Stand Your Ground, Warrior...and Prepare for the CATACLYSM OF AGONY! (LOL)

 

Razor Ripley, James Gaines's Advisor from "Rainbow Ranch"

 

Ozzie the Wise, Dementia-Stricken Wizard from "Rainbow Ranch"

 

Lovelyn LaPierre, Evil Sorceress from "The Meat Squadron"

 

Loki the Skull, Bodily Vessel for Harrison Gaines's Ghost in "Rainbow Ranch"

 

ingrid Zane, Bounty Huntress from "Down"

 

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.

Rainbow Ranch, Chapter 2

Lucy could have searched the entirety of Rainbow Ranch up and down and it wouldn’t have done anything but make her lonelier. Not a friend in sight. Not even a piece of driftwood came from that flood. The more she traveled, the harder she hugged herself for warmth. She became dangerously close to creating her own flood with the tears that she held back. Her old fur parents wouldn’t have faulted her for crying. She could have done it all she wanted when she was abandoned on this island with many others. Razor Ripley didn’t want “weakness” in his ranks, but Loki the Skull was even more discouraging of vulnerability due to the insane king that haunted his soul. King Harrison wanted Lucy the Hammer to bear a grudge against her abandoners, but all he succeeded in doing was making her resent him instead.

 

The frosty wind gathering around Lucy did nothing to ease her resentment. “That mean old jerk!” she muttered to herself through shivering breaths. With the power station knocked out, there was nothing to guard against the chilly weather that made Lucy shake harder than any sorrow ever could. She had been wandering aimlessly for so long that she failed to take in her surroundings. There was indeed harsh snow dusting the ground and making the air nip at her fur harder than fleas. “Where am I?” she asked. “Where are my friends? Where’s my tennis ball? I want my mommy and daddy…”

 

With very little meat on her bones (armor notwithstanding), she knew she would perish in this weather and was strangely okay with it. This was what abandonment meant to her. Rainbow Ranch was a lie. Her dumpers were right all along. And as long as Razor Ripley was upset with her, she would never prove them wrong. Debating wasn’t where she excelled in life despite having a yappy bark, which she missed using in the presence of her squad mates.

 

And then…a warm breeze passed over her, putting a tiny smile on her face. The more she felt this, the harder her tail wagged. Lucy yapped and barked as she dashed toward the source of this heavenly heat. Among the uncaring frost was a tiny grotto which radiated a warm orange glow. Hopefully, whoever dwelled in this place was as warm as the heat radiating from within. It would have been easier for Lucy to knock, but her happy zeal carried her past the entranceway regardless, romping inside like a wild stampede.

 

The minute the heat warmed her aching bones, she breathed a sigh of relief and plopped down on her butt. There could have been a fire-breathing dragon in this grotto and Lucy wouldn’t have cared as long as she could feel this heat forever. Though the breeze was no substitute for a mother’s hug, it came pretty close. Her eyes widened at the sound of a phonograph playing gentle guitar and violin music. As if the relaxation couldn’t be more blissful, now she was going to be lulled to sleep by the sweet strums of guitar strings and graceful glides of violins. Lucy yawned before placing her paws behind her head and smiling her way into the dreamworld.

 

Her subconscious vacation lasted as long as one of her kibble dinners as a pup. The record scratched and the new age lullaby was replaced by the hisses and growls of an angry cat. Lucy gulped and slowly opened her eyes to see an elderly anthropomorphic cat standing over her. The cat flashed her cutting fangs, balanced a golden knife in her hands, all while hogging the warmth for herself in her orange knitted armor with brown leather boots.

 

“Are…are you Ozzie the Wise?” asked a trembling Lucy before turning her head away in anticipation of a scratch.

 

“Ozzie the Wise is nothing more than a myth,” the cat growled in a feminine voice. “I’m Callie the Wildfire and you’ve crossed into my domain. What makes you think you’re welcome here? This is not a stray shelter. Move along, fleabag!”

 

“Wait, wait, wait!” begged Lucy before nipping up. “You don’t understand! I’m a member of the Shut Up Stupid Dogs! I’m here to help you! There’s a wizard on the loose and…”

 

“And you led him here, didn’t you.” Callie’s arms were crossed, blade still balanced in her paw.

 

“No, no! It’s not like that! You see, my…um…my squad mates were all…” Lucy gulped in an attempt to come up with an answer that never came.

 

“Let me guess: they met a cruel and unfair end at the hands of this wizard,” Callie said coldly.

 

“Um…yes…I mean…I hope not…” The tears were harder for Lucy to fight, but fight them she did.

 

“This is what happens when one of your kings decides to turn perfectly happy animals into monstrosities. This was always the plan for him. You think you’re the only one who misses your mommy? I miss mine too! I never had responsibilities and I don’t want them now. And yet, here you are begging for my help when my generator is sputtering and flickering.”

 

“Please, Miss Callie!” Lucy got on two knees and held her hands together like a prayer. “I can help you fix your generator if you just let me stay a while! Besides, you’re in danger! So is Ozzie the Wise!”

 

Callie tucked her head and turned her back to Lucy. “Ozzie the Wise is a danger to himself.”

 

“What do you mean? You know him?”

 

“I used to. He and I were supposed to be beddy-buddies in our fur parents’ humble home. We did everything together. And then…you know by now what King Harrison did. Ever since then, Ozzie became obsessed with responsibilities that were never his. He learned how to use magic and the more he used, the more his mind shut off. He’s not the man I loved so many years ago. I don’t even know who he is. HE doesn’t even know who he is. If he hasn’t gone down the same path as King Harrison with his insanity, he sure as heck is on his way there.”

 

Lucy stood up and hung her own head. “I’m sorry to hear about that, Miss Callie.”

 

“Don’t feel sorry for me, little pup. Animals never had a say in their own fates anyways, whether we were human-like or not. If our destinies are going to be chosen for us, then at the very least they should be chosen by people who undoubtedly care for us.”

 

“That’s…that’s so sad…”

 

Callie sighed and faced Lucy once more. “When you’re as old as I am, sadness becomes part of the norm. You’re not there yet, but you’ll get there someday. Your joints will ache. Your body will break down. Your mind will cannibalize itself. And then…we all fall down and die.”

 

“Why not speed up the process?!”

 

Lucy and Callie gasped before turning to find those words came from Loki the Skull, lightning swirling his hands and poison dripping from his fangs.

 

“So…you DID lead him here, didn’t you! Foolish oaf!” screamed Callie before she pulled out her knife to confront Loki.

 

“Callie, wait!”

 

It was too late; Callie already engaged her enemy with the fastest of stabs. Her paw blurred and flashed because of this speed, which left Lucy wide-eyed and awestruck. “Cool,” Lucy whispered to herself. Soon enough, her stabs began chipping away a the stone walls of her own grotto. She for sure had victory well within hand…until Loki blasted her with an energy ball and send her crashing into her record collection.

 

Lucy gasped as Callie picked herself up to fight again. But once she saw her records and phonograph destroyed, she collapsed to her knees and trembled in sorrow. “Oh no…no…Ozzie loved this music…and it’s gone…All of it’s gone…” She hugged her possessions and tried her damnedest not to break down in front of her mortal enemy. The last connection she had to her past, gone. All gone. Maybe she really should have “sped up the process”.

 

“YOU BIG FAT MEANIE! I’M GOING TO SMASH YOU GOOD!” An enraged Lucy drew her war hammer and charged at Loki with all of her scrappy might. Spittle flew from her lips like rabies and the warmth of the grotto was replaced with hellfire rage for her sworn enemy. She swung. She smashed. She pounded. She gave the old “one, two, buckle your shoe”…and her hammer went flying once again, jutting into the stone wall.

 

Loki, who dodged every shot Lucy gave, mockingly pulled the hammer out of the wall and dangled it in front of her. “This yours?”

 

“Give it back, you sick little mutt!” Every time Lucy jumped up and reached for it, Loki held it out of her way. Bored with this dog-exclusive game of cat and mouse, Loki zapped Lucy in the chest with a thunder bolt and send her barreling across the grotto. She coughed and wheezed at the damage while Loki continued to taunt her with the hammer.

 

“You want this back? Come get it. It’ll be waiting patiently for you in Ozzie’s home!”

