was the catalyst for my poetry career, but what a lot of people don’t know is that John Cena’s battle raps were the biggest source of inspiration for me. From those TV-14 insults, my revenge poem against Patrick was formulated. I would go on a lengthy diatribe about how I would impregnate Patrick’s mother, sodomize him, and give him up to the orcish horde (because he looked like Frodo Baggins). I would have read this out loud during creative writing class, but Patrick made a face turn and started being nicer to the class, so I pulled back at the last minute.

As far as Raggyd goes, just for the sake of spiting my critics, I wrote a 130-page movie script detailing the exploits of Graf Lunge and Baby. Had I continued this series, there would have been a script dedicated to Eron and Futez and there would have been another one after that dedicated to the final battle with Vine Wielders. For the time being, Graf Lunge’s story was about him getting kidnapped at an early age and forced to train as a pit fighter under drill instructor-style conditions. Baby’s story was about him being sick of his religious upbringing and joining the thieves’ guild, where his training was much nicer by comparison.

Raggyd had a lot of potential to be something big, but I eventually lost interest in continuing it due to the silence of my critics and a growing interest in other movie scripts. That means Graf Lunge, Baby, Futez Mysida, and Eron Putris are all orphaned characters. They’ll be used in other stories, no doubt, but what stories and when? I particularly grew fond of Graf Lunge because of his name (believe it or not) and his barbarian gimmick (naturally). And now that I think about it, Baby and Eron have different incarnations in other published stories. Over a decade later, Baby would become a child’s doll come to life in “Nail Bomb” and Eron would take the role of Floyd the sparring android from “The New Trainer”. Both of those stories will be published in Poison Tongue Tales. That leaves Graf and Futez without a home.

When I look back on the origins of Raggyd and the hurtful environment from which it came, a part of me wishes Olympic College wouldn’t have allowed that format to go on for any creative writing class. Apparently, this is a common occurrence for a lot of schools, not just OC. You read your story or poem out loud to the class and stay silent while the other students judge your piece. The other students can be as harsh or as nasty as they want with no consequence. It’s always been my understanding that school was supposed to be a place where students could grow and mature, not be taken down. But hey, I’ve watched Pink Floyd the Wall millions of times before, so I should have known better.

If I didn’t attend that class, I wouldn’t have written that battle rap about Patrick and therefore, I would have no poetry career. While I admit that my angry poetry got me in trouble more than once, I have no regrets about any of it, because I’d like to think I’ve improved since then. Maybe that’s why “Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage” holds a four-star rating on Good Reads and Necrograph holds a five-star rating on the same website.

The lesson of this blog entry is to live your life with no regrets, because if you change just one part of your personal history, the rest of your life will be completely different. Without the negative experiences of your past, you wouldn’t appreciate the positive ones you have now. Raggyd will see the light of day again sometime in the near future. When that is, I have no idea. Until then, adios, amigos! Thanks for reading!

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call someone who masturbates to Maid Marian while watching through her window?

A: Rubbin’ Hood.

"Child of the Night Guild" by Andy Peloquin

BOOK TITLE: Child of the Night Guild

AUTHOR: Andy Peloquin

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Dystopian Fantasy

GRADE: Pass

When Viola’s father can’t pay off his loan from the Night Guild, he has no choice but to sell her into servitude. Under the tutelage of the insanely cruel Master Velvet, Viola is put through a battery of painful and exhausting tests under the threat of being murdered, starved, and/or tortured for failure. She, along with eleven other child students, are given new names and are told to forget everything about their past, which they do. In this dark fantasy hybrid of Pink Floyd the Wall and Full Metal Jacket, Viola, now named Seven, has only one goal if she wants to see the light of day ever again: survive. There is no turning back for her or anybody else in the Night Guild. They live and die by their abilities to become convincing thieves, an occupation which will repay their families’ debts.

If you’re looking for a tale of darkness and cruelty that rivals any child kidnapping story you hear about in the news, Child of the Night Guild will tear you to shreds. The harsh treatment of Viola/Seven is so consistent and so heartbreaking that you as the reader are convinced that this story will end on a sour note. While I won’t divulge what happens, you can bet your bottom dollar that this would be a scenario no ordinary person would survive. The students of the Night Guild are insulted, humiliated, starved, slashed, and slapped around as a way of stripping them of their individuality (and quite possibly their sanity). You know deep in your heart that there’s no way out, so there really is no praying for the best, because you’ll expect the worst. If you’re a Pink Floyd fan, then you know there’s a meat grinder waiting for these children at the end of the cookie factory maze.

