Rainbow Ranch, Chapter 4

Loki the Skull’s jowls continued to flap in the icy wind as equally cold words poured from his mouth like hemlock into a glass of wine. He thanked Lucy and her crew for leading him to Ozzie’s cave. He rambled and ranted and raved about animals being too lazy to exact their own revenge against their abandoners. And then he seamlessly transitioned into a nonsensical allegory about icy bridges leading to hell. And he rambled some more until his verbiage became cacophonic word salad. The overuse of magic truly made King Harrison insane, which would explain his obsession with getting revenge for his animals.

 

Lucy would have shed sympathetic tears for the Kafkaesque descent if it wasn’t for the fact that Loki rocked her hammer back and forth like a hypnotic pocket watch. Watching this former king mentally drift away into outer space meant nothing in comparison to the deflated tennis ball that once brought Lucy joy. Her fangs didn’t have much in the way of sharpness, but they clamped down with the utmost tightness at this display of hubris. Lucy’s doggy hairs stood up and prickled against her metal armor. Her tail wagged uncomfortably fast. Her murder victim growls grew deeper with rage the longer this was allowed to go on. And then…

 

“GIVE! IT! BACK!” Lucy launched her tiny body despite protests from Callie and Ozzie. Surely, a lightning bolt or fire bomb was waiting for her at the end of the trajectory. It never came, just Loki ducking out of the way and keeping the hammer to himself. Lucy yipped and yapped as she bounced up and down in an attempt to grab her weapon. Loki always kept it out of reach, sometimes by only a tiny tap. The fact that he could have ended this anytime he wanted to and chose not to brought even more venom out of Lucy’s bitter barks.

 

After what must have been the seventh or eighth attempt to grab the hammer, Loki aimed his paw and finally launched a fire attack…but not against Lucy. A nearby record player that once made Ozzie’s eyes milky with nostalgia had instantly transformed into a pile of black dust, along with whatever piece of licorice pizza Callie attempted to play.

 

Lucy didn’t take time to register the deeper meaning of such destruction and continued to jump after her hammer, which was still hanging over her head like the tennis ball she once loved. She didn’t even pay much mind to Callie shouting, “Okay, that’s it!” and pulling out her golden dagger. Lucy didn’t care if neither of them stood a chance at beating this cackling, jabbering sorcerer. She just wanted her hammer back, the last symbol of what life was all about for her.

 

And then Callie stuck the knife where the sun never dared to shine. Not in Loki’s fuzzy butt, Lucy’s instead. She yipped in pain and jumped even higher than before, which gave her enough height to finally grab her hammer. Loki still held on and the two of them played tug-o’-war over it, all while the sorcerer shot a lightning ball into Callie’s chest and knocked her backwards, almost unconscious.

 

“That wasn’t very nice! GIVE IT BACK!” Lucy screamed, suddenly gaining more strength upon seeing her friend get zapped. It wasn’t enough strength to earn her a tug-o’-war victory as Loki pulled harder himself. The yanks from both sides disturbed their equilibrium and they nearly fell out of the cave together. Lucy would have rolled back down the mountain covered in snow if not for one small mistake on Loki’s part.

 

“Harrison!” said Ozzie in a husky old man voice. Loki’s mistake was awakening the memories in the old cat’s brain. He gazed at Loki with piercing eyes and trembling whiskers, energy forming in his paws at the risk of refrying his brain. “It ends with you!” Ozzie used whatever mana was left in his rotted brain to throw a tiny whirlwind at the tug-o-war scene. He then collapsed face first onto the cold icy ground.

 

Loki let out an arrogant, “Ha!”, as if that was the best the old man could do. But that little spark of wind gave Lucy momentum. Sure, Loki wouldn’t let go, but he didn’t have to. Lucy wasn’t pulling the hammer towards herself. She was pulling it to the side. The little gust along with Lucy’s heroic rage caused her to spin little by little, until she herself was a whirlwind of chaos. She spun Loki around and around while picking up steam, never once letting go of her weapon.

 

Lucy paid no mind to her own rotting brain, she kept spinning Loki around anyways. The sorcerer’s face grew bright green and his eyes watered. His jowls puffed up bigger and bigger and his stomach growled like the tough guy wolf he was trying to be. Spinning, spinning, and spinning until Loki’s fingers slipped further and further down the shaft of the hammer. One tiny slide later and Lucy was reunited with her precious hammer. She plopped backwards into the snow with her vision blurring in and out of focus and her tummy aching like she was about to lose her life in addition to her lunch.

 

Loki fared no better when it came to aching stomachs. His jowls continued to expand as he clutched his midsection and doubled over. He did everything in his power to keep it together. The salt water collecting in his eyes was a souvenir of his last ditch efforts. And then…”BLAAAAAAAAAAH!” Loki puked a bubbling stream of green and gray acid onto the snow.

 

Lucy couldn’t tell if the rising steam was from the vile stench or if spirits were magically floating out of the excess juices. Maybe it was both. She squinted her eyes as hard as she could to relieve them of rapidly freezing tears. She laid there trying to keep her own lunch under control, as every part of her body ached badly enough to want to vomit herself inside out. But the acidic spray never came. Her stomach calmed down long enough for her to drift off into darkness.

 

She didn’t spend too long in the black abyss. The wetness and comfort of a dog’s tongue kissed her furry flesh. If she was a kitty, she would purr at this loving sensation. She did however slowly open her red and puffy eyes to see Loki reviving her with gentle licks. Except this wasn’t the sorcerer she was fighting against this whole time. This was the original Loki, who stood on all fours and never once threw a magical spell. Instead he was just a sweet, tender dog who wanted Lucy to love him as much as he loved everybody, the way a dog should be.

 

“Loki-Pokey!” Lucy squealed before hugging him around the neck and getting a few puppy licks in herself. The labrador snuggled up beside the snow-bitten Lucy and snuggled with her for warmth. “Hey…is that?” She finally put two and two together: Loki threw up King Harrison’s ghost and was no longer possessed by the insane sorcerer. She could smell the chunks of lightning-fried flesh in the puddles of vomit. “It all makes sense now! Yay! We did it, Loki-Pokey! Ozzie and Callie are going to be so proud of us! Hey…wait a minute…”

 

She nipped up and rushed towards Ozzie’s cave, Loki trotting right behind her. Sure enough, Callie and Ozzie were right there face down on the floor, not one movement or sign of life between them. Lucy began to shiver with sadness. “No…no, no, no, no, no!” The two dogs rushed over to the cats’ prone bodies and began furiously licking them. Not even a dog’s loving tongue could revive the old coots. Lucy shook some more as she gazed to the ceiling and howled. Loki howled alongside her and the two of them became a chorus of sorrow at their fallen friends. They sacrificed their lives just so Lucy could have her stupid hammer. They gave so much of their energy to a toxic king that wouldn’t reciprocate.

 

“Ouch! My ears! Will you two stop your cotton-pickin’ yelling!” Callie blurted out. She snapped wide awake while Ozzie took his sweet time in coming around.

 

Lucy, having no sense of boundaries, hugged them both around the neck and shrieked, “You’re alive! You’re alive! Oh, I missed you two so much!” She and Loki continued to lick their feline faces. Callie folded her arms in defeat while Ozzie chuckled and petted Loki’s head. The gang was back together and Rainbow Ranch could finally heal. They could laugh, play, eat sausage, get pettings and love, all the things that animals had at the top of their wish lists. Revenge wasn’t just on the bottom, but it never even made the cut. That was until…

 

“Fools! You’ll never get rid of me that easily!” King Harrison may have been exorcised from Loki’s body, but his poisonous green ghost still hung in the air. He shouted a bunch of mindless gibberish. He summoned energy in his clawed hands. He scratched himself until black pudding oozed from within. It was then that it dawned on Lucy that she forgot her hammer outside. She, Loki, Ozzie, and Callie all snuggled against each other knowing exactly what was coming to them. They hoped their deaths would be swift and merciful. They gave all they could to this fight only for King Harrison’s ghost to hang around.

 

“I love you guys. I love you all…” mumbled Lucy as she squinted her eyes in defeat.

Clown Grinder

Does this cheeseburger taste funny to you?

It’s ground-up clowns, the whole circus crew

There aren’t enough bottles of Pepto Bismol

To wash down the taste of Bozo’s big balls

There’s a blood-soaked war in your intestines

Bacteria and viruses with automatic weapons

Vomit your carcass inside the fuck out

Or they can exit through the Hershey Highway route

Hellfire fever immolating your soul

Acid trip dreams about your blistered asshole

Stay away from your bottle of Advil

Lest you want to drop a load heavier than an anvil

Get on the phone with the CDC

Clowns’ Decaying Corpses, eat lean beef

I hope someone sends you a Get Well card

“May your anal casualties again become hard”

Who’s in charge of the menu today?

They’ve got a billion in lawsuits to finally pay

Now you’ve got your check, so what’s for dinner?