 

“YOU LEAVE OZZIE ALONE, YOU PIG DOG! AND GIVE ME BACK MY HAMMER!” shrieked Lucy.

 

Loki ignored her command and teleported out of sight, black dust following him out.

 

Defeated and humiliated, Lucy dropped to her knees once more and pounded the dirt ground with her fists. “It’s not fair! It’s just not fair! Why does he get to have all the magic and all I’ve got is this stupid hammer?!”

 

“Magic?! What’s all this about magic?!” snapped Callie as she stood up to collect herself. “Ozzie the Wise has plenty of magic! He’s beaten King Harrison before and he’ll beat him again! You want your hammer back?! I want my past back! Come on, let’s got them both!”

 

Bewildered, Lucy asked, “So…you’re not mad at me anymore?”

 

Callie placed her paw on Lucy’s shoulder and stretched her claw. “Let me put it this way: I’m madder at King Harrison than I am at you. I’ll deal with you another time. But for now…” She held up a piece from one of her broken records. Lucy gulped in fear, but understood the mission at hand.

Razor Ripley

CHORUS 1

While you’re nice and cozy in your gingerbread house

Here comes Razor Ripley to tear your hearts out!

VERSE 1

A necromancer with no fucks to give

A dead man walking with no reason to live

Except to steal souls like shoplifting at Wal-Mart

Clean the whole town out, it’s his favorite part

Of every single day he walks the planet earth

Death is one part of life, another is rebirth

Casting his magic is what makes him feel alive

Raise an army of skeletons with minds like a hive

CHORUS 2

While you’re nice and comfy in your funeral parlor

Here comes Razor Ripley, respect the fire starter!

VERSE 2

All those empty souls waiting to go to hell

They were there all along when alive and well

The nine circles represented a decade in life

From childhood conformity to fucking a wife

To sitting in a nursing home waiting for the end

After spending many years in the backwards bend

Pushing buttons in an office meant nothing at all

Just like breaking your back to hang up dry wall

CHORUS 3

While you’re snuggling up on Satan’s warm lap

Here comes Razor Ripley to make the devil tap!

VERSE 3

The underworld is under new management

The Promised Land is next, the new sacrament

Some call it succession, but I’ve got a confession

Corporate power structure is a fickle motherfucker

All the NDA’s and the ass-kissing lawyers

Can’t silence necromancy or the undead warriors

A dark fantasy tale of the American variety

Is the bastard child of an uncaring society

CHORUS 4

While you’re wrapped up in shackles like a Christmas blanket

Bow down to Razor Ripley, make your final statement!

While you’re wandering the world with no mind of your own

Ask Razor Ripley if he’ll animate your bones!

"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.

Final Fantasy IV and Stupidity

When people ask me about my favorite videogames, Final Fantasy IV is somewhere in that Mt. Rushmore...of more than four heads. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s got magic, science fiction, creepy puppets, and…unfortunately, it also has stupid characters. Cecil has to travel the world to protect the elemental crystals from Golbez. But every time Cecil and his friends touch one, Golbez is right there to take it from them, almost like the protagonists are just leading him to the crystals. There’s even one instance where Cecil had to exchange a crystal for his girlfriend Rosa. He gives Golbez the crystal and, surprise, surprise, Golbez reneges on the deal and tries to kill him. And then there’s the dragon knight Kain, who is supposed to be one of Cecil’s allies, but he keeps getting brainwashed by Golbez…over and over again! And what does Cecil do? Welcomes Kain back into the party every single fucking time the brainwashing wears off. Tellah, an old mage with powerful magic, has to sacrifice his own life to cast Meteor on Golbez, which doesn’t kill him, but forces him to relinquish control of Kain…for a little while! And by the way, Golbez is no better. He’s an all-powerful wizard knight who could kill everyone and everything in his path with just his magic alone. There’s even a time when he leaves Cecil and crew laying on the ground…and doesn’t kill them! If Golbez is that powerful, what the fuck does he need elemental crystals for? He could just lightning bolt the world out of orbit if he wanted to! Zip-zap, done! End of story! I’m not saying I’ve never had stupid characters before, but holy shit, they’re not THAT dumb. Now that I’m looking at Final Fantasy IV through a critical lens and not a nostalgic one, where does that rank it on the Mt. Rushmore of my favorite videogames? Hmm…

McLean Wolf V Can't Fight

Sorry, ladies, gentlemen, and non-binaries: the road to hell is closed for repairs. So what do we do with all of these good intentions? We make a D&D character who has the best of them, but belly-flops at the thought of executing them. And thus we have a level one human mage created in the late 1990’s named McLean Wolf V. His name was so badass that there had to be five generations of those motherfuckers. Unfortunately, McLean was so bad at fighting that it was amazing there was one generation at all. Never mind abortion rights, because killing off the first generation would have been sufficient birth control for a fifth-generation character that turned out to be a drive-by abortion in the end. You see…how do I put this as delicately as McLean’s fragile bones? The man couldn’t fight worth a shit.

And it turns out, that’s how the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons rules designed mages to begin with. They start out with four hit points. Four! You know what that means? It means there isn’t a constitution modifier in hell that will keep him from dying from a fucking paper cut. Mages can’t wear heavy armor and they can’t use heavy weapons. McLean of course had neither of those things. He had a wizard’s robe, a knife, and a bola sling. That’s. About. It. You’d think with all of my experience playing Final Fantasy games I would have figured out a long time ago that wizard-type characters were going to be piss-poor fighters who couldn’t be self-sufficient if they tried. Tellah from Final Fantasy IV can throw all the lightning bolts he wants, but if an imp so much as pokes him with his short sword, he’s on the ground sucking his thumb like a bitch. In the very first Final Fantasy game, white mages and black mages are the first party members that monsters go after, because they’re more fragile than Lego sets. Ever wonder why bullies pick on smaller kids? Because if they picked on hulking body builders, the police would need the bullies’ dental records to identify them afterwards.

So…I’ve got McLean Wolf V ready to go for a campaign. What he lacks in fighting prowess, he makes up for in magic…provided that he studies his spells every fucking night like he’s cramming for the SAT’s. And once he exhausts his spells, he has to study them again…and again…for hours upon hours…Well, guess what, McLean? Your enemies aren’t going to give you hours and hours to prepare for them. If a barroom brawler wants to pound you into coffee grounds, he’s not going to wait for you to study your fireball spells. He’s going to beat the shit out of you weather you’re ready or not. Schoolyard bullies don’t wait for their victims to complete karate training. Terrorists don’t wait for their victims to learn how to use firearms. Nobody’s going to wait for McLean to get his nose out of his books. In fact, forget the footman’s mace, you could just take his Stephen King-sized doorstop and beat him to death with it. It would only take one hit and he’d go from lying on the ground to lying IN the ground.

And because McLean couldn’t do a damn thing on his own, my brother invited his friends Nathan and Chris to come play with us. They could wield all the battleaxes and long swords they wanted to. I, on the other hand, had to throw fireballs, lightning bolts, and magic missiles like they were substitutes for a gatling gun. And if you ever needed an indication of how forgetful of a memoirist I am (which is a lot like being a mage who can’t fight), I don’t even remember what quest we were doing or why we banded together. All I knew was that midway through the game, I wanted to tear up my character sheet and never see McLean Wolf V ever again. James, my DM brother, wasn’t having any of that nonsense. He said that if I did that, he would make my eighth level paladin Charles Goodhorn die of natural causes…even though he was only twenty-five years old. He’s not even old enough to use his bastard sword as a walking cane and already my brother wants to hold him hostage so that I’ll keep playing as a mage made of glass. I guess he was trying to motivate me to try new things since I was so accustomed to playing warrior characters. Either that or it was the 1990’s and we were constantly at each other’s throats due to the inevitability of problematic brotherhoods.