On a somewhat lighter note, every time I read an Andy Peloquin novel, he comes off as an expert on whatever it is his story entails. In this case, the children are training to be cunning thieves, which requires a great deal of dexterity, cleverness, and thousands of hours of practice. When someone balances across a thin beam, pickpockets an unsuspecting sod, or searches for treasure in the most unlikely of places, you are convinced that these methods are the right way to get the job done. That’s not to say that Andy is an expert thief or a violent sociopath, but it tells you a lot about how much research he put into this novel. Everybody loves an intelligently-written novel and this one is no exception. Andy Peloquin is a scholar in every sense of the word.

Another likeable trait about Mr. Peloquin’s novels is his writing style. You’re not just watching a movie unfold before your eyes; you’re feeling every burning pain that Viola goes through. Whether it’s hunger pains, burning muscles, slashed fingers, or the general anxiety of being put through serious torture, it adds to this scenario of there being no way out for these children. These agonizing descriptions slowly transform Viola into Seven and Seven into the shadowy thief known as Ilanna. Any shred of innocence she once had will be lost because of the pain she feels throughout the story. We as readers get to feel everything. If you want to cry or listen to Linkin Park songs afterwards, I won’t blame you one bit.

For all intents and purposes, this should be the perfect novel for anybody who loves a good dystopian nightmare. For me personally, I love darkness, but I feel like this is too much darkness for me to handle. Maybe I’ve gotten soft and sensitive over the years, but when I read this novel, it reminds me too much of the Jaycee Dugard story on the news. She was kidnapped at the age of eleven and was raped and molested repeatedly by her captor until she was rescued at age of twenty-nine. It might seem like I’m comparing apples to oranges, but that’s just what I think of whenever I see so much darkness in one place. Nevertheless, this book receives a passing grade because it’s that damn good.

Liars and Thieves

VERSE 1

You spread lies like you spread your legs

Giving it all away free to anyone who begs

Libel is your bible and fraud is your god

Yet you wonder why you’re a lightning rod

Well placed punches never shut you up

You drink in sympathy like a coffee cup

Everyone is eating out of your filthy hands

Lies and rumors are the laws of the land

CHORUS

Liars and thieves! People to believe!

Thieves and liars! Slander for hire!

Gather around the cult of personality!

He chokes on bullshit ever so laughably!

VERSE 2

Reputations ruined and lives shattered

Spirits broken and psychologies battered

Brains feel number than a shot of Novocain

Hearts feel crushed underneath the pain

Weaponizing words is an act of war

You’re an iron dictator to the deepest core

Weaponizing fists is an act of revenge

Nobody stops until everyone is dead

CHORUS

Liars and thieves! People to believe!

Thieves and liars! Slander for hire!

Gather around the cult of personality!

He chokes on bullshit ever so laughably!

VERSE 3

A cold jail cell is the last circle of hell

The result of the fighting after the bell

The high school became a boxing ring

The final punch has dethroned the king

Justice or revenge? What’s the difference?

One takes longer and the other is instant

The road to hell is paved with bitter blood

There is no exit ramp to lead you to love

EXTENDED CHORUS

Liars and thieves! People to believe!

Thieves and liars! Slander for hire!

Gather around the cult of personality!

He chokes on bullshit ever so laughably!

The truth alone never freed anybody!

When no one even bothers to study!

Everybody wants to plant the seeds!

Of ignorance for the liars and thieves!

FINAL LINE

Coming up next on Celebrity Bullshit: this Hollywood stud fucked an entire village of mentally challenged trolls! More news at eleven. Here’s Stacy with the weather.

Emoticon Artist

“Whoever left the Eagle Eye of Aragon in this dump should have his head chopped off,” said the brutish orc warrior Knox, who grinned at his war axe in anticipation of carrying out that threat. The odors of shit, piss, and rotten metal in this junkyard assaulted the nostrils of everyone in his adventuring party and made keeping their lunches down a fight to the death. The sight of human and rat bones congregating among the junk heaps did no favors for their nauseated stomachs.