The mind is strong, but food addiction is the winner

Get the clown grinder ready for another serving

Diarrhea Armageddon is never too unnerving

A weight loss strategy for the new age

In history books, you’re thin enough to be a page

Shitting On Your Grave

 I’m shitting on your grave

Like a fucking racehorse

Destroy your tombstone with

A million G’s of force

I’m pissing on your casket

The one draped with the flag

Open the lid and keep going

Make your gray skin sag

I vomit on your flowers

With my stomach full

Of your children’s flesh

And their rotten souls

I burn your mausoleum

With your family inside

They can put out the flames

With the tears they cried

I crash your funeral

Gun down every griever

Stomp the priest to death

Carve him with a cleaver

I taint your history

Slander in every word

Broadcast on every station

Until it’s all that’s heard

I watch you dance in fire

From the heavens above

To the hells below me

Your screams are what I love

You’re nothing but a footnote

In the world’s epic story

I’m treated like a king

Slaying you brings me glory

Trauma is my weapon

More powerful than a bomb

Reduced the world to ashes

All of my enemies gone

I am the war god

I am your worst nightmare

That is if you wake up

That is if you dare

No Country For Old Farts

Dr. Wily finally had Mega Man right where he wanted him. The mad scientist had to admit his foe had serious mechanical balls for scaling his skull tower to the tippy-top. All the metal dragons that breathed fire on him. All the construction helmet gizmos that frustrated the hell out of him with their cheap tactics.

And yes, all of Dr. Wily’s maverick hunters had another shot at their blue-suited rival, whether it was Elec Man zapping him into next week, Bomb Man blasting everything to pieces, or Guts Man throwing hunks of metal at Mega Man with the ease of snowballs. Even after all of that, Mega Man was rocking and rolling with his arm cannon charged up and aimed directly at Dr. Wily’s massive robotic horse.

The mad scientist’s poofy white hair and lab coat blew backwards in the breeze created by his fired missiles. Mega Man blasted nearly all of them out of the sky except for one that exploded right up his “iron diaper wearing ass”. Dr. Wily pulled a few levers and had the horse breathe more flames onto Mega Man. And then more missiles were fired. And then electrical bolts shot out of the horse’s eyes.

Mega Man’s wires and pieces were jutting out of his wrecked body, especially his now crippled legs which wouldn’t take him to safety anymore. He laid there in a pile of metal and mechanical shit waiting to be squashed by the robotic horse’s hooves. Dr. Wily’s eyes beamed with deranged excitement. He smiled the creepiest pedophile smile he could. He rubbed his hands together as he prepped to deal the final blow to his lifelong rival. And then…

“Wily…Wily…WILY!”

That final cadence awakened him right as he was ready to stomp on the last remaining pieces of Mega Man’s battered body. Only he didn’t achieve victory. The only violent mess he caused was in his bed, puke covering his moustache, beard, and what passed for clean white sheets in this hellhole of an elderly prison. Dr. Wily gazed around with puffy red eyes and knew full well he had woken up into another nightmare. He was no longer the vile, cunning mad scientist that the world had grown to fear. His robotic warriors had since been blasted into scrap metal…and he had since been committed to a retirement home to live out the rest of his miserable existence, complete with a thin body and a sensitive stomach.

Dr. Wily’s stomach was the only sensitive part about living in this white-walled shithole. The overweight nurse with a pugnacious mug, crossed arms, and thinning blond hair could be described with any word but sensitive. Nurse Cassie North stood over his bed with a disgusted scowl on her face and fists balled so tightly they could snap anybody’s neck. The broken down mad scientist could do nothing in her presence but cower under the puke-laden blankets.

Cassie ripped off the sheets and revealed a trembling eighty year old in striped red pajamas underneath. She leaned in and growled, “What did I tell you about making my job harder than it has to be?” No response, just more shaking from Dr. Wily. She continued, “You think I enjoy cleaning up your disgusting puke? You think that makes me happy? I could be at home right now with my kids. I could just leave your ass here to die and feed you nothing at all. Is that what you want?” Still no response. She grabbed his arm with skin-purpling tightness and rolled up his sleeve, holding a hypodermic needle with the other hand.

“No! Leave me alone! You can’t do this to me!” quivered Dr. Wily as he squirmed in a vain attempt to get away.

“HOLD STILL, GODDAMN IT!” He did. “Your days of being a terrorist douche bag are over, old man. This ain’t no country for old farts. I don’t have time for your precious little pipe dreams. You’re not a doctor. You’re a broken down piece of amphibian shit! Now stay still while I jab this motherfucker in your arm. Don’t make me force it in you this time.”

Cassie and Dr. Wily had different ideas of what constituted force. He screamed for a bit once the needle was jabbed in his arm, but then relaxed in his messy bed drooling and teary-eyed.

“There we go. Nice and comfy. Maybe this time you’ll have dreams about making my life a little easier here at this dump of a nursing home. God, I can’t wait to retire. You little piece of shit.” Cassie stomped out of the room and left Dr. Wily to drain his eyes and saliva glands even further, numb state and all.

This was how things were going to end for Dr. Wily. He was a broken shell of his former self. He went from creating the most threatening robotic warriors the world had ever seen to wallowing in his own biological sludge. Never again would he have a shot at defeating Mega Man and achieving world domination. Never again would he be feared as the iron-fisted badass he once was. If he would have led a clean life free of violence and terror, would he still end up in this crappy nursing home? Would he still be subjected to the same white walls, the same boring schedule, the same dementia, and the same sloppy food that reminded him too much of what he was laying in currently?

A loud bang interrupted his glazed-over thoughts and widened his droopy eyes. “Could it be?” he asked nobody in particular. “Are they here?...No…nobody’s coming for me. Why would they? Just kill me already…Just let me die peacefully…”

“That’s not an option, Master Wily,” said a tough feminine voice. This voice wasn’t as husky or brutal as Cassie North’s was. It at least had some tenderness to it. Was it another nasty-tempered nurse? Was it someone finally coming to put him out of his misery? No. Dr. Wily opened his eyes and saw the voice came from his own creation, Stardust Woman. There she stood; six feet of metallic beauty, complete with an arm cannon, star-shaped armor, and the most lovely red eyes a robot could possibly have.

Standing next to Stardust Woman was another creation of Dr. Wily: Slaughter Man. Judging from his navy blue Viking armor, massive spiked hammer, and bulky body, it must have been him who created the loud thrashing noise. The walls were definitely cracked and shattered enough. Why weren’t the other patients screaming in horror? Were they so out of it that they couldn’t feel fear anymore, just like Dr. Wily himself?

Slaughter Man held his hammer high in the air and proudly declared, “We’re here to break you out of here, Master! We still have a chance at defeating that squirmy little bastard Mega Man!”

“…I’m sorry…” wheezed Dr. Wily. “I can’t make it anymore. I don’t want to fight Mega Man again. I’m aching all over. I’m tired as hell. Can you just do me a favor and smash me over the head with your hammer? I don’t want to live anymore.”

Stardust Woman scowled at Dr. Wily and folded her arms, just like Cassie did earlier, but with more concern in her posture and voice. “What happened to you, Master? This isn’t the Dr. Wily who built us with his own genius. You’re going to give up just like that? We’re practically gifting you an exit from this place. You can at least live out the rest of your days in your laboratory. Anything is better than this dump.”

“…You’re…you’re not even real…neither are you, Slaughter Man…I’m dreaming again…If Cassie catches me dreaming again…she’ll beat me…”

Slaughter Man pointed his hammer at his broken master and shouted, “Who gives a shit what that fat whore thinks?! Give me five minutes alone with her and I’ll smash her body all over the goddamn floor! You’re worth a hundred of her, Master Wily!”

“…No, I’m not…I’m worthless…I’m going to die anyways…I could never beat Mega Man before…and I can’t do it now…Please…just leave me here to die…Don’t drag this out any further than it has to be dragged out…”

As Slaughter Man growled and seethed in the background, Stardust Woman sauntered over to Dr. Wily and held his frail, bony hand in hers. Not even that would restart the old man’s heart, but hopefully her words would. “Let me tell you something about Cassie North and the rest of these sycophantic nurses and orderlies. They’re tough when it comes to dealing with fragile old people, but once they come face to face with a couple of your creations, all the courage is gone. Cassie North will sing a different tune once she sees what we’ve got for her.”

Just when Dr. Wily formed the tiniest smile, when the smallest glimmer of hope shined in his damp eyes, a meaty hand grabbed Stardust Woman by the skull and slammed it against Slaughter Man’s oversized head, dizzying both robots. Cassie put both of them in headlocks and held them there while she berated Dr. Wily some more.

“What did I tell you about your silly fantasies, old man? They don’t mean shit here. Your robots are just glorified tin cans. And you? You’re mediocre at best and a shit stain at worst. You terrorized the planet and failed. I’ll be damned if you fuck with my vacation!” She slammed Stardust Woman and Slaughter Man’s heads together again…and again…and again…each time drawing scratchy shrieks from their now former master. Once they were dizzy enough, Cassie heaved Slaughter Man’s hammer like it was nothing and smashed his heavy chest in with repeated blows. Stardust Woman fired off lasers from her cannon, but was obviously too disoriented to aim correctly. Cassie jerked her cannon arm behind her back and fired lasers up her ass, dismantling her with a war scream.

Dr. Wily cried one more time as he watched the last of his creations get easily wrecked by an ordinary woman. Maybe there was some truth in her painful rhetoric. Maybe he was deserving of the insults. Maybe dying was the only answer after all. Cassie seemed to agree as she breathed heavily and marched over to the foot of the bed after discarding the robots’ bodies like the junk they ended up being.

