Unused Dialogue

***UNUSED DIALOGUE***

Whether these pieces of dialogue are based in reality, dreams, or random thoughts, they somehow found a place in my mind, but not in my work. They may never be used for anything. The may be pieces of dialogue in a song. They may be used as prompt suggestions. I have no idea what the future holds for these pieces of dialogue, so I’m going to share them with you all to see if they have any true potential for anything bigger than random thoughts. Starting with…

TEENAGE GIRL: (Sobbing)

COP: What’s wrong? Are you okay? Why aren’t you in school?

TEENAGE GIRL: The teacher told me I’m too stupid to go to school…(more sobbing)

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

CROWD: (Erupts into obnoxious laughter.)

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

CROWD: (Continues laughing.)

LITTLE BOY: (sniff, sniff)…Why?

DETECTIVE: State your name for the record.

ME: Garrison Edward Ethan Kelly.

DETECTIVE: G.E.E.K.? Okay, um. I want you to tell me again how you knew those Denny’s cooks were aliens from another planet.

ME: Because they kept making offensive remarks about Europeans.

CASHIER: Hello.

ME: Hi.

CASHIER: Is that a work uniform?

ME: No, it’s just a regular polo shirt.

CASHIER: Oh. Where do you work?

ME: I don’t work anywhere. I’m unemployed.

CASHIER: Um…okay…uh…Are you self-employed?

ME: No, I’m unemployed.

CASHIER: Oh. Okay.

TARJA TURUNEN: You’re being awfully quiet tonight.

ME: I, uh…I get tongue-tied around beautiful women, that’s all.

TARJA TURUNEN: (Giggles) That’s just adorable!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? No, drawings, no less. Drawings, everyone!

STUDENTS: (Burst into laughter.)

SCOTTISH TEACHER: The laddie reckons himself an artist!

STUDENTS: (More laughter.)

SCOTTISH TEACHER: (Showing off the drawings.) And here we see Eddy from Ed, Edd, n’ Eddy performing oral sex on Kevin.

STUDENTS: Eww!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: While Kevin is standing on top of a coffin!

STUDENTS: Eww!

ONE STUDENT: Holy shit!

STUDENTS: (Laughing.)

SCOTTISH TEACHER: (Mouthing) Watch your language!

STUDENT: Sorry.

SCOTTISH TEACHER: (Showing off more drawings.) And here we see Bambi with a rope around his neck, a ball gag in his mouth, and a dildo in his arse!

STUDENTS: Eww!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: And the dildo has the words written on it, “Deer spear”.

STUDENTS: Eww!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: That is NOT how sex works! (Slaps artist’s hand with a pencil.) Pervert!

MISS SCHNEIDER: So, does anybody here have an example of what a community is? How about you, Garrison?

ME: Uh…shopping carts?

STUDENTS: (Laughter.)

ME: Shut up! (Pounds one of the laughing students over the head with a text book.)

MATT MCNAMARA: I just watched The Faces of Death. (Sick smile.)

SEAN MCNAMARA: What do you watch that shit for?!

MATT MCNAMARA: Because it’s cool!

CHRISTIAN TROY: Because he’s a serial killer in training.

MISS GRADY: Garrison, do we allow gum in Chehalis Middle School?

ME: No, we don’t.

MISS GRADY: And why is gum not allowed in our school?

ME: Um…I don’t know.

STUDENTS: (Laughing.)

ME: I don’t want to say anything! Call on somebody else!

MISS GRADY: Anybody else want to give it a shot?

Anybody want to take a guess as to which categories these pieces of dialogue fall under (fact or fiction)? I suppose it doesn’t matter, because this blog entry is as far as they’ll get…maybe…I don’t know…I’ve tried using dreams as creative fuel before and it ended disastrously. Maybe these dialogue snippets will be part of a larger song, kind of like how “Song of Myself” by Nightwish had a whole bunch of dialogue near the end; although, Tuomas Holopainen has me beaten in the songwriting department by a country mile. Speaking of Nightwish, I wonder what Marcelo Cabuli will think of me calling his wife “beautiful”. What about Lacey Sturm’s husband finding out a little boy had designs of marrying her? Anyways, we’ve got ears, say cheers!