Well…the campaign continued and Chris, Nathan, and I found ourselves in the middle of a cleared forest getting our shit pushed in by orcs and goblins. Chris and Nathan’s warrior characters slashed and hacked their way through the frontlines while I was in the background preparing for a spell. This was my chance to save their lives and prove myself as a wizard. The orcs and goblins became too much to handle due to their swelling forces. Even with the heaviest equipment, Chris and Nathan couldn’t fight them all without getting swarmed. So…McLean conjured a massive fireball and rolled it onto the battlefield like a bowling ball on a snowy mountain instead of a proper bowling alley. The analogy was appropriate since the fireball indeed got bigger and bigger as it rolled along. The screams of goblins and orcs burning alive was like a Baroque symphony of beautiful music. Then came the magic missiles to take out the stragglers. And the lighting bolts to make the battlefield crispier than a bucket of KFC, though not as tasty, but probably greasy considering the monsters we were dealing with. And just like that, the battle was over and I was the hero of the day. My opinion of fragile mages hasn’t changed, but I had more fun playing them as I got older. Truth is, they’re better in groups than on their own, not unlike D&D itself. Tellah lived as long as he did because the dark knight turned paladin named Cecil protected him. Black mages are always accompanied by hulking fighters turned knights and thieves turned ninjas.

Teamwork is the name of the game. But the D&D party that wins together serves prison sentences together. It wouldn’t be a James Haines-Temons D&D campaign if it didn’t involve incarceration of some kind. At this point, we should change the name of the game from D&D to Shawshank Redemption. While none of our characters had rock hammers to dig us out or posters of Raquel Welch to cover up our schemes, McLean was allowed to keep his books. Prison libraries are a thing, not unlike The Shawshank Redemption. But why in the hell would you allow a wizard capable of throwing avalanche fireballs to have access to books? That’s his source of power! You wouldn’t give Chris and Nathan their weapons and armor, so don’t give McLean Wolf his books! Nothing made sense in the 1990’s, but this should have been glaringly obvious. I guess we’ll never know if McLean torched the whole fucking prison, because that’s where the campaign ended for the day. We never did continue it. Bummer.

I’m not against the idea of wizards in my fantasy settings. They’re aesthetically pleasing, after all, and that’s why I enjoy fantasy so much. I could have a necromancer with skulls everywhere and poison mist surrounding him. I could have a pyromancer with fiery staves and spiky red hair that resembled his flames. I could have a sorceress who wore fancy black dresses into battle and could turn the skirts of them into circular blades while she twirls in a dance. The possibilities are as endless as my imagination. But as far as playing videogames and tabletop RPG’s goes, maybe it’s best if my wizards were accompanied by other characters. Every party has a role that needs to be filled. As much as I love the idea of an all-barbarian squad, who’s going to heal them when there’s no cleric and they get their shit pushed in after being exhausted from rage? What about an all-thief party? Who’s going to protect them without a wizard’s magic spells if they get caught? Like life itself, there’s something for everybody in this world. Nobody can do everything, but everybody can do something. A wizard can’t carry the load by himself. Otherwise, he wouldn’t need a chiropractor at this point, but an embalmer.

The Scatomancer

The lighthouse bathroom was the only one available for miles at Cheney Park. Not a good night to have overstuffed intestines…and an even worse night to be trapped in the men’s room with Johnny Lockwood. The black hoodie-wearing youngster sat in the middle stall with his knees to his chest and amber-colored magic swirling in his hands. His wide grin counted as a bold attempt to stifle his laughter, a low bar to clear for a man with an immature mind. “This is going to be good…this is going to be so good…” A tiny chuckle escaped his throat, but he quickly suppressed it when he heard the steel door burst open and business loafers tapping across the tile floor.

Judging from what Johnny could see underneath his stall door, the thick legs filling out business slacks suggested that whoever burst into the bathroom had a lot of…ammunition to work with. He put his non-magic-wielding hand over his mouth to keep his giggles in check. The corpulent corporate rushed into the stall next to Johnny and pulled his pants around his ankles long before the door could lock. Johnny’s giggles were laced with spitting noises as he saw a yellow stain in the front of the man’s white briefs.

The scatomancer went to work right away, forming symbols and gestures with his hands to cast his first spell. On cue, the stranger’s bowl movements sounded like a bomb going off, the splatter of toilet water suggesting the same. The man’s moaning didn’t deter Johnny from casting another spell, this time shooting feces from his pudgy cheeks like a fire hose. The poor bastard’s grunts and groans sounded more like a dying opera singer performing his magnum opus. Johnny held his aching ribs while struggling to keep his laughs under control.

For his final trick, Johnny pointed his fingers upwards and trembled as the amber magic did its work. The man screamed and hollered as he tried to give birth to a rock-hard wrecking ball, causing little droplets of blood to tap the floor. “Get out of my ass!” he shouted, causing Johnny’s laughter to make him lose control of the spell. The intestinal boulder collapsed into the toilet and completely destroyed it, spreading muddy water all over the floor and moistening its sticky surface. The man wiped his ass with toilet paper, but not without crying out like a torture rack victim. He didn’t even stop to wash his hands. He got out of there as fast as his hulking body could take him.

Johnny howled and hooted with laughter as he exited his own stall, holding his spine the entire time. “Ouch! Ouch! Oh my god, that was gold! Holy shit!” Even after seeing his scatomancy teacher standing across the bathroom with his arms folded in disgust, the hee-haws never stopped. They slowed down, but without making a complete stop. “Owen, did you see that? I got him good! Come on, man, laugh!”

Owen Murphy, a dark-haired middle-aged gentleman with a cloak covering his body (but thankfully not touching the floor) spat back at his protégé. “Multiple generations of potent magic has all come to this, it seems. The lost art of scatomancy has been reduced to a goddamn JOKE!”

Johnny’s laughter abated and his smile sagged into disappointment. “Joke? You mean it wasn’t a joke before? I’m literally a shit wizard! Most wizards like to shoot lightning bolts and fireballs from their fingertips. I control shit!”

Owen slapped Johnny across the face and killed the last remnants of laughter remaining. “You do more than just control shit. You have the power of life and death in your hands. Your little middle school prank could have killed him! Losing that much weight within seconds could have dehydrated him to death!”

Johnny waved him off. “Don’t worry, Master Murphy, he’ll gain all the weight back after he stuffs down a couple more chocolate-covered pork roasts.”

“So not only is lethal diarrhea funny to you, but also obesity. You truly have the mind of a toddler, Johnny. If your father didn’t have so many goddamn connections, you would have been fucked off a long time ago!”

With wide eyes and a hunched spine, Johnny said, “Dude! I’m a shit wizard! You taught me how to manipulate shit! Those jokes pretty much write themselves! So an army of dragons comes breathing down our necks. So what are we supposed to do about it with all of this cosmic knowledge we have? Do we make the dragons shit themselves to death? Oh, that’ll go over like a fart in church! See what I did there?”

Owen death gripped Johnny’s shoulders and made him hiss in pain. The master’s face oozed with anger, seriousness, and a little bit of psychopathy. In a gravelly whisper that could force giants to quiver in fear, he said, “I don’t have time to re-teach you the applications of scatomancy. You’ve had years to process it in your head. It’s more than just shit magic, Johnny. It’s biology. It’s pathology. It’s a pathway to information we wouldn’t otherwise have. So excuse me if I don’t share your immature sense of humor over magic that shouldn’t be toyed with!” Owen gave an extra tight squeeze and Johnny yelped.

He swatted his master’s hands away. “Alright, jeez, you don’t have to bite my head off! I’m sorry, okay! I won’t do it again! Like you said, I’ve had years to process this.” Owen’s mask of rage softened. “But then again…Fudge Tunnel McGee had years to process his string cheese and hotdogs and look how that turned out. Phew! Smells like chemical warfare in here!” Owen face-palmed. “Hey, there’s another useful application for shit magic, I mean, scatomancy: chemical weaponry! More powerful than a nuclear bomb and more radiation cancer! Huh? Yeah!”

Still with his face in his hands, Owen said, “I have lost all respect for you, Johnny. You could have been the chosen one of our sacred order. You could have lived up to your potential as the greatest wizard of your generation. All that time teaching you…it went to waste.”

“You’re damn right it went to waste! It’s all over the goddamn floor!”

“Goodbye, Johnny. I never want to see you again. If your father gets nepotistic on me, I’ll be sure to tell him that you’re a bigger piece of shit than what came out of…no, I’m not giving you comic fodder. You don’t deserve to laugh. I’d tell you to give up magic and get a job making pizzas at a gas station, but…”

“But my hands are too dirty for the job?”