“I am tired of your horseshit, Doctor, and I use that title loosely. You need to know when to give up. You need to conform just like every other sad sap in this nursing home. If not, I could just kill you and write you off as natural causes. I’m sure the head doctor wouldn’t mind, the REAL doctor, by the way. Face it, Wily: you can’t win. You never could. Your imagination is shit, just like whatever’s in your pajama pants.”

Dr. Wily gazed his sore eyeballs at the needle in Cassie’s belt. Surely, that would be enough to put him down and end this madness once and for all. He had nothing left to lose. His soul was gone. His robots were trash. His mind was deteriorating with images of Cassie North mocking him with her angry tone. It was his time to go and let Mega Man escape with yet another victory.

“If it’s my time to go…and I can’t take my creations with me…I’ll find something else to take to the grave…” Wily snorted and sniffed.

“And what would that be?”

“…Your dead ass!” Using his last bit of elderly strength, Dr. Wily pulled the needle from Cassie’s belt and stabbed her in the throat with it, pressing down on the plunger afterwards. Cassie sang a different tune, alright. Her eyes bulged with the horror of her own mortality. Her mouth bled buckets. Her husky grizzly bear voice was nonexistent. Her thick legs could no longer hold her even thicker body.

Once she dropped to the linoleum ground, Dr. Wily’s mind went from empty to insane as he looked into her dying eyes. This wasn’t dementia overriding his “mediocre” creativity. This was a full on stream of rage. He got out of bed and kneeled beside her, pulling the needle out with savage force. He stabbed her in the throat again. And in the eyes. And in the face. He stabbed her over and over again until she was unrecognizable. No longer was he the silly scientist who always lost. He finally did something with his life worth commending: ridding the world of someone who was more villainous than he was.

He kept stabbing and stabbing as other orderlies rushed to save their fallen friend. They pulled him off of her and he just went limp with a smile on his face. Slaughter Man and Stardust Woman were never there to begin with, hence why the white walls were still whole. As Dr. Wily was no doubt being dragged to his death, it didn’t bother him that his work was incomplete. There were more orderlies and nurses here that deserved a brutal stabbing. All Dr. Wily could do was send a message to everybody here: the real villains weren’t the mad scientists and kooky robots. They were the humans who pretended to be more than pond scum. Dr. Wily was okay with that.

Knives Out

MOVIE TITLE: Knives Out

DIRECTOR: Rian Johnson

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Murder Mystery

RATING: PG-13 for violence and language

GRADE: Pass

In a family full of rich, spoiled brats who all claim entitlement to Harlan Thromby’s fortune (and are all cut off from his will), who could possibly want him dead the most? Who would want all of that money for themselves so badly that they’re willing to commit revenge murder to get it? Is it book publisher Walt Thromby? Is it social media influencer Joni? Is it alt-right troll boy Jacob? Truth is, everybody in this family is so unlikable that any one of them would make a convincing suspect. Some are more worthy of hate than others and that may lead you, the viewer, to obvious conclusions. You’re tempted by the obvious choice, but know deep down that’s not always the case. This mystery is so nuanced and so complicated that you’ll not only yearn to know who did it, but also how. Any mystery movie that can keep the wheels turning in your mind for as long as possible counts as a great story in my opinion. Knives Out is that great story. That’s what I expected going into the movie theater and that’s what happened.

In a movie genre where lying is paramount, I love the fact that Marta, Harlan’s personal nurse from [insert Latin country here], spills her cookies every time she lies. It could be a clever plot device. It could be a convenient way to keep her honest. Or maybe it’s just a fun little gimmick to make sure the audience knows what side she’s on. Either way, the gimmick doesn’t overstay its welcome and plays an important role in the story so many times that it’s completely necessary. It’s not even a crutch to get out of storytelling plot holes. It’s there because it needs to be. Marta is a kindhearted woman anyways, but even she makes her fair share of enemies in this movie. She’s not a total Mary-Sue in that respect. Plus, she has her own deep dark secret that may or may not influence the detective work going on throughout. The plot will thicken, not unlike the intestinal acid that bursts from Marta’s mouth every time she tells a whopper.

As to be expected with a rogue’s gallery as the main character roster, there will be some bickering among them and there are some genuinely funny moments in their dialogue. The political discussions are incredibly hammy from the basic talking points to the argot used by both the leftwing and rightwing characters. “How’s that SJW degree going, Meg?” says the most obnoxious member of the family Ransom, who’s seen eating a package of cookies at the will reading. Speaking of which, I nearly bust a gut when Walt makes an offhand remark about Harlan leaving Ransom a glass of milk in the will, proceeded by a swear word insult I will not repeat in this review. Even the serious dialogue is entertaining to listen to and at times accidentally comes off as humorous. Bottom line: it’s hard to be bored with a movie like Knives Out whether it’s the dialogue, characters, or overall mystery that you’re intrigued by.

This movie met my expectations the minute I walked through the theater door. No more, no less. I wasn’t expecting to be emotionally tear-jerked by this movie, but then again, Knives Out doesn’t have to do that. It’s just a fun story from beginning to end. It was cleverly crafted, beautifully acted, and not a single detail went to waste. This movie gets four out of five stars a.k.a. the passing grade. Rian Johnson gets a lot of heat for the way he handled his Star Wars movies. I personally don’t have a problem with them, but if Mr. Johnson needed to wash away the muck from his criticism, Knives Out was the movie to do it. Was it considered for an Oscar? I’m not sure, but it should have been.

Plague Worship

VERSE 1

There’s not much wrong with a needle poke

When contrasted to your anti-science hoax

Treating reason like it’s a big fucking joke

You don’t get to call yourself fucking woke

There’s got to be some kind of law you broke

Watching the masses fall down and croak

Open your eyes and fuck all your lies

How many more of us should have to die?

CHORUS

Open sores and bloody coughs

Yellow skin and orange snot

Vomiting like there’s no tomorrow

It’s plague worship, total sorrow

VERSE 2

Where did you get your shit of a bull?

A Russian troll who wants world control?

A leader whose brain is turning into pudding?

A CEO who profits from your home cooking?

Get that garbage out of your tiny brain

A needle is two seconds of minor pain

It’s nothing more and it’s nothing less

It’s better than cleaning up a gory mess

CHORUS

Open sores and bloody coughs

Yellow skin and orange snot

Vomiting like there’s no tomorrow

It’s plague worship, total sorrow

VERSE 3

You can drag your kid to the doctor’s office

Or spread your bullshit like a false prophet

No proof for the crap that you believe in

Armageddon is yours if you can achieve it

EXTENDED CHORUS

Open sores and bloody coughs

Yellow skin and orange snot

Vomiting like there’s no tomorrow

It’s plague worship, total sorrow

Measles, mumps, chickenpox

More reasons for a burial box

Making a comeback one last time

It’s plague worship, the ultimate crime

Silent Warrior, Chapter 11

A clear mind was all Scott George ever wanted. Clear of Mr. Simpson’s condescension. Clear of Alan Young’s brand of “humor”. Clear of worms that had no business being there in the first place. While his brainwaves weren’t a complete heavenly paradise, he was able to dry his eyes long enough to get through art class in one piece. The whispers of his classmates weren’t obtrusive enough to hold his attention. Instead his focus was pinpointed on a drawing he had been working on since the opening buzzer.

Rainbow colored flowers decorated the borders of Scott’s drawing. Pink clouds filled the negative spaces in between with a crisp golden sunshine lingering in the background. In the center of this latest masterpiece was heaven’s most beautiful angel. Instead of a radiating golden light, she brightened the picture with green flames and a purple haze. Rather than looking at the subject, her face turned slightly away with shyness, her hair down to her chest and her face a brilliant shade of red.

Unfortunately for the cloud nine-residing Scott, his one true love wouldn’t be in English class to see this marvelous masterpiece he created. Her desk remained empty throughout the entire hour and that brought a disappointed frown to his face. Where could she be? Did somebody figure out that she and Scott were dating? He hid his face as much as he could that day, fearing the absolute worst. It could have been a simple case of her coming down with a fever, but Scott’s mind wasn’t a place where rational adult thinking took place.

By the time lunch period rolled around, Scott still tried looking for Adrienne, even going back to the spot they sat at yesterday. He even visited the salad bar, which was slightly better than the spongy chicken nuggets, but not by much. He wanted to follow her advice as much as humanly possible and not worry about some stupid worms crawling in his meal. He took his Caesar dressing-covered greenery and sat at the same empty spot he took yesterday, hoping Adrienne would miraculously show up.

A few nibbles of spinach later, nothing. A few more nibbles, still nothing. A half hour of rabbit bites and Adrienne still hadn’t shown up. With nobody coming to save him this time, Scott’s stomach began to ache and flare up as he felt funny little creatures crawling around in his intestines. He felt as though an alien was going to pop out of his body and latch onto his face at any moment. And then an oddly comforting hand touched his shoulders and he was back to reality. When he saw who the hand belonged to, Scott’s comfort died down like a wounded animal.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

“Long enough to see you writhe around in pain for whatever reason. My history class isn’t that bad, you know,” said Mr. Simpson with an unfunny smirk. “Mind if I sit here? Of course you don’t. We have much to discuss.” The history teacher took a seat across from Scott and folded his hands across the table. “I’m assuming that the reason you didn’t show up to my class today was because Miss Williams had a little chat with you.”

“Where’s Adrienne?” asked Scott pointblank before covering his mouth quickly.