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

Yesterday was a fine day for PTT2 action as I’ve penned a short story called “Where’s My Damn Money?” Now it’s onto the next one, as Jay-Z once said. This new story will be called “Robo Heck” (a lame ass play on words for Robotech, and yes, I’m trying to think of a new title for it, so back off). Here’s the synopsis for it:

CHARACTERS:

1. David Masters V, Human Mech Pilot
2. Amalia Strom, Amazonian Viking

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: David crash lands his giant robot on a tropical island and spends most of the day trying to fix it so he can get back to his military base. Amalia, the giantess who owns the island, wants to crush David underneath her foot and “make the world a better place for women”. In her words, men are responsible for creating war and David is part of the problem since he pilots a gigantic weapon for a living. With his mech only partially fixed, David has to fight off the Amazonian with what he managed to repair. He would also be better served to try and reason with his attacker before she completely obliterates him.

EXTRA NOTE: Remember what Bastian said in The Never Ending Story: “It’s just a story! It’s not real! It’s a fucking story!” Well, he didn’t drop an F-bomb, but the sentiment is the same: don’t make too much out of that synopsis.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Chetty Claymore, the debt-collecting elven necromancer from “Where’s My Damn Money?”, is next on deck for this series. Yes, folks: it’s yet another guy wearing a monk’s robe. Deal with it. What else is a necromancer like him supposed to wear: flip-flops and Daisy Dukes?

***STUCK RUBBER BABY***

With Paper Towns in the rear view mirror, I’ve been reading a new book these past few days: “Stuck Rubber Baby” by Howard Cruse. Because it’s a graphic novel and easy on the eyes, I plan on finishing it sooner than later and then giving a glowing review of it. I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to give it an extra credit grade or a passing one. It’s about being a gay man in the bible belt during the civil rights era, so naturally the main character has a huge struggle ahead of him. I highly recommend it both as an eye-opener and as a compelling story.

***MOVIE QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“The video arcade is just up the street. Here, we sell small rectangular objects. They’re called books. They require a little effort on your part and make no bee-bee-bee-bee-beeps. On your way, please.”

-Mr. Correander (the grumpy book salesman) from “The Never Ending Story”-

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!”

"Paper Towns" by John Green

BOOK TITLE: Paper Towns

AUTHOR: John Green

YEAR: 2008

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Young Adult Mystery

GRADE: Extra Credit

Straight-laced high school senior Quentin Jacobsen has had a crush on the free-spirited and mysterious Margo Roth Spiegelman since he was a little boy. He loves her so much that he agrees to go with her on a late-night revenge prank spree against everybody in Orlando, Florida who has ever wronged her from backstabbing best friends to promiscuous ex-boyfriends. The very next day, Margo goes missing and leaves behind a trail of clues for Quentin and his friends, Ben and Radar, to track down. Everyone seems intent on giving up on Margo and getting on with their own lives, except for Quentin, who is determined to find her even if it means missing out on his most important life moments.

While I won’t divulge what the ending result of this story is, I will say that it hit me harder than a flying brick to the skull. It was painful to where it almost made me cry, but it was a necessary pain that conveyed the message of the story all too well. It shows how dangerous putting people high on a pedestal can be, especially when those “idols” fail to live up to your expectations. Lord knows I’ve had a lot of crushes in my lifetime and still have some today. I keep thinking these women are angels sent from the heavens to steal my heart away and make me eternally happy. And that’s why they say, “Never meet your idols, because they will disappoint you.” I spent the entire reading of this book thinking the best was going to happen and then I get a much-needed slap in the face. Thanks for that, John Green.

I also admire Mr. Green’s ability to incorporate preexisting pieces of literature into the clues of his mystery. The bulk of these clues rely heavily on a Walt Whitman poem called Song of Myself. The themes of death, rebirth, and burial create a deep sense of fear within Quentin that Margo might be dead. But then there’s another piece of literature that fits in perfectly as well: Moby Dick. Captain Ahab becomes so obsessed with finding this whale that it nearly kills him. It reminds me of The Shawshank Redemption where Andy Dufresne expands the prison library and one of the books is The Count of Monte Cristo, a novel about breaking out of prison and getting revenge on those who locked him up. It’s a fascinating literary technique that has stood the test of time. After all, the classics never go out of style, right?