Owen sighed, tucked his chin in disillusionment, and trudged out of the bathroom, dragging his wizard’s slippers across the murky floor. Johnny shrugged his shoulders before Owen poked his head in again. “Oh, and by the way…that gentleman you just pranked? He’s on the Board of Magic Education. His name is Bill Grass. If you want to laugh about how his last name rhymes with a certain expletive, be sure to tell him that to his face.” Owen slammed the door behind him.

“What does he mean by that?”

Somebody behind Johnny cleared his throat and the magician got a lump in his as he slowly turned around to face him. There he was: Chairman Bill Grass, complete with hands on his wide hips and a gorgon death stare on his bearded face. Needless to say, he wasn’t in the mood for comedy.

“Hey, Chairman…” Johnny looked down as he twiddled his fingers and thumbs. “How’s it going?” Bill tapped his foot with impatience. “Eh, I already know how it’s going, if you know what I mean.” Johnny placed his hands over his own mouth, as if trying to put the joke back where he got it from.

“You like jokes, Mr. Lockwood? You like making people laugh? Here, let me help you out with that.” Bill scooped Johnny off the ground, the young wizard begging and pleading to be put down. And so Bill did as he body slammed his attacker onto the scatomantic sludge. Johnny’s back and ribs pulsated with pain as he struggled to take even the simplest of breaths. He wouldn’t have wanted those breaths anyways since they all tasted and smelled like an intestinal plutonium rod.

“Go ahead, Johnny. Get up! Leave the bathroom! I dare you! You’ve got an entire student body gathered outside. You want people to not be so sensitive and have a sense of humor? Well, they’ll be laughing at you for years to come, my friend. Enjoy the attention! You’ll never shake it off again. Oops! I said shake it off in a men’s bathroom. Silly me!” Bill horse-laughed as he exited the bathroom, leaving Johnny in a painful heap on the ground.

Johnny had the choice to punch up with his sense of humor rather than punch down. He could have made something of himself. After that body slam by Chairman Grass, he’ll be the stuff of legend for as long as he lives, but not in the way that Owen Murphy had envisioned for him. Johnny rolled over onto his knees and pounded the ground in frustration, shouting a few curses for good measure. The splash of the toilet water got into his mouth and he immediately puked his guts out all over the floor, becoming an even bigger legend in the process. The best he could have done was laugh with his contemporaries, but his ribs and spine were too sore for that. In a way, his bones were one in the same with his spirit: broken down and never to be fixed again. The only question of the evening was…who’s laughing now?

Comedic Obligations

***COMEDIC OBLIGATIONS***

When you’re a writer and you feel obligated to include certain elements in your story, you can often find yourself not knowing what the hell you’re doing. For example, there’re a lot of TV shows, movies, and books out there that have shoehorned romances, so you feel like in order to stand a chance of being above average, you too have to have a romance despite not having the necessary experience or interest. The same thing is true with comedy. Although George Carlin remains one of my strongest comedic influences, not even his material is capable of making me into a carbon copy of him, which he wouldn’t want anyways because of his strong individuality. I can be funny sometimes, but when I feel obligated to make a joke in my stories, the writing suffers badly and I have to go through yet another round of editing. Tonight I’m counting down the three cringiest examples of jokes or cleverness gone badly in my stories. Why three? Because that’s three cringes too many.

I should go ahead and say that all three major examples come from Poison Tongue Tales, the first drafts at least. You won’t find the jokes there now, thank god. Let’s begin with the major money line from Stone Cold, a short story within that tome about a barbarian (surprise, surprise, surprise) who wants revenge on a warthog sorcerer and a female dark paladin for killing his wife. The barbarian wins the battle, but not without feeling like his heart is going to explode and a vein in his brain is going to pop like a balloon. While the female dark paladin is laying on the ground on her way to the afterlife, the barbarian leans down and says to her in a sexy voice…”Maybe I’ll get some practice on you before I meet my wife in heaven.” Practice doing what, you say? Well, if you can’t figure that out, I’m not going to tell you. Either way, you should be appalled at that, which is why that line no longer occupies my story.

And then the other two examples come from the same story within PTT. That story is called Streetwalker and that title alone should already have you feeling anxiety bubble up in the pit of your stomach. The main villain, another barbarian (what a goddamn shock), wants to buy the services of a wizard prostitute to celebrate a major victory in battle. The prostitute turns him down, so instead of paying the full price, he tries to get it for free by attempting to rape her. Being that she’s a wizard and that she’s using her prostitution money to fund her magical education, the hooker throws every kind of elemental spell at the barbarian’s way. Fireballs, lightning bolts, poison bubbles, shadow spears, glacial spikes, you name it, she’s throwing it. She thinks she’s won the fight, but the spells have absolutely no effect on the barbarian. So what does the would-be rapist say? He says…”In order to cast the spells properly…you need the world’s biggest magic wand!” In the words of my beautiful beta reader Marie Krepps, “Why doesn’t he just shoot her already? I’d rather get raped than listen to another one of his bad jokes.” You and me both, Babe-a-Licious Mondo. You and me both.

That Emmy Award-winning zinger should have been the end of it for Streetwalker, but it wasn’t. Instead the audience was treated to yet another “clever” piece of writing. It wasn’t really a joke nor was it intended to be misogynistic. It was just my obligations creeping through yet again. So what happens in Streetwalker (SPOILER ALERT) is that the barbarian has his way with the prostitute and leaves her bloody and bruised in a dark alleyway. Yes, she managed to knock is money bag loose (his actual money bag, not his testicles, you fools!), but even with all of that gold at her disposal, she still feels guilty for “allowing herself” to be raped in the first place. As part of this self-imposed guilt trip, I, the narrator, describe her ordeal as…(gulp)…I’m not sure if I should say this, but I’m going to if it means proving my point…the prostitute’s rape was…”a permanent part of her resume”. I can hear the dry heaves coming from miles away. Absolutely barferrific. No call for that. It got so bad that when Marie was writing her critique notes, she said, “Let’s keep this between you and me.” I couldn’t agree more, but here it is out in the open.

I didn’t count down those three examples because I wanted a laugh track to magically appear in my room. I counted them down because I wanted to be free from my obligations of putting comedy and/or clever lines in my writing. Yes, comedy is nice every once and a while, but only when done by a true master. Whenever I get into a heated argument with someone, my brain shuts down, so I can’t quickly access a savage one-liner to defeat my opponent. Why should I expect the same thing from my characters? Because Hollywood told me to do it? Because they do it so well in the WWE (which I still don’t watch anymore)? Why can’t two people just have a passionate conversation full of vitriol and curse words? Why does everything have to be funny all the time?

Now that I think about it, the funnier a movie or book tries to be, the more it comes off as bathos to an otherwise emotional moment. Bathos is defined as a descent from emotional highs and it’s usually achieved through comedy. Marvel movies have been accused of doing this a lot, especially with anything featuring Iron Man and his actor Robert Downey, Jr. When you rob your audience of an emotional high, you’re stealing a major part of the movie-watching experience. I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I get hit in the feels, I don’t want my attacker to use kid gloves. That’s why I like books like The Perks of Being a Wallflower and The Savior’s Champion. Sure, they have witty dialogue peppered here and there, but it doesn’t diminish the dramatic action of their respective stories.

I have not yet mastered the balance between (good) comedy and punches to the feels. I’ve been an amateur/professional author since 2001 and I still can’t do it. Is this something I should work on or should I abandon it altogether? Is comedy really that important or should I emancipate myself from the chains of obligation? See? Even that last line sounded too over-the-top to be considered comedic gold. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like laughing at bad jokes, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Chapter seven of this ongoing rewrite is edging towards the horizon. Windham managed to free himself from the shackles and now he needs to not only escape Shelly’s castle, but beforehand has to draw blueprints from the inside and collect a handsome payday from Shadow Asylum. Can he keep his emotions in check long enough to not spoil his escape? Can he watch one of his own being sold to a paying aristocrat without snapping again? Whatever the case may be, I’m free from the chains of comedic obligations, so there won’t be any jokes about Nickelodeon Slime Cannons or some shit like that (some of Shelly’s sex slaves are teenagers).

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

If Fred Durst started his own airline company, would he call it Air Bizkit? It makes me worry about the cabbage and broccoli platters he’d serve to the coach passengers. At least they wouldn’t have to worry about the plane running out of fuel, although the weather would always be cloudy up there.

***POST-SCRIPT***

Okay, so I’m not completely emancipated.