“Yeah, I’m not happy about being here either, Knox,” said the scrappy, dust-covered gnome thief Christopher. “But my sources tell me the Eagle Eye is somewhere among these piles. Somebody wanted to get rid of it in a hurry to avoid being caught by authorities. They didn’t do a good enough job of it.”

“Let’s just get the cursed thing before Lord McCain shows up,” said the heavily armored cleric Bradshaw, who held his spiked mace with confidence and passion. “Then again, I wouldn’t mind throwing down with that creep.”

Each adventurer took separate routes in digging through these trash piles so as to expand their search. They dug with quickness and strength so as not to spend too much time getting dizzy from the shitty odors. Once one pile of trash was sorted through, another was and the cycle of dirty clothing and shivers of disgust continued all over again. Christopher gagged and coughed as he dug to the bottom of his pile and found a used sheepskin condom. He threw it off to the side and nearly hit Knox in the face with it, to which the savage orc barked at him to be more careful.

“Looking for this?!” said a deep, ominous voice at the junkyard’s mesh fence entrance. The adventurers got in their fighting stances and pointed their respective weapons at the dark robed figure covered in glowing red auras known as Lord McCain. The Eagle Eye of Aragon glowed a brilliant shade of yellow that rivaled the morning sun itself. The adventurers shielded their eyes with their arms so as not to be blinded by this beautiful gem.

The snake-faced wizard grinned at the party while bearing his fangs and slithering his tongue. As if swallowing a pill, Lord McCain gulped the Eagle Eye down and sent a storm of electricity through his own body. The party watched in wide-eyed awe as McCain’s robes disintegrated and his green scaly body was growing with bulging muscles until he had morphed into a full-fledged dragon. The partiers swallowed saliva and nearly shit themselves at the sight of this transformed mega-demon, who screamed so violently at his foes that a gust of wind blew past them and sent Christopher rolling backwards.

Knox quickly pushed the fear to the back of his mind and smiled like a slasher, long tongue, drool, and all. “Is that how we’re going to do this?! Fine by me, McCain! I’ll drink your blood like a cold frosty beer!” With his gigantic axe raised to the sky, Knox charged at the dragon with bloodlust in his eyes, slobber flowing from his chin, and train-like power in his legs.

Fantasizing about slashing the shit out of Lord McCain would have given Knox a bulge in his fur shorts the size of an elephant’s trunk, had it not been for the sudden ringing noise interrupting his bloody thoughts. He looked back and saw Bradshaw texting on his cell phone and not paying attention to the battle at hand. “Hey! Moron! Put the phone away! There’s a pissed off dragon in front of us!” shouted the orc brute.

That momentary distraction allowed the vicious beast to grab Knox by his ankles with one massive, razor-sharp claw and drag him across the dirt ground, causing him to leave his axe behind. “Bradshaw! Put the phone away and help me!” The cleric continued to text on his cell phone like he was writing the next great novel. “Bradshaw! No!” shouted Knox as he was hauled up into the air and had his entire upper body chewed off by the blood hungry dragon, like his massively muscle-bound body was just a corn dog to the transformed beast.

Bradshaw was left all alone to text on his phone and to potentially be eaten by this drooling monster. One earth-shaking step at a time, the dragon stomped his way over to the cleric, who never took his eyes off of his phone and whose thumbs were moving at the speed of light. With one powerful whack, the dragon knocked the phone out of the holy warrior’s hands.

“Hey! What was that for?!” whined Beth Bradshaw, a chubby young lady with a ponytail and a Star Wars T-shirt barely covering her tremendous features.

While Cody Knox and Brenda Christopher sat at opposite sides of the dinner table with their faces in their hands, Colin McCain, the Dungeon Master, pointed his sausage finger at Beth and said in a hushed, angry voice, “You know full well that I don’t allow texting during D&D sessions! It’s fucking rude! If your internet life is more important to you than playing with your friends, then go the fuck outside and do that shit!”

Tears stained Beth’s jowls and fogged up her glasses. “I’m sorry, Colin. I just…” Before she could finish her sentence, her surprisingly durable smart phone vibrated on the kitchen floor. Instead of honoring her DM’s wishes, she picked up the phone and texted rapidly some more. The tears were really pouring from her eyes at this point.