“That’s none of your business,” said Mr. Simpson. “Besides, I wouldn’t know her whereabouts anyways. We haven’t talked in such a long time. Kind of like the way you and I never talk anymore except to breathe fire down each other’s necks. Actually, you’re the one who insists on not talking, which is why your grade is currently standing at a C- when it could be much higher.”

“if you came here to make fun of my introversion, then I’m going to go sit somewhere else,” said Scott, who tried to stand up only to have Mr. Simpson grab him by the wrist and sit him down again.

“Trust me, Scott, I didn’t come here for amateur comedy night. We really do have a lot to talk about, especially as it pertains to your punishment for not showing up to after-school detention. You didn’t think there’d be an easy way out, did you? There never is, my little silent warrior. But you should at least be thankful that this wasn’t a court appearance instead. If it had been, you’d be in jail. At least with school, some of the harsh punishment is easy to serve.”

Scott leaned his face closer to his teacher’s as a way to suppress his deepest fears. “Principal Williams basically told me that my fate was in your hands. If that’s the case, then stop wasting my goddamn time and tell me what’s going on.”

“I had no idea your ‘goddamn’ time was so valuable to you, Mr. George. You certainly didn’t feel that way about me when you left me hanging for thirty minutes straight. Isn’t my time valuable as well? Considering I’m several decades older than you, I’d say that’s the case. Well, you’re not going to waste my time anymore, buddy-boy. You want to learn your fate? Here it is. If you have any plans this weekend, cancel them. You’re going to serve an hour of detention bright and early Saturday morning.”

“What?!”

Cleaning his glasses with the waist of his shirt, Mr. Simpson said, “I believe I made myself abundantly clear. Since we’re spending an hour of quality time together, I’ll have to think of something for you to do other than clean off the desks, thought that can be pretty time consuming. Students love to leave unspeakable objects underneath the desks whether it’s chewed bubblegum, nose goblins, graffiti, god knows what else. One time I caught a student sticking gummy worms underneath the desk.”

The gummy worm trigger caused Scott to gag and lurch as he fought desperately to hold his salad down. He could feel the adrenaline sewage bubble up in his stomach…then to his chest…then to the back of his throat where he could taste it. He swallowed a massive tidal wave of saliva to keep the burst of bile down. He breathed heavily with his tongue hanging out, like a dog locked in a hot car.

“Listen,” said Mr. Simpson while holding his hands up in mock defense. “I know cleaning off dirty desks isn’t the most pleasant way to spend an hour of detention, but for the first time in your young life, it isn’t your fault, Scott. Kids today have no respect for public property. They think a desk is their own personal toilet.”

Scott’s violent breathing muffled most of his words when he said, “F…fuck this shit…I’m not coming.”

Mr. Simpson let out a sarcastic laugh and leaned in closer so that his diabolic eyes could shoot straight fire into Scott’s already burning pupils. “Oh, you’re going to show up alright. You’re not getting away with anything this time around. Eight o’clock in the morning sharp, not a second late. If you even think about bailing on me again, you might as well stay at home for the rest of your life, because you won’t be allowed back on school grounds. I’ll have you expelled from this place so fast your head will spin. And then what’ll you do with your life? Treat sewage? Clean toilets? Dig ditches? Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be a lot more fun than taking another history class from me. Compared to those disgusting jobs, cleaning off desks doesn’t seem so bad, does it?”

The teacher stood up and allowed Scott to keep choking down whatever was boiling in his throat. Mr. Simpson pointed a finger at his student and said, “Remember: eight o’clock on the dot. I’ll be waiting with a fresh cup of coffee, though you’ll probably won’t want to put anything in your mouth after the grungy work you’ll have to do. See you soon!” He gave a two finger salute and walked out of sight.

Scott’s mind raced with schizophrenic banter and a crippling headache. His stomach felt as though he had endured gyroscopic torture. His throat, eyes, and face burned worse than if he stuck his head in the same deep fryer the kitchen used to make those awful nuggets. Not being able to fight the good fight against his own body much longer, he rushed towards a garbage can and unleashed a waterfall of vomit that stunk to high hell. He could hear the other students backing away in a hurry. Some of them laughed. Some of them made disgusted “eww” sounds. A few of the girls gave off a shriek of horror. Scott didn’t care. He unloaded his weapon of mass disgust all over the inside of the garbage can.

He then slid down on the floor on his ass and breathed so heavily that the remaining students held their noses at his oral stench. If he had taken a diarrhea dump in that garbage can, it would have smelled like a bed of roses compared to this mess. Speaking of roses…

“Are you done, Mr. George?” asked Mr. Simpson while holding a piece of paper. “I wanted to give this to you before you forgot it. Nice work, if I do say so myself. It’s no history essay, but it’s still pretty good. You should be proud of yourself.” He handed Scott the drawing he made from art class and patted him on the shoulder before attempting once more to walk out of sight.

Scott gazed deeply into the drawing and wiped off a stream of chunky spittle that hit the page. He banged his own head backwards into the soft garbage can repeatedly while the buzzer for the next class echoed throughout his agonizing head. It might as well have been a room full of babies crying instead of a buzzer. He felt like he could be one of those babies right now. How simple life would have been at that moment.

Chicken of the Night

Mikris Nagata crouched in the bushes outside of KFC and peered through the windows with cobra venom in his pupils. His brows furrowed and his muscles tensed with every chicken wing the patrons stuffed in their jowly mouths. Even through double pane glass, he could hear their lips smacking and their tongues clicking off of their palettes. Obese men and women with their costume-dressed children devouring members of Mikris’s own brethren. The sight made the contents of his own stomach swirl around like toilet water. Why subject this massacre to small children? Wouldn’t the pillow cases full of Butterfingers and Reese’s Pieces have been enough? This wasn’t a fast food establishment; it was a graveyard for the overweight.

Every night Mikris hid out in front of this restaurant, waiting for the perfect time to strike. So many people gathered in one place on Halloween night: the opportunity was handled to the chicken samurai on a silver platter. The chairman of the Dread City Rifle and Revolver Club Steve Coleman was there licking the grease off of his sausage fingers while barely fitting into his booth. The manager of this establishment Bill Shane was behind the counter dishing out members of Mikris’s race at a chippy’s price. So much gnashing on dead chickens. So much sadistic enjoyment. So many large bellies. Mikris’s mind raced at a million miles per hour. He had to strike now or this would be another missed opportunity to avenge his people!

The chicken warrior stood up and unsheathed his double katanas, scraping the blades against each other while his beak clamped down in fury. With one shrill war cry squawk, Mirkis bolted towards the restaurant and crashed through the glass wall shoulder first, earning screams from fat little kids and gasps from their monstrous parents. Shards of glass nicked the parents’ skins, but still they stood in front of their little ones as the KFC clientele backed away at the sight of Mirkis swinging his blades and squawking like hell.

“I don’t go to your hospitals and devour your infants,” whispered Mirkis while accusingly pointing his blades at the patrons. “I don’t go to your graveyards and defile your loved ones. I don’t go to your police stations and military compounds and snack on soldiers. Why then would you disgusting people think it’s okay to munch on my species! Why do you think it’s okay to treat them this way in such horrible farming conditions!”

“Don’t listen to him, guys,” dismissed Steve Coleman with a wave of his meaty paw, still holding a drumstick. “It’s just some hippie faggot in a chicken suit. I’ll bet he also dresses in a cow suit before he hits up the Burger King. Or maybe he’ll dress up like a big ol’ potato and harass the guys who make Freedom Fries at McDonald’s!” The patrons chuckled at Steve’s dialogue.

“I assure you, sir, this is not a Halloween costume. And this is not about liberalism or conservatism. It’s about basic human decency. You can’t lock up a serial killer like Jeffrey Dahmer and then eat members of my clan right in front of me at the same time! Next thing you know, you’re going to start using Military Intelligence to find Jumbo Shrimp and eat those too!” belted Mikris.

A shotgun’s pump-handle echoed throughout the restaurant followed by an authoritative Southern voice shouting, “Hold it right there, goddamn it!” It was Bill Shane, nametag, apron, shotgun, and all. With the double barrels pointed squarely at Mikris, Bill said, “If you think you’re going to ruin Halloween night just so you can spread your hippie-dippie BS, you’ve got another thing coming, mister. Now put down them Jap swords and approach the counter with your fluffy feathers of your head!”

Another gun clicked and it belonged to Steve Coleman, the proud owner of a Desert Eagle Magnum big enough to fit in his frying pan-sized hands. “You’d better listen to him, buddy. You’ve caused enough trouble tonight. Don’t make either of us pull the goddamn trigger!”

Mikris chuckled hard enough to shake his waddle back and forth. “You actually think those tinker toys are going to get you guys out of this mess? Give me a fucking break. If you guys had any balls whatsoever, you’d put down the chicken wings and play army boy overseas! Now that I think about it, you’ve got all the oil you’ll ever need in those deep fryers.”

“You want to joke around, motherfucker?” taunted Bill. “That’s right, keep running your mouth. Keep giving me a reason to shoot your ugly-ass head off. If you think what we do to your so-called brethren is bad, I’m willing to bet these fine folks wouldn’t mind dining on your sorry ass right here tonight! Who’s ready for some chicken tonight?!” The patrons cheered their heads off while waving drumsticks in the air like confederate flags.