Social Justice Warriors

***SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIORS***

You’re in no way obligated to get in political discussions with people who don’t want to change. But if you do, a common slur you’ll hear a lot in those discussions is SJW, or Social Justice Warrior. This gets tossed around by people who think their opponents get offended by everything or are too politically correct. If you ever get called a Social Justice Warrior, don’t be offended. Say thank you. You know why? Well, all you have to do is take a look at the last word in that slur: warrior. Sounds badass, doesn’t it? When I think of warriors, I think of big muscle men with battleaxes and spears. Or it could be a fierce and tough-minded woman with a bow and arrow that doubles as a striking blade. Either way, there’s nothing wrong with being called a warrior. Dungeons & Dragons characters hear this all the time and they give their thanks.

And while we’re on the topic of warriors, suppose you’re a D&D player who prefers another character class. Okay, no problem. You can be an SJB (Social Justice Barbarian). Barbarians sure as shit have enough rage to care about their causes. What about SJC’s (Social Justice Clerics). Since clerics have the ability to heal their party members, they could easily be useful for when a protest goes awry. And don’t forget about SJP’s (Social Justice Paladins). If you’re too laidback to be a barbarian but you still want to be a warrior, be a paladin, the bringers of truth and justice. But maybe SJW can mean something else entirely: Social Justice Wizard. Some people would rather use magic than engage in close quarters combat. Maybe the wizard specializes in pyromancy, which is bad news for any Nazi marching with a Tiki torch. Maybe the wizard specializes in cryomancy, which means the only snowflakes you have to worry about are the ones freezing your balls off. So many possibilities!

Okay, so you’ve seen all of those different character classes, but you still want to be a Social Justice Warrior instead of anything else. No problem! You know who else wanted to be a warrior? WWE Hall of Famer The Ultimate Warrior. He wanted to be a warrior so much that Warrior became his legal name. No kidding! And now his wife and children have Warrior as their last name. Call me crazy, but I’d love to see a big muscle-bound wrestler in tassels and face paint called The Ultimate Social Justice Warrior. The only difference is, The USJW can actually wrestle. And his promos make sense. And he’s not a racist. Or a homophobe. Or a guy who’s happy about Bobby Heenan having cancer. Or a…you know what, you probably get the picture by now.

Maybe professional wrestling isn’t your cup of tea, and quite frankly, there are times when I’m watching WWE and I can’t blame you for that. How about some videogames instead? If you want to see some real Social Justice Warriors in action, look no further than Final Fantasy VII, everybody’s favorite in the series and a true classic. The main characters in that game were part of a pro-environmental faction called Avalanche and their goal was to stop the evil mega corporation Shinra from draining the planet of its spiritual energy to make a profit. Yes, you heard me right: Barrett Wallace, Cloud Strife, and Tifa Lockhart were all a bunch of tree-hugging hippies. And they won! Of course, with Barrett’s arm cannon, Cloud’s big ass sword, and Tifa’s martial arts abilities, the writing was on the wall for the Shinra Corporation.

If somebody calls you a Social Justice Warrior in conversation, say thank you and be on your merry way. And while we’re at it, what does that make Keyboard Warriors? I could imagine that it takes a lot of power to smash a keyboard over someone’s head without breaking your damn weapon. You know who would make good Keyboard Warriors? Going back to my wrestling examples, the entire roster of old school ECW. Those guys would hit each other with trash cans, steel chairs, cookie sheets, and cheese graters (holy shit, that was brutal!). If you gave Tommy Dreamer, the Sandman, or Bubba Ray Dudley a computer keyboard, do you think they’re going to smash it across their opponents’ backs? You’re damn right they will! If it’s not nailed down, they’ll use it in a hardcore wrestling match. Hell, they could probably beat people to death with rolled up copy of Hustler, right?

Of course, as tempting as it may seem, beating the shit out of people during political activity is not recommended. I know, I know, you’re going to call me out on this because I have a bunch of violent political songs in my two poetry books Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage and Necrograph. Those poems are fantasies, but political violence in the real world is much more dangerous. Separating fantasy from reality is what’s going to get you by in this world more than anything. Okay, so you can’t show up to a protest riding a warhorse while carrying a bastard sword. You don’t have to. You can still be a warrior in many other ways. Fighting the good fight doesn’t always mean throwing fists (unless you’re defending yourself in a life or death situation, which is a whole different story entirely).

You can’t ride on a fire-breathing dragon, but you can lift your head as high anyways. You’ve got this. You can win the big one. All you have to do…is BO-LIEVE! Goddamn it, another wrestling reference! Well, I suppose it’s better than doing all of your warrior business on a pay-per-view called Great Balls of Fire. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Going back to the topic of Final Fantasy VII and their environmental stance, I wrote a first draft novel a few years ago called Filter Feeder which is basically the same thing, but with clam fishing and the Materia are magical clam shells. Filter Feeder’s Sheila Victor is a dead ringer for Final Fantasy VII’s Scarlet, so that’s how I’m going to draw her. You know what I’m hoping for? I hope when I eventually go back and have Marie Krepps beta read Filter Feeder, she won’t find too many similarities between the two stories. Maybe some, but not a lot. Well, I can always wish in one hand and shit in the other to see which one fills up first!

***AMERICAN DARKNESS 3***

Remember how I said that real world violence is a bad thing? Well, it doesn’t get any closer to the real world than this next story idea I have for American Darkness 3. It’s called “Belts and Welts” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1.      Owen Hall, Angry Father

2.      Valerie Hall, Lenient Mother

3.      Leila Hall, Bratty Teenaged Daughter

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: In the Hall family, Valerie spoils Leila and gives her everything she wants, including the right to back-sass Owen and completely disregard his authority. Over a lengthy period of time of being disrespected, Owen has his breaking point. During a family dinner, he and Leila get into a heated argument in which the bratty daughter mocks everything her father says. Having finally snapped, Owen does something to Leila that has never happened to her before: he beats her severely with a belt and promises more beatings if the disrespect continues.

OOC: You know what? This might actually be more controversial than Puberty X Piracy.

***TELEVISION QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Tell me, Brian, how does it feel to be the least cultured guy at a bus station?”

-Stewie Griffin from “Family Guy”-

Where's My Damn Money?

“This is an attempt to collect a debt and any information obtained will be used for that purpose, you fucking lazy bitch!” said the deep and dark schizophrenic voice in Pia Caine’s mind. The humanoid cat would kneel to the stone floor of her laboratory and clutch her paws over her head. Was this all in her imagination? Was she going crazy? Would she be destined for a trip to Bedlam? The thought of her fuzzy arms locked in a straightjacket brought tears to Pia’s eyes and a quivering in her jaw. She managed to get some spittle and tears on her pink dress, but she wiped them away and tried to pull herself to her feet using one of the many tables in her lab.

Pia convulsed in fear while gazing through teary eyes at the many chemicals and potions scattered across her tables. The fact that she had a surplus of these items and nobody was buying shattered her heart into millions of pieces. She pulled a satchel out of her dress and spilled the few gold coins she had across one of the tables. Baby steps towards paying her debt: that’s all it amounted to. The grating voice in her head had no patience for baby steps. In fact, it blurted out, “Where’s my damn money!” and Pia was jittering on the floor once again.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?!” Pia begged. “I’ll get you your payment! I swear! Just give me some more time!”

“You had all the time in the world and you came up with chump change!” belted the voice once again. Only this time, when Pia lifted her trembling kitty head out of her paws, she saw a slender figure covered in a black robe and hood standing only a few feet away from her. That must have been him: Chetty Claymore, elven necromancer and relentless dunner. He slowly paced towards the spilled coins and scooped them up in his hands while counting at a brisk pace with his elongated finger. “It’s not enough!” he shouted.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Claymore! I really am!” sobbed Pia. She pulled herself to her feet yet again, but almost lost her equilibrium. “Business has been slow lately and…”

After Chetty pocketed the gold coins, his hand glowed with purple energy before he grabbed Pia around the throat and hoisted her high in the air, booted legs kicking and all. “No excuses!” he bellowed. “I saved your life on that battlefield and you repay me with the bare minimum! Unacceptable, you stupid whore!” Chetty threw Pia to the ground and left her coughing violently, even spitting up a little bit of blood.