Colin pulled his ponytail tie out of his hair and with one sweep of his bulky arm brushed the character sheets, rule books, and potato chips off the table to snap Beth out of her trance. Cody yelled, “Hey!” as some of the potato chips ended up in his blue jeans-wearing lap and on his Sepultura T-shirt.

Beth looked up at Colin with pleading, damp eyes and softly said, “I’m sorry! I really am! I have to take care of this or else…”

“Or else what? Your online buddies will have to go without goofy emoticons and poorly-spelled words for ten more seconds?!” shouted Colin while his palms were firmly pressed against the table.

“Come on, Colin, leave her alone! Can’t you see she’s in tears?” said the skinny brunette Brenda, who held her arms in front of Colin like a failed attempt to shield Beth from the DM’s wrath.

“Tears? Tears?!” yelled Colin. “What does this crazy bitch have to be sad about?! The latest edition of Pokemon Go hasn’t come out yet?! The coffee machine is jammed?! Banana Republic ran out of khakis that don’t cut off the circulation to her brain?! You know what?! I’m putting an end to this crap once and for all! Give me that stupid phone!”

A tug-o’-war ensued between Beth and Colin over the former’s phone with Cody and Brenda trying to separate them. The two obese nerds nearly pulled each other across the table as they shouted incoherently over the reasonable-minded Cody and Brenda. One powerful jerk yanked Beth onto the table, which broke in two upon bearing her weight. She cried relentlessly into her arms while Colin scowled down on her with an animalistic fury. Brenda scowled back at him and said, “Now look what you’ve done!”

It was the baldheaded Cody who ended up with the phone in his hands. His expression changed from urgent rage to a saggy frown when he actually read the text message war in front of him.

“Cody!” shouted Colin. “Give me the goddamn phone!”

Mr. Knox held out a hand in front of the GM’s face and somberly said to the gaming group, “Beth’s grandmother just died in the hospital.” Beth continued to flood the broken table with tears and assault the ears of her friends with painful sobs. Cody and Brenda leaned down to pick her up to her knees before engaging in a loving, emotional group hug.

Brenda looked up at the stone-faced Colin and asked, “Are you going to hug her or what? She needs us right now, Colin. For the first time in your life, quit being a selfish ass and be there for your friend!”

Colin solemnly looked down at Brenda, Cody, and Beth and shook his head before walking around them and strolling into the living room. Feeling abandoned, the remaining three friends continued to hug and rub each other’s shoulders while Beth unloaded more tears and snot onto the shattered wooden table. “How can he do this to us?” she asked. “We’ve been his friend since high school. We’ve been through everything together. We rescued him from bullies. And all he cares about is his stupid game!”

The group hug was tighter and the hand-holding was firmer. Cody even planted a gentle kiss on Beth’s forehead. It had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with Beth losing two people in one night: first her grandmother, and then her friend of so many years.

And then the group huggers heard the sound of car keys jingling behind them. The keys belonged to Colin, who told his friends, “If you want a ride to the hospital, the car’s parked out back. We’ll even stop for some McDonald’s along the way. I’m buying.”

All three brokenhearted friends slowly stood up while Beth weakly smiled at Colin and said, “Thank you for understanding. Let’s go.”

Medicine Man

Maggot therapy wasn’t the prettiest form of medicine nor was it the safest. And yet, Tetra Engel knew he had to have it. It was his sister Lily’s only chance at survival. Dressed in brown rags with a demon mask over his face, Tetra took deep breaths in and out in order to calm his nerves. One wrong move could mean certain death. Then again, knowing that there was arguing going on inside the Church of Darkness could prove to be a worthy distraction for those guarding the maggot farm.

Tetra pulled out a rope with a hook at the end of it and twirled it over his head. As the whooshing noises were getting progressively louder, he threw the hook with all of his might and hit his target: the rim of the church’s roof. He was certain the maggot farm was on the top level and getting in through the roof would be his best shot at stealing the medicine.

With the hook firmly grasping its target, Tetra held the rope and walked up the wall of the church. His faith in maggot therapy was met with stomach wrenching anxiety as he saw the designs in the multi-colored windows. He saw minotaurs slashing the throats of small children with sling blades, death angels breathing fire on veiled women, and dragons spitting acid on helpless farm animals. Such violent imagery caused Tetra to puke in his mouth a little bit as he was scaling the wall.