“Enough!” shouted Mikris as he grabbed a gigantic father of five, held his blades to the guy’s throat, and used him for a human shield. His children screamed and tugged on Mikris’s legs for him to let go, but the chicken warrior wouldn’t listen. “Lay down your arms or he’s a dead son of a bitch! Don’t make me do it! I’ll fucking do it!” Slowly and surely, Bill Shane and Steve Coleman set their firearms down, kicked them over to Mikris when ordered to do so, and held their hands in the air.

Amidst the crying children and confused parents clutching tightly to them, Steve begged, “For God’s sake, can you at least let the rest of these families go? You don’t need to hold them hostage too!”

“You think these little brats are innocent?!” belted Mikris. “These little cannibals are just as disgusting and lazy as the rest of you! They’re going to grow up to be heartless bastards just like their parents, that is if they live past their twenties!” With a crazed look in his eyes, he scoped around the restaurant at all of the crying patrons and said, “You all want me to die too, don’t you? You proved that much when you pointed those guns at me. Well, if you really want to die at KFC…you’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way by eating your ass off!”

One slash was all it took for Mikris to rip his hostage’s shirt off, revealing a set of man tits and a hairy chest and back. “Dear god, that’s some disgusting shit!” the chicken squirmed. “It almost reminds me of what you guys are eating right now! But you know what? It can’t be any worse than those Kit-Kat bars your children have in their pillow cases.” He traced a finger across the man’s shoulder and parted his body hair, much to the wide-eyed horror of everyone around him. “Well, you know how that saying goes: I’m going to open my mouth, close my eyes, and you’re going to give me a big surprise!”

Mikris’s beak was open wide enough for everyone to see his dangling uvula. Drool ran down his mouth and his closed eyes were watering with anticipation. The hostage yelled, “No!” as the chicken warrior leaned his head down to take a nice big chomp out of human flesh. When he clamped down on the meaty treat, it tasted crispy, greasy, and sweet all at the same time. He chewed slowly and savored the flavor while his hostage sobbed like one of his little girls. Such a heavenly treat. Such a symphony of flavors erupting on his chicken tongue. Mikris swallowed his meal and slowly opened his eyes to admire his violent handiwork.

His eyes were bulging out of their sockets when he saw he had instead taken a bite out of a piece of chicken that Steve Coleman held to his mouth. The children pointed and laughed as the avian samurai trembled in horror. He slowly lowered his blades from his hostage’s throat and stumbled backwards with an expression of fright appropriate for Halloween night.

“How does it taste, chicken man?” asked Steve with a wide grin. “You know what you hippie-dippies always say: don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

Mikris was going to come back with snappy dialogue, but his beak convulsed so violently that he couldn’t form a sentence. All he could do was cluck nervously while tears poured down his feathered face and children giggled at him with sadistic delight. He could feel his own brethren sloshing around in his gut and making him just as fat and lazy as everyone around him. This was what it meant to dine on his kind. The phrase “you are what you eat” has never before been used in such a cruel way.

Mikris Nagata could feel the murky sewage in his stomach bubbling while his head felt lighter than the feathers on his body. He stumbled around like a drunken zombie struggling for equilibrium. He could feel the boiling sensation in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs burned like he had swallowed a branding iron. And then, the viscous acid flowed from his beak and drenched Steve Coleman’s MAGA T-shirt and sagging blue jeans.

The children laughed even harder than before, to which Mikris mockingly asked, “You like that?! You fucking like that?! Have some more!” The chicken samurai unleashed a barf storm that covered the entire restaurant and their patrons in sick fluids. A chaotic exodus from KFC saw customers trample over each other, not giving a shit about the small children trick-or-treating that night, just to get the hell away from the foul odor of vomit and shame.

Bill Shane clutched his head in sorrow while his costumers, Steve Coleman included, dashed away from his place of business. There was no way he would pass a health and safety check. His business was sure to get shut down. All he could say to that was, “Why?! I didn’t do anything wrong! All I wanted to do was serve fried chicken!”

Mikris wiped the biological sludge from his eyes and watched Bill pathetically cry over the counter with just a loose grip on the shotgun handle. The chicken warrior weakly waddled over to the manager and yanked the gun out of his hands before pointing it at him with evil intentions. Bill begged, “Please! Don’t shoot me! I’m just a manager! I’ve got a family of my own!”

The chicken warrior locked eyes with the chubby manager and got off on his fear. Mikris pressed the barrel against Bill’s cheek like a hard-on and smiled through the slimy filth on his face. His finger danced across the trigger like a nervous tick. The psychosis in his eyes grew more sadistic and perverse. And then Mirkis broke the shotgun in half across his knee before tossing the weapon to the floor. He placed his wing across the crying Bill’s shoulders and said, “Something tells me your patrons would have thrown up anyways. You’d better get this place cleaned up before the health inspector comes!”

“You’re a hypocrite! You’re a fucking hypocrite!” sobbed Bill with his head in his flabby arms.

“I know I am, Mr. Shane. But I have to admit…it tastes like chicken!”

Shooting Star

Rachel Phoenix finally figured out why the structure she was climbing was called the Tower of Venom and it had little to do with the owner’s namesake. Even with a black veil over her nose and mouth, she still gagged and coughed at the fowl odor emanating from the barred windows. Feces, urine, vomit, and god knows what else assaulted her slender nose like a war hammer to the face. The heat waves from the oncoming shooting star in the sky baked this biological sludge like the ophidian tower was a gigantic oven. The elf rogue had no time to waste vomiting herself inside out. This mission had to be completed no matter how badly she wanted out.

Just a few more dry heaves in her ninja veil and a hell of a lot more tugs on her grappling hook and the winded elf in black rags rested on the top of the tower for a while. She could just drift off into dreamland no matter how horribly it reeked. In fact, this murderous odor would have been the perfect anesthesia if it hadn’t been for the raucous sound of a tornado fart echoing throughout the land. Rachel snapped out of her trance long enough to hold onto her rope with a death grip to avoid being blown off.

Once the literal shit storm subsided, Rachel couldn’t hold her lunch down any longer. She removed her veil spilled her guts off the side of the tower. The tidal wave of sickness left her light green skin pale and her muscles so weak that she could barely stand up. She was barely on her knees when she turned around and saw the source of the odor in its entirety. There he was: the ironclad dragon giant sitting on…a toilet. The Tower of Venom…was a giant fucking toilet…for a giant fucking man dragon.

Atlas Venom, as the giant was known, laughed so hard that he sent another gust of wind Rachel’s way. The tiny elf held onto her rope with the strength of someone ten times her size. Sickness or not, flying away in the barf-worthy breeze was an undignified way to die, especially when so many lives were at stake.

Once the giant’s obnoxious cackle ended, he leaned his rotten skull down to level with his intruder and asked, “Can I help you?” The elf rogue took the time she needed to catch her breath and settle her rumbling stomach. “Well?!” Atlas belted.

A few more heavy breaths later, the elf said, “My name is Rachel Phoenix. I’ve been sent here by the Order of the Forest to keep you from doing something incredibly stupid and potentially dangerous. Well, you do stupid shit all the time from what I’ve heard, but this is really going to get your attention.”

She pointed at the flaming star in the sky, which seemed to have grown tremendously since she last gazed upon it. “You see that? We all know you have the power to smash that thing to pieces. You’ve smashed everything else to pieces, why not a shooting star? But if you do that, neighboring villages will be affected by the blast radius.”

Atlas scratched his ass and belched a cloud of toxic sludge before standing to his full height and pulling his iron pants up. Rachel didn’t know what was more disgusting: the tower slash toilet or the fact that Atlas’s lesion-covered ding-a-ling had been hanging there this whole time. She tried to keep herself together by gently massaging her stomach.

“Listen, you dumb bitch,” burped Atlas. “I don’t hear you coming up with any great ideas on how to get rid of that thing. Last time I checked, I’ve got pubic lice bigger than you, so there’s no fucking chance you’re going to smash that thing away. If you’ve got any better ideas, then you’d better start flapping those gums or else you’re one dead little whore!”

Rachel folded her arms and said sternly, “Alright, if it’s ideas you want, it’s ideas you’ll get. If you have the power to smash a shooting star to pieces, you certainly have the power to catch one and drop it in the neighboring ocean behind you. You could break it up little by little and flush the pieces down that lovely toilet of yours. You could even have it as a snack if you wanted to. I’m sure whatever’s rotting in that gut of yours isn’t going to be too badly affected if you ate a giant flaming star.” She paced back and forth with her hand propped on her chin. “Let’s see, you can throw it in the sky and then break it up. You can…you know what? Literally anything else would be better than you scattering the pieces across the land with your reckless ways. Anything!”

Atlas gazed up at the shooting star and noticed that it grew once more. The scorching flames caused a few beads of sweat to trickle down his hairline. Rachel tapped her foot impatiently and said, “Well? We don’t have much time. What’s it going to be, big boy?” The remark caused the dragon giant to scoop her up in one hand and squeeze her already thin body into the width of a toothpick. No matter how pathetically she screamed or how many crunching sounds her body made, Atlas refused to take pity on her.