Once Pia was able to regain her oxygen (albeit with raspy breaths), Chetty leaned down and grabbed her by the nape of her neck so that their eyes could lock on each other. He angrily whispered, “I gave you life and I can take it away. As a necromancer, I’m well within my abilities to do that.”

Without even a modicum of struggle against Chetty’s grip and with trembling in her jaw, Pia asked, “How is that supposed to get you your money? If I’m dead, you’ll have nobody to pay you back.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart,” said Chetty has he tightened his grip and earned a yelp out of his victim. “If I don’t get the money from you and your so-called business…I can always get it from somewhere else. Just because the debtor dies, doesn’t mean the debt goes away. Surely, you have other members of your feline family who are willing to foot the bill for their lazy clan member. Maybe your mother. Maybe your father. Maybe your siblings. No matter where the money comes from...” Chetty leaned closer to make his final point. “I own the Caine family!”

As Chetty Claymore chuckled evilly, Pia pictured her elderly parents at the mercy of this madman. They were just feeble felines who snuggled in bed and rested their old bones next to the fire. And now this deranged elf was going to take full advantage of them. He could slap them. He could punch them. He could even do something involving his genitals. The more Chetty cackled, the louder Pia hissed in response. She took a huge bite out of the necromancer’s nose and the scream-inducing pain forced him to let go.

Pia crab-walked backwards in disbelief at what she had done. As she pulled herself up using the table’s edge, she assessed the damage with wide kitty eyes. Once Chetty pulled his hand away from his nose, he revealed a chunk had been dangling from his face and blood was pouring like a faucet. “I will teach you some respect, you disgusting harlot!” he shouted.

The necromancer raised his pointy hands in the air and summoned more purple energy. From this bright radiation, he shot a skull projectile at Pia, who dove over one of her tables out of the way of the blast. “You can’t hide from me forever!” he roared.

“I don’t need to hide!” sassed Pia. “Stay away from my goddamn family!” She picked up one of her magical potions and tossed it on Chetty’s face. The glass shards combined with the acidic content turned the necromancer’s face into rare hamburger meat. He screeched in agony and threw purple energy skulls blindly around the lab.

The potions exploded into wildfire upon contact with the projectiles. But instead of getting the hell out of her laboratory to safety, Pia used the flames as a metaphor for her anger and leaped into Chetty. She struggled to feed his face to the open flames, but the elf pushed back just as hard.

“You don’t get it, do you?” said Chetty during the struggle. “You think killing me is going to end your debt? I’m just one small part of a bigger agency. If not me, then someone else will come knocking at your door! And another! And another! Or maybe they don’t have to knock at your door. Maybe they can get inside that pretty little head of yours!”

Pia loosened her grip in contemplation of Chetty’s point. This brief opening allowed Chetty to bite down on Pia’s hand and draw enough blood to heighten the flames around her laboratory. The feline chemist ran around while clutching her bloody paw, desperately trying to wrap it up with the length of her pink dress. The harder she pressed, the more she bled. Meanwhile, Chetty’s horrific visage was still able to give off a wicked smile with every tooth showing.

The necromancer stood up and snickered, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have parents to harass and quite possibly have some…fun with!”

The constant snickering sent a firestorm through Pia’s adrenaline system. She didn’t care about the blood in her paw. She didn’t care about the massive debt she supposedly owed. She cared only that this maniac was even considering messing with her family. The many dinners the Caine family had with cherry pies, the snuggle sessions with catnip, and the comfort of living with such warm hearted people gave Pia the motivation necessary to deliver a running drop kick to Chetty, knocking him into the flames.

The necromancer rolled around trying to extinguish the flames that consumed his body, but it was all for naught. One of the pillars in the ceiling above came crashing down on top of him and obliterated his ribcage into bloody pieces. Meanwhile, Pia wrapped her bloody paw once again and scurried for the front exit. The growing flames blocked the doorway along with every window in the lab. She tried several times to walk through fire anyways, but the burning pain and chemical odor from her potions slapped her away every time.

If Pia was going to die in this lab, that would leave her family open to an attack from these asshole debt collectors. They would be defenseless, just like any other family member that inherited the debt after their deaths. The Caine family of kitten chemists would be wiped off the face of the earth and it was all for the sake of ill-gotten money. Money was overrated. Money was the root of all evil. Money wasn’t worth dying over. Pia took a deep breath and dove through the fiery front entrance. The heat singed her fur badly, but after rolling on the cobblestone streets outside, she was able to extinguish the assaulting flames.

There she was, lying in the gutter while her potion lab and her only source of income went up in smoke and flames. Her body ached, her paw bled, and her fur felt like she went swimming at the base of a volcano. And yet, she stood up tall and proud, this time without anything to aid her.

She took some deep breaths and limped away from the burning lab, almost losing her balance, but still standing tall in the end. She willingly knelt down and screamed to the sky, “You want my money?! You want my debt?! Come and get it, you stupid sons of bitches! I’ll take your whole agency down! Nobody fucks with the Caine family! Nobody!”

And then the schizophrenic voices assaulted her mind like a thousand lobotomies. “This is an attempt to collect a debt and any information obtained will be used for that purpose.” The dark voices said this over and over again and all Pia could do was clutch her head with her bloody paw while skeletons in hoods and robes gathered around her. One of them knelt down beside her, grabbed her by the nape of the neck to make eye contact, and said, “We’ll be in touch!” before a snake crawled out of the skeleton’s eye socket.

The skeletons and the snake disappeared in puffs of smoke not unlike the flames surrounding the laboratory. Pia wept a rainfall of tears onto the ground as she realized what she had gotten herself into. With no job, no income, and too much fear to fight against her dunners, the Caine family would succumb to the whims of this horrible agency. Debt collection was a business and business was booming as loudly as the flames in the background. Even so, Pia picked her head up, wiped her tears and blood away, and reluctantly said, “I’ll be ready for you!”

"Spunky and the Dolphin Palace" by Ashley Uzzell and Kyra Uzzell

BOOK TITLE: Spunky and the Dolphin Palace

AUTHORS: Ashley Uzzell and Kyra Uzzell

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Children’s Animal Fantasy

GRADE: Pass

In the second installment of the Spunky the Cat series, our furry hero finds himself in another strange land far away from home. Everything is made from candy from the syrup oceans to the gumdrop roads to even the various creatures that live there like the licorice snake and the soda bubblegum bear. As delicious as this world appears to be, Spunky is homesick for his human wizard master. He ventures down the syrupy river on his way to the Dolphin Palace, where he hopes the elderly princess can help him find his way home.

The biggest reason for my passing grade is the infinite cuteness overload that flies off the pages, whether it’s within the text or the drawings by Ashley’s daughter Kyra. From the very first page, Spunky (who’s already a cute little stud muffin purr baby) is thrust into a world made entirely of candy and inhabited by equally sweet creatures. In the words of the abominable snowman from the Looney Tunes canon, I want to hug them and squeeze them and call them George! As someone who currently owns seven cats and two dogs, I get my cuteness overloads wherever I can and this book has provided me with those warm fuzzy feelings and more.

I loved the cuteness factor so much that I wanted to see the story completed beyond the “To Be Continued” disclaimer at the end. There’s an evil killer whale named Viktor that needs to be brought to justice and mermaids that need to help in that G-rated struggle. Everybody wants to see Spunky work his fluffy magic against the forces of darkness. In short, my only critique is that the story ended too soon. On the bright side, though, it was adorable while it lasted and I’m eagerly looking forward to the next installment. Hugs and kisses for Spunky-Monkey and his new friends!

Whether you have children of your own or you’re an adult who loves fuzzy emotions, this second installment is for you, my friend. And while you’re at it, pick up a copy of the first installment as well. Get under the covers of your softest blanket and read to your heart’s content. You may find that your purr engine is just as lawnmower-like as our kitty hero’s. Excellent work, Ashley and Kyra! Lots of love for both of you!

Exile

“Sing a song, Night Wolf, sing a song, mommy’s boy!” sang Maria Kevin in an off-key voice while she strummed her guitar. Sure enough, the spirit wolf glowing with blue energy howled at the full moon like the happy hound dog he was. The ghostly beast was rewarded with chin scratches and ear rubs from her elfish bard mommy. “Good boy, Night Wolf. Good, good puppy boy.”