His blood also started to chill when he heard the argument within the church intensifying. Voices were throatier and louder. Plus, the sounds of weapons clanging together and wooden furniture breaking didn’t relieve Tetra’s anxiety any further. He took a break from climbing and wiped the cold sweat off of his forehead. He also spit out some bile onto the street below and then continued climbing until he reached the tiptop of the church.

The rooftop was ordinary enough with its flat stone surface. Nothing unusual there. And then Tetra Engel saw the steeple, which depicted a baldheaded vampire chowing down on a unicorn’s neck and splattering blood every which way. “God, these people are fucking disgusting!” said Tetra silently to himself.

Before the cunning rogue could take his first step, the middle smashed open and a purple light beam shone from within the church. Flying from that magical beam was a dark-skinned woman with a red Mohawk, a black halter top, and black baggy jeans. As she rolled backwards toward Tetra, the metal spear she was carrying dropped in his lap. Tetra tossed the spear aside and crawled over to get a closer look at her.

As soon as he saw who she was, the thief cowered backwards in an anxiety-driven crabwalk until he was at the corner of the roof. Being a thief gave Tetra a certain level of street wisdom. This woman was Anya Kolobalos, the leader of the Blood Dagger Syndicate. Anybody who messed with her would end up as a little shit on the floor after she gutted them alive with her spear and drank their blood like religious Kool-Aid.

Anybody except the dark paladin who sprouted black demon wings and flew gracefully up the purple light beam and onto the rooftop. This man was Jax Nightshade, the innovator of maggot therapy and the city’s most vile businessman. His black trench coat and steel armor underneath gave him that villainous look he always wanted. The baldheaded, dark-skinned knight slowly walked over to Anya and Tetra with a bloody smile on his face.

“Well, well, well, it looks like we’re not alone after all, Anya. I didn’t know my church had a rat infestation. In fact, those are the two biggest rats I’ve ever seen in my life,” said Jax in a smooth baritone voice that sent chills up Tetra’s spine. “Which one of you shall I exterminate first? Should I just play a game of spin the bottle? How about ink-a-dink? Or maybe I’ll just take both of you at the same time. Yeah, that’ll be lovely!”

Tetra stuttered, “L-L-Listen, Mr. Nightshade. I didn’t come here for any trouble. I just want s-s-s-s-ome of your maggots. My sister Lilly has breast cancer and I was hoping th-th-th-that…”

“Shut up, you sniveling cretin!” shouted Jax in a voice that mustered up intense winds. He smiled evilly once again and said, “Of course, if you want to have access to my maggots, you’ll have to pay just like everyone else. But judging from those rags you’re wearing, it doesn’t look like you have deep pockets full of gold. Couple that with the fact that you came here through the rooftop instead of the front doors and I know exactly what’s going on. You’re a thief. You’re a liar. You’re a fucking sewer rat!”

This arguing allowed Anya enough time to pick herself and her spear off the ground before charging at Jax with rapid fire thrusts. Jax held a purple cloud of energy in his hand like a shield and blocked every single one of those shots with perfection. The dark paladin then slapped the gangster across the face and sent her rolling to the ground. He jumped on her chest and began raining down punches with green lightning around his fists. Anya covered her face with her arms before reaching up with her free leg and placing a kick to the back of Jax’s head to stop the assault.

The dark paladin rolled off of the gangster and clutched the back of his head in mock pain. He even let out some unconvincing “ouches”. Anya tried to pick herself up off the ground again, but her arms were fried and she couldn’t get a stable grip. Out of the corners of their eyes, the two of them saw Tetra trying to pick the lock to the trap door that lead into the maggot farm.

“Hey! Those are mine, bitch!” screamed Anya as she crawled agonizingly across the roof. Tetra shot up and said, “Uh-oh!” while looking for a way out. He tried to run back to the grappling hook, but was intercepted by a flying Jax Nightshade, who grabbed the thief by his neck with one hand and hoisted him in the air.

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted off of this roof? You can fly like a birdie if you want!” said Jax with a sick smile and gritted teeth. He dragged Tetra kicking and wheezing by his neck to the edge of the roof. Still holding the thief by his throat, Jax dangled him over the edge and forced him to look at the street below.