“Unlike all the filth swirling at the bottom of my tower,” he shouted. “I don’t give two shits about the other villages! They’re the ones who couldn’t accept me to begin with! They’re the bastards who laugh and throw stones at me whenever I show my face! You think my life is just one big fucking joke?! You think I choose to sit here on a giant fucking toilet?! That was the king’s idea! That’s what he calls comedy! I don’t feel one bit sorry for those pieces of dog shit! They’ll get what’s coming to them in short order!”

A tropical storm of sweat trickled down Rachel’s face as she felt the shooting star hurling closer to the tower. “Wait!” she squeaked, prompting Atlas to loosen his grip around her body. “If you put an end to this disaster, you just might be a hero to those people! Nobody would even think to treat a hero that way!”

“Hero?! You think these fucking people deserve a hero?!” roared Atlas while shaking Rachel in his fist. “Their idea of a hero is some rich snob who flaunts his money around without giving a drop of it to the poor! Apparently, those kind of fools work harder than the poor, or so I’m told! You, Rachel…you represent all of those people! All of those monsters! They don’t deserve shit!”

“I don’t represent anybody who casts judgment on others! I represent the innocent ones who will bear the brunt of your reckless ways!” squealed Rachel, who squirmed and struggled until at least her arms were free from Atlas’s grasp. “You’re painting my society with a broad brush, my friend! There are good and evil people from all walks of life! People should be evaluated as individuals, not as groups! If you’re too blind to see that, then you’re no different from the evil ones you claim are bullying you!”

Atlas peered up at the shooting star and then back at Rachel several times while contemplating everything the elf told him. The diminutive rogue took this time to catch her breath and collect her cracked bones. Even with sore ribs, she managed to burst out, “Hurry up and make your decision! That star’s getting closer!”

“You don’t have to rush me, you stupid bitch,” snarled Atlas. “I’ve already made up my mind.” His own eyes resembled shooting stars as they blinded Rachel with a hateful gaze. He could feel the elf quiver and vibrate in his massive lizard hand. He then grinned evilly at her and dropped her in the toilet. “Down you go with the rest of the shit!” he snapped before pulling the handle and watching her swirl.

Except the rogue didn’t swirl. She clung onto the side of the bowl with another grappling hook rope, the blades igniting little sparks as they struggled to keep her still. The swirling brown water dragged Rachel across the bowl while she kicked her legs and held on with a death grip around the rope. Adrenaline flowed even hotter through her veins when she heard Atlas laughing about this whole incident. She kicked harder and held on tighter. And then, the rope snapped like a twig and she was destined to spend eternity in a shit-covered hell.

As she swam through the toilet water whilst ignoring her injuries, she could hear Atlas’s monster laugh morph into a prolonged, “No!” followed by an explosion, a burst of fiery light, and crunching bones of his own. The Tower of Venom bottomed out from underneath Rachel and she went on a tidal wave ride throughout the land. She struggled to keep her head above the shitty current, but eventually sank beneath and swallowed the most vile substance ever to exist. Between heaving for oxygen and vomiting at the same time, Rachel’s lungs felt like she had swallowed the shooting star herself. The current jostled her around like a rag doll, giving her more bumps and bruises along the way. When she was ready to pass out, she landed with a thud.

Except that thud was cushioned by several bales of hay and the tidal wave of shit and piss had crashed upon the land below. Rachel coughed, gagged, and breathed heavily all in the span of a few seconds. Her ribcage ached as though someone fired a cannonball into her gut. Her legs couldn’t carry the weight of sickness and crumbled underneath her when she tried to stand. When she caught most of her breath back, she wiped the sludge away from her eyes and ears long enough to see what just happened.

Atlas’s gargantuan body laid strewn across a wheat field with the shooting star crumbled on top of his broken bones, shredded skin, and bloody organs. Instead of celebrating a staved off apocalypse, nearby farmers in overalls and straw hats laughed their asses off because of the literal shit storm that followed.

Rachel’s brows furrowed together and her teeth clamped down hard in anger despite the taste in her mouth. The villagers’ attitudes left a worst taste in her mouth than anything from the Tower of Venom ever could. Atlas had been right this whole time. The whole world did think he was a freak. While his mannerisms could have used some work, his spirit was in the right place. All of that mind-numbing, soul-crushing torment broke his heart like it would have someone a fraction of his size. Even the biggest and the baddest had feelings too, unlike the pigs who mocked his death.

Rachel slowly drew a knife from her sheath and jumped to her feet, her raging adrenaline allowing her to ignore the pain delving into her body. “Hey!” she shouted at the farmers, who now began trembling in fear and backing up carefully. Trembling herself (but for a different reason), Rachel angrily whispered, “If Atlas Venom was alive right now, he’d say…you’re welcome!”

Conspiracy Theory

CHORUS

I have a conspiracy theory

No rest for the weary

Have no choice but to hear me

I have a conspiracy theory

VERSE 1

Bill Maher wants to commit fat guy genocide

Put millennials in ovens until they are fried

Beat Muslims with a bat, it’s what he wants

Since their symbol is a crescent, he eats croissants

Listen, ‘cause the story that I’m telling is true

If he tried to sue, he would badly lose

Maybe I embellished just a little tiny bit

But as long as you’re willing to eat bullshit…

CHORUS

I have a conspiracy theory

No rest for the weary

Have no choice but to hear me

I have a conspiracy theory

VERSE 2

Donald Trump was born on the planet of Mars

Sitting on his pudgy ass eating chocolate bars

The orange on his skin is moldy Wheat Thins

Doritos, Cheetohs, and rotten Papas Fritos

Listen, ‘cause the story that I’m telling is real

It’ll make him squeal, the stuff I reveal

Maybe it’s built on a little white lie

But as long as you’re willing to pray to the sky…

CHORUS

I have a conspiracy theory

No rest for the weary

Have no choice but to hear me

I have a conspiracy theory

VERSE 3

James Woods once sued a starving African teen

For twenty million dollars and his ruptured spleen

The charges stemmed from a 1912 Twitter post

About the so-called actor having brains of buttered toast

Listen, ‘cause the story will involve Dr. Luke

And how they drowned each other in Roman shower puke

If they win their lawsuits, it’ll only be a fluke

Conspiracy theories don’t have to be rebuked

FINAL LINE

I have a conspiracy theory X4

Illness

***ILLNESS***

The Mexican cruise and the Californian trip was without a doubt the most fun I’ve had in a while with the major highlight being the sea lion and stingray encounters in Puerto Vallarta. Coming home from this lengthy vacation was supposed to be a nonstop relaxation fest where I snuggled with kitties and slept soundly in my own bed. But last Wednesday was anything but relaxing. I got some writing done that day, so that was worth celebrating. It was the boiling hot fever I got at the end of the night that set the tone for the rest of the week. And thus begins the very boring blog topic of…(yawn)…physical illness. Grab a pillow. It’s going to be a long one.

The night I had the fever, I also vomited in the toilet several times and had loose diarrhea. My sickness got so bad that I elected not to use my CPAP for fear that I might puke in it in my sleep. My breath was also so hot that it made the mask uncomfortable. I spent most of that night drinking Sparkling Ices and staying awake in my computer and reading chairs. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well that night and it would get worse over the next two days.

More vomiting ensued, so much so that my ribs were sore afterwards. Every time I would cough or sneeze, my rib pain would flare up. I was practically begging my mom to take me to the chiropractor after my sickness was over. Because I had more loose diarrhea and vomiting, instead of a chiropractor, I spent Friday night in the hospital. I had to be rehydrated with four pounds of water, but I probably lost even more than that throughout the sickness. What a hell of a way to lose weight.

During my stay in the hospital, I had a CAT scan to make sure I didn’t have appendicitis (I had gut pains on the right side of my body). I was greatly relieved when I tested negative, so chances are this whole sickness of mine was due to a virus going around or potentially food poisoning. The bug made more sense because my brother James and step-dad Dale got sick as well. My mom was already dealing with a bout of whooping cough once we got off the cruise ship. This whole week has just been one big barfaroni fest for all of us.

As a result of our collective sicknesses, my family has a shit ton of Gatorade and Campbell’s soup stocked up around the house. I didn’t start eating solid foods until just a few days ago. I’m doing much better today than I was a week ago. In fact, I might even go for a walk to the convenience store later today. It used to be that I was too weak and lazy to do basic chores like clean the litter box or take out the garbage. While I’m still sneezing and coughing like crazy, a sense of normalcy has been restored to the Haines-Temons-Stevens-Wilson household. Normal is good.

I can only hope that we’re all feeling well enough to see Garrison Keillor perform tomorrow night in Tacoma. We need him now more than ever in this Trump-ruled country. It’s going to be me, mom, Dale, and my therapist Rachel tagging along to see Mr. Keillor do his monologues. I hope it’s a wonderful performance! We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER 19***

In the interest of head-hopping fun (because that’s totally acceptable in literature), this chapter is going to focus on a confrontation between King Arthur Triscloud and Roger Zee. Arthur is bound to a crucifix atop a holy mountain with Roger Zee lecturing him the entire time. The two of them have a conversation about Roger’s motives and wondering just what the hell has gotten into him. It is during this conversation that Arthur reveals that he has some “special friends” coming for him and that Roger should heed his warning. The zealot laughs it off like it’s standup comedy, but is that a wise approach to such a stern threat?

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

MICHAEL: At least your name isn’t Michael Bolton.

SAMIR: You know, there’s nothing wrong with that name.

MICHAEL: There WAS nothing wrong with it, until I was about twelve years old and that no-talent ass-clown became famous and started winning Grammies.