The two of them sat outside a rickety old church on the grassy field together while the evening’s wind caressed them with cool air. Such was a pleasant evening for rest and relaxation, considering the long journey they had together playing concerts. Maria’s pointy red hat, black halter top, brown shorts, and brown leather boots gave her the appearance of a folk rock goddess. But to Night Wolf, she was still the down-to-earth spirit animal mother he snuggled up to every night.

“A lot of good memories come from this church, Night Wolf,” said Maria in a pleasant whispery voice. “This was where I first learned to play the guitar and sing to my heart’s content. There wasn’t a single elf in our village who didn’t come to this church every time they wanted some spiritual music. It makes me wonder what happened to this place that it got so…empty and depressing.” Those last words were punctuated with a small frown and a slight whimper from Night Wolf. The spirit animal tucked his head on Maria’s lap and earned himself more pettings behind the ears.

And then Night Wolf’s ears perked up as he lifted his head and barked rapidly at something going on in the church. “What is it, boy? What’s going on?” Maria asked. Night Wolf blitzed inside the church barking and howling while the elf bard struggled to keep up. The inside of the church looked as dilapidated and depressing as the outside. Stained glass windows were shattered, wooden beams splintered and peeled, the carpeted floor was soaked in animal urine and rainwater, and the roof had a hole through it big enough to fit a family of bears through.

Maria’s frowning sorrow intensified when she saw Night Wolf scraping at the basement door and howling in a pathetic, childish dog voice. She didn’t like to see him in such misery, but the purple energy glow behind the door was too much to ignore. The bard trotted down the stairs to the basement door and slowly opened it after backing Night Wolf away with her slender arm.

The source of the purple glow was a mere mortal human with an aura around his pale-skinned body. With dark robes to contrast his disturbingly white skin, he pointed his fingers and shot purple lighting into what appeared to be a bubbling cauldron of some kind. Maria’s eyes widened as the mysterious liquid boiled and splashed while Night Wolf crouched on the floor and whimpered again. The elf covered her ears while the spirit dog yelped after a gunshot-like blast erupted from the cauldron and gray smoke filled the air.

“Damn it!” the elderly wizard yelled. “This is ridiculous! How many times do I have to…” The old man turned around to reveal his baldheaded, wrinkly face to his new intruders and it became clear to Maria Kevin who this man really was. “What are you doing down here, my child? I haven’t seen that face in such a long time. You’re all grown up.”

“Reverend Dominick…how long have you been dwelling in this basement?” asked a dumbfounded Maria.

“Please, call me Stigma. And as far as your question goes…I’ve been down here for much too long,” sighed the priest as he sat down on a wooden stool holding his head in his hands. “What am I going to do, Miss Kevin? I’ve tried so hard to concoct this spell, but nothing seems to work. I can’t find the answers I’m looking for. I’m just…I’m a wreck, my dear.”

Night Wolf trotted over to Stigma Dominick whining and pouting. “I know, my fluffy friend,” said the priest. “Nothing about this is fair.” He treated the large animal to a scratch behind the ears and a back rub, to which Night Wolf panted and smiled with his tongue hanging out.

“You can’t keep torturing yourself like this, Stigma,” said Maria. “You have to let go eventually. Your father’s death wasn’t your fault and never will be. Time heals all wounds, but time isn’t going to be kind to your father if you go through with this necromancy. You’re already older than he was when the accident occurred.”

“I know, Maria, trust me, I know,” said Stigma as he languidly continued petting Night Wolf. “It’s just that…I never got to say goodbye to him. I never told him I was sorry. In my family, showing feelings was never allowed. I’ve kept it all on the inside for…for…” He couldn’t hold it in any longer. Tears poured from the old man’s eyes while Night Wolf whined and licked his salty face. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

Maria placed a tender hand on Stigma’s shoulder and said, “You don’t need to apologize to me. But if you really wanted to make things up to me, you’ll leave this…lab behind and learn to live your life again.”

Night Wolf rested his head on Stigma’s lap while the necromancer said, “I wish it was that easy, Miss Kevin. But if I leave this church and venture back into the city, they’ll have me locked up in an even more disgusting place than this broken down church. They blame me for everything, Maria, and I tend to agree with them.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” said Maria while stroking the reverend’s shoulders. “You never really bothered to ask their opinions, did you? Do you know for sure that they believe it’s an accident?”

Stigma swatted Maria’s arm away and snapped, “I don’t know, Miss Kevin, do you think I should take a poll? Do you think it’s as easy as waltzing back to the village after all of these years? Time never healed my wounds and it won’t heal theirs either! My father was a trusted leader in our community! People loved him and came to him for help! Who are they going to turn to now that it’s over?! They won’t let bygones by bygones, Maria. They’ll have my head on a silver platter!”

Stigma’s diatribe caused Night Wolf to yelp and back up a few paces before laying down and covering his face with his paws. Maria’s fists balled up and her face contorted into stern anger. “If you really feel guilty about what you’ve supposedly done, then you’ll take whatever punishment comes your way. Running away and trying to bring your dad back from the dead isn’t going to help one bit. For all you know, this spell you’re trying to concoct could bring him back as a zombie abomination. I’m sure that’ll look great in the family album!”

The necromancer grabbed Maria tightly by the shoulders and, with Night Wolf barking in the background, screamed, “And what exactly am I running away from?! Huh?! I’d rather be stuck down here for another twenty years than in some shit hole where the guards talk like they’re the fucking overseer! At least here I can find some closure! If your idea of closure is rotting in a cell with judgmental assholes watching over me, then you can take your morals and go to hell!” Stigma threw Maria to the floor and put minor dents in her guitar. Night Wolf rushed over and licked his master’s face before the necromancer shouted, “Get out! Leave me to my research!”

With one hand in her tear-stained face and the other holding the guitar, Maria stood up and ran up the basement steps with Night Wolf whining and chasing after her. The two of them bolted out of the church before the elf bard tripped on a rock and spent the next few minutes crying on her knees. Night Wolf licked the saltiness from her face while the bard wrapped her arms around her spirit animal. “This isn’t over, Stigma. ...This isn’t over by a long shot!” she shouted.

She gazed angrily into Night Wolf’s eyes and whispered, “Get him, boy. Sick ‘em!” The dog barked fiercely and stormed back into the church while Maria stood up and waited outside. She wiped the tears from her eyes while listening to Night Wolf snarl and chew at human flesh.

“Ouch! What the hell are you doing, you stupid dog?! Leave me alone! Stop it!” shouted Stigma from inside the church. Maria yanked the strings from her guitar and waited with her arms folded. Sure enough, Stigma came running and yelping outside with Night Wolf hot on his tail. His robes were ripped and his skin was pierced, but he was otherwise okay.

Maria caught Stigma in a headlock and wrestled him to the ground before switching behind and tying the necromancer’s hands with the busted guitar strings. “Shut up!” she snapped. The harsh tone immediately put an end to Stigma’s whining and yelping. “You’re coming with me to the village whether you want to or not! Enough of this guilty garbage! Instead of saying sorry to your dear old daddy, you’re going to say it to people who won’t end up like fucking zombies! Come on, on your feet!”

The elf bard headlocked Stigma once again and dragged him to his feet before hauling him off to the village. The necromancer pleaded and protested, but Night Wolf nipped his heels every time the whining got too intense. Maria also squeezed harder.

The trek to the village wasn’t long enough to warrant exhaustion from anybody in this group of three, although when Maria released the headlock and cut the guitar strings, Stigma clutched his chest and panted due to how hard the elf squeezed. His eyes bulged out of their sockets when he realized where he was. This forest village was complete with stone houses, tree houses, and many, many elven warriors. The fruit was more abundant than Stigma remembered it. The vegetables looked delicious enough to garner a drooling response. Would it be the last time he was privileged to eat such beautiful food?

It seemed to be that way when a group of leather-armored elves carrying poleaxes approached him with stern looks on their faces. The warriors, Maria, and Night Wolf all circled him with greedy, judgmental eyes. The captain of this squadron said in a flat tone, “How could you, Reverend? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Stigma Dominick huddled into himself and shook with nervousness. “I’m sorry…I really am…”

“You should be sorry,” said the elf captain. “You should be sorry for torturing yourself for so long.” Stigma lifted his head with a surprised look on his face. “We’ve missed you, dear friend. I’m sure you’ve missed being in the sunlight. Look at you, you’re a mess! We don’t blame you for what happened to your father. We blame you for abandoning us in our time of need. But now you’re safe with us again, necromancer.”