Tetra’s vision was fading from being strangled, but when he saw how high he was off the ground, his stomach had a knot the size of a watermelon and his eyes were tearing up like rivers. He thought of his cancer-stricken sister Lilly and how he had failed her not only as a caregiver, but also as a brother. His last supply of oxygen would be spent thinking of how shitty of a way this was to die. His eyelids were getting heavy and he was ready to sleep his life away.

And then Jax let go of his grip and Tetra got a whirlwind of oxygen back into his lungs. He snapped back to reality and had enough alertness to grab the rope next to him and hold on for dear life. His hacking and wheezing caused him to slip down a few notches, but not without looking up and seeing Jax Nightshade with a metal spear through his head. The dark paladin’s purple and green magic faded out and he fell over the edge of the church, hitting the ground with a sickening thud and a bloody splatter. The spear went all the way through his head upon impact and spread his brains all over the cement ground.

Tetra heard the sounds of Anya moaning in pain. Her burned arms gave their last ounce of strength when they put the spear through Jax’s head. This was Tetra’s chance to break into the maggot farm. With the little strength he had left after being choked, the rogue pulled himself up the rope while grunting and straining along the way. He fell down a few notches, but then started walking along the wall like he did before. He made it over the lip of the roof and rolled around on the stone floor. He laid there for a while taking deep breaths in and out and smiling to himself.

And then his breathing was hindered when he felt the presence of Anya Kolobalos sitting on his stomach with her bloody and blackened fist raised high. Her other fist grabbed Tetra’s hair and she said, “I have had it with you fucking street rats! I’ve still got one more punch left in me and guess who’s going to get it!”

Tetra grabbed hold of Anya’s hair-grabbing arm and sunk his teeth into the fried meat. She squealed and rolled on the ground in pain afterwards while bleeding all over the rooftop. The thief took a few more deep breaths and rolled over to pick himself up. Anya tried to do the same, but Tetra quickly wrapped his arms around her waist, hoisted her up, and used the last of his dying strength to suplex her over the edge. The gangster hit the ground doubled over and snapped her neck while shattering her skull on the pavement.

The thief looked over the lip of the roof and smiled in satisfaction as he saw two of the biggest scumbags lying on the ground dead and bloodied. “What a couple of morons,” he said to himself while laying on the ground and catching his breath once more. Those maggots were as good as his.

The next morning, Tetra, without his demon mask, crept happily into Lilly’s bedroom and saw her lying in her bed peacefully with a smile on her face and her hands folded in front of her. Even with a bald head and a weak body, she still looked like a beautiful warrior. “Pssp! Lilly, wake up! I have something for you!”

The sickly woman slowly stirred from her sleep and looked up at her brother with hopeful eyes. “Good morning, Tetra! Did you get the medicine?”

“I sure did. I got all the medicine you’ll ever need,” said Tetra as he pulled a jar of hungry black maggots out of his coat. At first, Lilly’s face was covered in anxious fear. “Don’t worry, dear sister. This will help. I know it will. Trust me.” He opened the jar and poured the maggots all over her cancerous left breast.

The sensation of magical maggots digging into her flesh felt like a massage when it was first happening. And then it felt ticklish, which put giggles in Lilly’s throat. And then she started arching her back in agony. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t because blood was pouring out of her mouth.

Tetra grabbed his sister by the arms and shouted, “Lilly! Don’t die on me! What the hell is going on here?! Fight it! Fight!” It was too late. The maggots ate through her breast and chowed down on her lungs and heart. Her face was covered in the vomit and blood she spit out. She was dead.

Tears were forming in Tetra’s eyes as he backed away and slowly sat down against the wall. Mild tears turned to loud sobs. And loud sobs turned to shouts of “Fuck!” and “Shit!” Curse words turned to fists pounding against the ground and wall. Tetra was a thief, which meant tricking people was part of his job. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He fucked up big time and lost his sister because of it. All he wanted to do was die and meet his sister in the afterlife. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was that he bought into Jax Nightshade’s bullshit. “The Church of Darkness? What a crock!” he shouted to himself.

His suicidal thoughts were racing harder in his mind when he took a look inside the jar and saw there were still some maggots left. “What the hell?” he said. “I’ll probably taste better than piss-flavored beer.”