SAMIR: Why don’t you go by Mike instead of Michael?

MICHAEL: No way! Why should I change? He’s the one who sucks.

-Office Space-

Everything You Touch

CHORUS 1

Everything you touch turns to piss

Your ignorance is far from bliss

Your hate language is a goodbye kiss

Why should we put up with any of this?

VERSE 1

A frog in one hand, your dick in the other

Pissing all over your human race brothers

You’d sell out your own goddamn mother

To see your face on a memoir book cover

You’d sell your soul for a million dollars

You traded your mind for a tight dog collar

You bought into a world built solely on lies

Now you think you’re Jesus Christ in disguise

CHORUS 2

Everything you touch turns to shit

Every slap in the face is a knockout hit

Every kiss to your loved ones turned to spit

Calling you out will send you into a fit

VERSE 2

Go ahead and try to cut through the human chain

You’re the architect and author of your own pain

Every protest sign you’ve written to yourself

You’re the engineer and CEO of your own hell

For someone who preaches such insensitivity

You sure feel agony until the end of infinity

You say one thing then you do something different

You’re the warden and guard of your own prison

CHORUS 3

Everything you touch turns to vomit

You laugh it off like a standup comic

The only joke I see is your political career

We’re shutting down your campaign of smears

VERSE 3

Enjoy your life as a D+ player

Enjoy your career as a spiteful hater

Enjoy your dreams never coming true

This has never been your red, white, and blue

If you’re so dangerous, put up your dukes

If you’re so inspiring, don’t make us puke

If you’re so noble, put up or shut up

Until then, you’re a troll who’s fucked up

FINAL LINE

Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out!

Demon Axe, Chapter 12

For Daniel Mercer and his rock and roll crew, time moved slowly and painfully in the confines of their dark holding cell. Pain and disgust were etched on their faces as they ate spoiled bologna sandwiches compliments of the state. Tarantula Man held his sandwich meat and stared at it like it actually was a poisonous arachnid in his hand. His Islamic diet would never allow him to eat such rancid garbage, so he flushed his food down the toilet in the center of the cell and sat back down on the graffiti-covered bench.

The cell had been deathly silent for what seemed like hours (even though only one hour had passed). Every member of Demon Death Juice along with the two pro-wrestlers sat with a miserable and pathetic hunched over posture. As Bear Man tried to stomach the abomination he was feasting on, he piped up, “I know we’re prisoners who’ve been stripped of our freedom, but do we at least have the right to some mustard?!”

For Daniel, it wouldn’t have mattered if his sandwich was covered in an entire bottle of condiments. He took a bite out of the center and gagged so badly that he doubled over. He spit out what appeared to be a dead mouse, complete with teeth marks and sloppy guts.

“Oh god, dear god…” Daniel kept repeating to himself as he held his stomach and rushed over to the toilet. He vomited so hard that it sounded like he was laying down vocals for the first Demon Death Juice album. Another stream of masticated mush came up. And another. And another. Everybody sharing his cell looked on with horror before throwing their sandwiches on the floor in rebellion.

The Lord of the Pit wiped his mouth on his bare arm before slowly standing up and approaching the bars with a predator’s pace. He grabbed hold of them and yelled out to whoever would listen, “Whoever’s keeping us here has a shit load of explaining to do! You arrested us for no fucking reason and feed us these god awful sandwiches like we’re a bunch of goddamn dogs! We’ve been sitting on our asses for who knows how long, so whoever’s out there, you’d better get your ass over here and tell me what the hell’s going on!”

Daniel’s sentiments were echoed by his rock and roll troupe, all five of them sitting up and roaring like animals. They sat back down again at the shrill sound of metal banging on metal. Even the high and mighty Lord of the Pit backed away to the center of the room. The clanging and banging turned into something sharp being scraped across the bars. The prisoners winced and held their ears at the awful shriek.

The sharp metal object stopped at the entrance to the holding cell, where an oil lantern was lit and revealed a green-skinned man holding a machete and wearing a black monk’s robe, complete with a hood shrouding his face. The prisoner’s nerves were jittery and wild as Daniel said, “No way. You can’t be!” The robed figure flipped his hood back and revealed the sinister mug of Roger Zee, elven terrorist. His sharp-toothed grin sent chills up everyone’s spines. Even Daniel was struggling to say, “I’ll be damned” behind his quivering lips.

“Don’t act like you’ve never seen one of my kind before, Mr. Mercer,” said Roger in his grating voice. “I bet you’re wondering what the hell I’ve been doing this past month. I sure as hell wasn’t taking a nap. I also didn’t spend my time behind a computer raving like a teenaged lunatic. On the contrary, I’ve spent my last month of inactivity…getting to know some people around here.”

Daniel crossed his arms and said, “Let me guess: you’re the one who’s got Detective Henry’s balls in your pocket.”

“Not just his balls, my friend,” said Roger with a wag of his long-nailed finger. “The whole department. I’ve got more balls in my pocket than a game of billiards. Everybody in this god forsaken precinct has something to protect, something to hide, something to lose. I had no idea your city cops had so much to cover up. Racial profiling, racketeering, extortion, political embezzlement, this shit goes on forever. But then again, they can’t all be criminals who are willing to give me their puppet strings over some blackmail, right? Well, not all of them. But enough. Most of them are just hardworking family men who don’t want to see their precious demon seeds get hurt. I’ve got enough connections to take over this entire city if I wanted to.”

“All this just to bring things back to the good old days, huh?” said Daniel with a condescending smirk. “Well, the good old days weren’t all that good! In your so called golden age, bigotry was considered normal, death was the status quo, and beating your wife was an act of discipline. You want to bring that shit back to life? Not on my watch, motherfucker!”

Roger bent backwards and chuckled before saying, “And how is that any different than today’s world? Huh? Bigotry is still normal, death is even more normal, and beating your wife is still a shit load of fun! I’m not really changing much with my so called acts of terrorism. All I’m doing is speeding up the inevitable. Surely, your friend Tarantula Man knows something about this.”

Without his stage mask, Tarantula Man’s white hot angry expression could be seen from the moon. He approached the bars with breakneck speed and barked, “Don’t you ever talk about my religion that way! I am nothing like what you hear in your little bubble! I’m going to raise my kids to be respectful even when scumbags like you are hastening the inevitable as you say!”

Roger held his lantern and machete-holding hands up in defense and sarcastically apologized with, “Whoa, whoa, easy there, big man! I believe you when you say you’re going to raise your children right! Okay?” The elf leaned so close to Tarantula Man’s face that they were touching noses. “After all, if they don’t act proper, you can always strap a suicide vest on them.”

The Muslim rocker took a swing through the bars and got his arm chopped off at the elbow for his efforts. He howled in miserable bloody pain as he stumbled backwards on his ass with Bear Man and Lady Killer tending to his wound.

“Anybody else want to try that shit with me?! Anybody?!” Roger proudly challenged.

Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez, the two beefy wrestlers slowly stood up and took their places next to Daniel, who also had his muscles bulging and pulsating like blood bombs ready to blow. Sonia stared a fireball through Roger as she said, “If you still think beating women is a shit load of fun, let’s see you try that on me, bitch!”

“You don’t have your stupid little crowns anymore, amigo,” said Johnny while punching the bars. “Besides, it’s hard for someone like you to wear a crown with your brains leaking all over the fucking floor!”

“You fucked with my friends one too many times,” said Daniel, who was trembling with rage and ready to snap someone’s head off. “Up until now, I’ve been backing away from you anytime I had an opening. You chopped off my new friend’s arm. He’s never going to play guitar again because of you. And you, you’re never going to eat solid food again because your fucking teeth are going down your goddamn throat!”

Roger Zee laughed like a banshee and blew out the oil lantern, covering the holding cell in shadows once again. Daniel and his wrestler friends didn’t need the light to know where the elf was. They could smell his dick-licking breath from a mile away. The door opened so slowly that the hinges could be heard creaking and grinding.

Johnny, Sonia, and Daniel came out of the gates swinging like wild brawlers. They were certain their savage punches hit their marks, because they could feel the slimy flesh between their knuckles and fingers. Daniel even pierced his knuckle on one of Roger’s sharp fangs, causing a liberal amount of blood to flow from his hand. He didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck.

His veins were ready to blow like dynamite and he wouldn’t stop punching until he heard Roger let out a pathetic squeal of pain. “Ouch…ouch…no more…please…” Each cry for help was getting more sarcastic and it all crescendoed with evil hyena laughter that had everyone in the cell on edge. “My turn!” Roger shouted before the sounds of skin, organs, and bones being slashed pierced Daniel’s ears, causing the traumatized rocker to shriek a prolonged, “No!” and huddle to the ground in tears.

The oil lantern was alight once more and Roger waved the device around the cell to show Daniel that he was right to be traumatized and frightened. Pieces of his band mates and friends were scattered all over the cell with blood drenching the floor. Their faces were hardly recognizable with smashed skulls and popped out eyeballs. Daniel’s tears flooded down his face as he saw that his last circle of friends had left his earth forever.

He truly was all alone in this world. Every time he brought the metal scene back to life, it was taken away from him again. Every time he tried to have a positive thought, it was slashed to pieces. Every time he tried to live his life again, his happiness was ripped away from him like a teddy bear in a crying child’s arms.