Stigma’s eyes were drowning in tears once again as the circle of elves closed in on him and gave him a much-needed group hug. Night Wolf pawed at his leg and howled at the full moon. Maria Kevin stroked Stigma’s bald scalp and said, “You’re great at giving sermons, but you’re terrible at listening.”

“I’m sorry, Maria. I’m sorry for everything…”

The Geomancer

Getting away from the madness of city life was exactly what Ally Bennett needed when she went on this hiking trip. Not a single soul dared to venture up these mountains and that was just the way Miss Bennett liked it. She was dressed for the boiling hot weather with her hiking boots, tan shorts, and tight camouflage T-shirt. Sweat poured off her brow, arms, and legs like a fire hydrant, but she didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck in a rolling donut. Her long brunette hair felt sticky, but that was yet another small price for the sake of introverted physical fitness. She lived for the beauty of Mother Nature no matter what the weather was like.

Just when she thought she was alone at the top of the mountain, she saw something that made her drop her hiking staff to the rocky ground. “What the hell?” she silently said to herself as she noticed a man dressed in green and blue wizard robes chanting in tongues while holding out his hands in a Jesus Christ pose. Ally’s first thought was to run back down the mountain screaming like hell. But this mysterious being was just like a car crash: she couldn’t look away no matter how much she wanted to.

The mystical chant ended when the blue haired being turned his head and gave Ally a look of venomous scorn. “You have no business up here, woman. Turn around and leave if you value your life!”

“First of all, dumb shit,” said Ally with her hands on her hips. “This is a national fucking park. Everybody’s welcome here no matter how weird they look in those god awful clothes of yours. Second of all, my name is not woman. It’s Ally. Ally Bennett.”

“Bryan Valencia,” said the wizard. “Nice to meet you, Miss Bennett. Now that the sappy introductions are over, I suggest you get going before shit starts going down!”

“Okay, Mr. Wizard Guy, that sounded a little bit like a threat, so I’m just going to pull out my cell phone and dial 9-1-1…what the hell are you doing?!” Ally never got the chance to press the buttons on her smart phone as she was stunned by Bryan’s geomantic powers. With wide-eyed horror, she watched him raise his palm in the air and levitate a large rock off the ground. The floating rock was hurled into Ally’s cell phone, shattering the gizmo into tiny fragments while giving Ally a red mark on her hand and a reason to scream “Ow! Jesus!”

As the hiker shook out the pain in her palm, Bryan smiled at her and said, “Do I have your attention now? Would you like another demonstration of how badly I can crush you? That rock trick was just child’s play compared to the damage I’m capable of.”

Clutching her hand to sooth the pain, Ally asked, “Who the hell are you, anyways? I know you said your name was Bryan and all that, but what the fuck, man? You’re lifting rocks off the ground, you’re dressed like you’re going to a nerd convention, you’ve got blue fucking hair, I don’t know what to believe anymore!”

“All of those things you so ignorantly described are the traits of a geomancer,” said Bryan.

“Geo what?”

“Geomancer. I control the elements of the earth. If I want an earthquake, I’ll give you one. If I want a mudslide, you’ve got it. But then I figured, why stop there? Earthquakes and mudslides are tinker toys. To really get in touch with Mother Nature, I have to be right here at the top of this mountain. A mountain, which by the way, was at one point an active volcano. You ever wonder why nobody comes up here? Well, let’s just say they’re not fast enough to run away from the lava, like the idiot brain surgeon politician once said. I swear to god, the ignorance of your people is mind-boggling,” ranted Bryan.

“So this is it, huh?” said Ally in a stern voice. “You’re going to blow up this damn volcano just to show everyone who’s boss. You’re such a noble guy.”

With his fists at his side, Bryan roared, “What do you know about nobility?!” The sudden crescendo caused Ally to bounce backward in fear. “Why do you think people go on hiking trips to begin with? To get away from it all. Well, I’m not getting away from anything. I’m confronting the sins of this world dead on. Don’t you ever get sick of the world sometimes? All the violence, all the rape, all the bigotry, all the zeal. The poor are disenfranchised while those in charge get a slap on the wrist. Women are treated as sex objects while men laugh at their misery. Dropping bombs has become the new diplomacy. Well, if it’s bombs you want, I’ll drop the biggest one mankind has ever seen! My decades of geomantic studies have come down to this! And there’s nothing you can do about it!”

“Actually, there is something I can do about it,” said Ally with her arms folded and a death stare on her face.

“And what would that be?” asked Bryan mockingly. “I already shattered your cell phone, so the cops aren’t even close to coming. As far as I know, you don’t have geomantic powers of your own, so striking you down with a thousand stones would be the easiest part of my day. So what other options do you have? What could you possibly do that will stop me from exacting revenge on this world?”

“Call you out on your bullshit, that’s what,” said Ally. Bryan’s facial features and fierce stance softened at the hiker’s stubbornness. “Being against all of those violent things that you’ve listed is noble in its own right. You’d be crazy not to be. It’s like being in favor of kittens and rainbows. Up with puppies! But what good is being against the sins of the world if you’re committing one right now? You’re not a hero to anybody. You’re a hypocrite! Your volcanic blast will take out all of those rich assholes and male chauvinists you hate so much, but it’ll also take out those sexualized women and innocent children that you claim to have a soft spot for. By blowing this volcano, you’ll be no different from the politicians who drop bombs on helpless civilians overseas. Is that the mark you want to leave on this world? Do you want to be a hypocrite?!”

Bryan tucked his head in shame as if those words stung him like a scorpion’s tail. He spent lengthy seconds in what appeared to be silent and deep contemplation. He lifted his head once more, but this time with the same hardened expression as when he started his spell. “You’re so full of shit! How dare you question my tactics! You really think the innocents want to live in a world run by these rich lunatics? Consider this a mercy killing, my friend!”

Something inside Ally Bennett snapped. She grabbed her walking cane and held it like a samurai warrior ready to strike. Her muscles twitched. Her eyes were wild with fiery anger. Her teeth were clenched hard enough to chew through steel. Every word she spoke was full of vitriol and hatred. “If you’re not going to listen to reason, then I’m going to make you! You’re not going to do shit to this world! If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting! This world is worth saving and you’re not going to do shit about it!”

Bryan raised his hands and levitated an entire wall of rocks off the ground, but Ally remained strong and defiant in the face of this new challenge. The geomancer threatened, “You just made the biggest mistake of your life, you crazy bitch! Prepare to die!”

The wizard rained down a storm of rocks upon Ally, hoping to crush her bones into the same fineness as the dirt below. Even with sharp stones piercing her skin, the undeterred hiker swung her cane like a baseball bat and knocked a few of them into Bryan’s throat. While Ally was buried and bloodied underneath a pile of rocks, Bryan Valencia clutched his windpipe while gasping for air. He danced around in pain trying to get his oxygen back, but made a critical mistake when he fell off the ledge of the mountain and rolled down the hill.

The geomancer bumped into many large stones, trees, and sharp grass blades during his barrel roll down the side of the mountain. His spine crunched in two, his arms and legs were shattered beyond repair, and his head exploded with his brains scattered across the landscape. By the time he reached the bottom, he was already a necromantic supper for a family of bears, who feasted on his carcass like the wild animals they were. Nothing was left of Bryan Valencia except for bones and tiny chunks of meat and shit.

Back at the top of the mountain, Ally Bennett stayed buried beneath the rocks like it was going to be her grave. She hadn’t moved for the longest time and her bloody limbs squeezed fresh juice to trickle down the mountain. After what seemed like ages, her fingers twitched and her dirt-covered eyes barely opened.

At that moment she knew she couldn’t run away from the world’s problems like she intended to do in this hike. She was a hero that day for what she did to Bryan Valencia. Her work was far from over. If she was going to join the resistance against oppressive values, she couldn’t do it through volcanoes, earthquakes, or any other form of terrorism. It’s like a famous first lady once said: “When they go low, you go high.” It didn’t get any higher than the top of a volcanic mountain. It didn’t get any lower than being a human buffet table for a family of brown bears.