Roger set the lantern down and petted Daniel’s hair in mock comfort while silently shushing him and whispering “sweet sounds” to him. “There, there, my little child. All is not lost. You can call me your friend anytime you want. You know what friends do when one of them is feeling down? We have some fun together. Good…old fashioned…medieval…fun!”

The lantern was blown out yet again and Daniel felt himself being dragged by his follicles across the bloody floor. He wished he had drowned in his own tears and in his fallen friends’ blood, for it would have been a friendlier ending to his story than whatever was about to happen to him next. “Just kill me already!” he pleaded. “Kill me, damn it!”

The Theomancer

Krimson hated the way the masked snowmen were looking at him. Each of them were lined up on either side of the Frigid Highlands with skeletal masks that glowed an eerie shade of purple. The red ninja balled up his cannonball fist and knocked one of the snowmen’s block off. Underneath the shattered head revealed the dead body of one of his brethren. Members of the proud Raven Strike Society were buried underneath the guise of snowmen. The thought made Krimson sick to his stomach.

This was no time for such a weak reaction. With his red ninja gear, steel boots and gloves, demonic mask, and straw triangle hat, Krimson was dressed for battle. He stomped his way up the snowy hill, glaring with electrified eyes at each of the snowmen. Such disrespectful desecration, Krimson thought to himself. His blue-skinned muscles and bright green aura brought out his deathly side, which he would need for this upcoming battle.

The top of the hill was book-ended by the tallest snowman of all with his bladed mouth, cross-decorated black pope’s hat, and purple cloak that blew in the frosty winds. Krimson folded his arms like he was the true giant and spoke callously to the creature before him. “You must be the one they call The Theomancer. Seven is obviously to cowardly to come greet me himself, so he sends this popsicle to do his bidding. Seven is just like any other god: too afraid to come out of hiding when he’s needed the most. I intend to beat the answers I want out of him and you’re in my way, Theomancer. Are you ready to get your skull cracked in?” That last line was accented with Krimson cracking his bumpy knuckles.

The snowman’s eyes glowed with each piece of dialogue. “You claim followers of Sevenism are delusional, yet here you are thinking you can simply beat answers out of our lord and prophet. Even if you were to somehow have contact with him, the foundation of our religion has already been laid. No money-hungry king or bloodthirsty queen will ever give up their faith just because you’re foolish enough to venture to these sacred lands looking for a fight. Each of these snowmen contains the spirits of those who were even stupider than you. What makes you so special, human?”

“You want to talk about deities? You’re looking at one. I am Krimson, the God of Vengeance. I associate with the Raven Strike Society not because of their heretical beliefs, but because a world under their leadership will thrive while a world under Sevenism will crumble into dust. You’re standing in the way of that goal and for that you will pay.” Krimson held his steel fists up in a boxing stance while electrical and fiery energy flowed through them.

“If you want to complete your kamikaze mission so badly, be my guest. But know this: you’re not fighting with any mere mortal. You’re not even fighting with the Theomancer. Yeti is what I’m called. With Seven as my witness, I shall rip your heart from your chest and feast on it like a barbaric meal!” Cracks began to form in Yeti’s snowy shell, each of them glowing with a brilliant yellow light. The shell continued to crack until an explosive storm of ice and snow showered upon Krimson, who kept his arms in his face to block the assaulting weather.

No more was the Theomancer. In his place was a seven-foot tall mummy with slimy green skin, glowing yellow eyes, and razor-sharp fangs with maggots crawling around them. Yeti flexed his muscles and cracked his own neck before getting in a defensive stance and waving for Krimson to come at him.

“Let’s do this!” roared the God of Vengeance, whose chilling glare never erased from his face. Krimson rushed into battle with a flying kick that sent an aftershock of pain throughout Yeti’s body, yet the mighty mummy never moved. The red ninja continued throwing rapid fire punches and kicks around Yeti’s legs while the hulking creature tried swatting around the smaller opponent’s head.

Krimson dodged every swipe by ducking and rolling on the frostbitten ground. He could not avoid having both of Yeti’s hands grab his throat and hoist him in the air. Yeti glared at the God of Vengeance with a piercing gaze and rancid shit breath. Krimson broke free from the chokehold by placing a hard knee into Yeti’s elbow. The mummy growled in pain as his arm bent in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go. He grabbed himself by the wrist and popped it back into place, much to the disgust of Krimson, who had a hard time catching his breath.

While the red ninja was on the ground clutching his chest and wheezing, Yeti threw a hard soccer kick only to have Krimson cartwheel out of the way. The God of Vengeance launched his thick head into Yeti’s knee before throwing an uppercut to the giant’s groin. Yeti hauled back and screamed to the sky in unbearable pain, but only for a short while. He ducked his head down to meet Krimson’s gaze.

The red ninja felt queasy after smelling his opponent’s breath so many times in this fight. He clutched his stomach and resisted the urge to puke his guts out all over the snow. This time Yeti threw a kick and knocked the ninja backwards, rolling him down the hill and causing him to lose his lunch along the way. He sprayed a few snowmen with his stomach acids and melted their faces.

It had been a long and tiring roll to the bottom of the hill. Krimson laid there weak and helpless while Yeti was tromping down the hill looking to end this fight. The ninja’s vision was blurry at best and dark at worst. He was sure he’d join these snowmen in this blatant disrespect for the dead. And that was when he saw the faces of those he threw up on. The stomach acid ate the snow off their faces and caused the masks to drop.

Men, women, children, animals, all of them represented by these mummified snowmen. The markings on some of the adults’ uniforms suggested they were priests and took a vow of pacifism. They came to this sacred ground just to negotiate and bring peace to an otherwise violent world. They did nothing wrong. They were just innocents caught up in the crossfire. They were somebody’s son or daughter. They were somebody’s wife or husband. The dog corpses sickened Krimson to where he’d want to throw up again. The dogs had less at stake than the priests and they were viciously murdered and desecrated anyways.

Krimson felt a clawed hand reach for the back of his uniform and hold him up high. There it was again: that sewage-like smell. It was the feeling of eating rotten fruit that had been urinated on. It was the feeling of performing oral sex on a diseased phallus with open sores. That breath. That horrible Yeti’s breath. The red ninja didn’t think he had anymore food left in his stomach after smelling something like that. Instead he blew out naked stomach acid all over Yeti’s face.

The mummy’s eyes burned to where he had to release his grip of Krimson’s uniform. The red ninja plummeted on the soft snow below while his adversary danced around in pain like his face was on fire. Feeling weak himself, the red ninja didn’t think he could make it back to his feet. But slowly and with every last ounce of strength left, he was standing tall and striking his deadly pose yet again, renewed by the anger of his lost brethren.

“Seven! I’m coming for you, you sick son of a bitch!” shouted Krimson before throwing several haymakers and roundhouse kicks at Yeti’s breaking body. Cracks formed in his skin like broken pottery. Blood oozed out of him like spoiled fruit juice. Punches and kicks to the head, chest, arms, and legs, all of them with brutal speed and ursine strength. The assault ended when Yeti crumbled to the ground and bled all over the snow, his body nothing more than a pile of wrappings.

“Where are you, Seven?! Show yourself! Answer for your sins, you disgusting pig!” Krimson shouted to the sky, huffing and puffing after such an exhausting battle, not to mention the heavy vomiting that saved his life as well as weakened him. He dropped to one knee and glared harshly at the pile of wrappings. A victory well-earned, he thought to himself.

Out of the mummy bandages emerged a mere mortal of a man dressed in a black trench coat and black hat, both of which contrasted with his pasty white skin. Krimson stared at him in shock and then looked again at the mummy wrappings to see that the cracks and “blood” were all just part of a metal costume. “What the hell is the meaning of this?!” Krimson demanded.

“You called out the name of Seven. Now you’ve found him,” said the pasty individual with a wicked grin. “There was never any paradise. There was never any hope at salvation. Sevenism is a business model and nothing more. Just like any religion, it was a business model for controlling the masses. And they fell for it hook, line, and sinker. You can call me a prophet if you want, but I’m really just a salesman with too much time on his hands.”

Krimson pointed a nervous finger at Seven and said, “You…you son of a bitch…what have you done?! I’ll kill you!”

“Go ahead! Take your best shot!” dared Seven. “But what will killing me prove? Like I’ve told you before, the foundations of Sevenism are already in place. If you kill me, there will be another prophet slash salesman to represent my created religion. And another. And another. And another. Somebody is always willing to go down for the cause. And our cause is business! Business is booming!”

“This isn’t happening! No!” shouted Krimson.

“Oh, it is happening, my friend. I’m sure you’ll want to tell all of your friends about it, even those at the Raven Strike Society. Those atheistic fools are already set in their ways. But what about the rest of us who need Sevenism to get through our days? Will they be so trusting? Sure, why wouldn’t they trust the God of Vengeance? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re no god. You’re just a prophet like me and everyone who represents my religion.”

“You bastard!” shouted Krimson as he charged toward Seven, only to get a knife to his stomach by the false prophet. The ninja’s stomach was already aching from vomiting so much, and now his innards were spilling all over the snow as Seven gutted him alive. The ninja dropped to his knees and fell on his face in a slow and gory death.

Seven looked down at him, shook his head, and laughed like the super villain he was. “Time to make another snowman!” he said before licking the blood off of his knife in a lustful manner.