And then we have the theme of paper towns, phantom settlements with fake names that have no business being on official maps. After Margo takes Quentin with her on the revenge spree, she talks about Orlando being a paper town due to the lack of real people with real emotional substance. In other words, the citizens are too concerned with shallow values such as getting laid, buying things, and being better than everyone else. I’d want to go missing from a place like that if I could. Come to think of it, I did live in a “paper town” as Margo describes it. It was called Chehalis, Washington and it’s the town where I considered suicide for the first time in my life. It too was filled with people who walked around like zombies and stabbed each other in the backs. I left that place in 2001 and only came back in short bursts. One can’t help but think Margo has a good point, which is why it’s easy to fall in love with her even from many miles away.

Paper Towns is a book that transcends the young adult genre and is accessible to any age group. Lord knows there are older adults that will feel a sense of jaded nostalgia when they read about the activities going on in this novel. To those people, I say be thankful that you can leave your past behind and look forward to a better day. Be grateful for your newfound maturity so that you don’t make the same mistakes that Quentin Jacobsen makes in this novel. An extra credit grade goes to John Green for giving me the slap in the face that woke me up from the matrix.

STEAM

***STEAM***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHARACTERS:

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

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

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

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

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

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

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

Lionize

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Lionize Entertainment’s fiftieth anniversary of the Lion Cup Tournament! My name is Andrea Lovell and I am the CEO of Lionize Entertainment! We’re going to have a fucking fun night of blood and death tonight!”

Hearing his boss echo those words throughout a coliseum full of roaring fans made Dargoth Destroyer sick to his stomach and set his aching brain on fire. The barbarian warrior firmly believed Andrea only had her job because she looked like a million bucks in a short skirt and high heels. She was easy to fantasize about, but hard to love.

Dargoth was too busy loving his own wife and kids back home. He loved them so much that he would rip the limbs off of any opponent who dared stand in the way of a paycheck and beat them to death like little bitches. With his wrecking ball muscles and volcanic temper, he could do just that to pretty much anybody.

Then again, so could Dargoth’s opponent for the evening, Zeal Cottonwood. The rotten-smelling, blue skinned zombie towered over the barbarian with a skyscraper height and muscles that might as well be registered as deadly weapons (even the small and insignificant ones). Zeal stared down into Dargoth’s eyes with neon-colored madness and smiled with rusty-nail teeth.

The barbarian, having already had visions of blood and brutality locked forever in his brain, refused to give even an inch of trembling to this undead beast with greasy long hair. The two opponents were so laser-focused into each other’s menacing eyeballs that they tuned out the crowd and Andrea Lovell’s nails-on-a-chalkboard voice completely.

It wasn’t until Miss Lovell, who sat at her golden throne in a skybox above the coliseum, snapped into the microphone, “HEY!” that the two combatants gave her their undying attention with wicked glares. “Are you two ready to put on a hell of a show for these rowdy animals?! Give ‘em hell!” Rowdy animals became the understatement of the year when the beer-drinking, T-shirt and jeans wearing crowd’s cheers bored into the combatants’ eardrums like a power drill. Even Zeal Cottonwood couldn’t help but grunt lightly at the sudden explosion of volume.

“Ready to get your ass whipped, little buddy?” growled Zeal in a monstrous tone. He leaned his sour milk-fragranced face in closer and whispered, “Between you and me, I wouldn’t worry too much about that wife of yours. I hear she’s banging the shit out of a hotter version of you. That lucrative contract of yours is going up her nose and in her G-spots!”

Zeal’s demonic cackle prompted the angrily trembling Dargoth to head butt his opponent in the nose. Both men clutched their noggins in pain and groaned minimally, but Dargoth was the only one between the two who staggered after such a brutal move. Zeal chuckled, “Is that all you got, little man? No wonder your wife’s sleeping around. That spaghetti dick of yours couldn’t satisfy a bitch like her anyways!”

Dargoth’s fiery adrenaline was smothered in kerosene, causing the hefty barbarian to spear tackle Zeal’s gut so hard that the seven-foot zombie flipped in the air like a pancake and flattened to the ground like one too. The barbarian’s muscles tightened as tough as steel with every brick-like punch he threw at the zombie’s already decrepit face. Teeth flew everywhere, pimples popped like grenades, blood splattered across the dirt floor, but through it all, Zeal never lost his smile and Dargoth’s hands reddened with electrified pain.

Zeal Cottonwood pushed Dargoth Destroyer in the air with his booted feet and nipped up in time to catch the smaller warrior in a military press. The audience “oooed” and “ahhed” like a herd of sheep while Zeal did strength training repetitions with Dargoth’s 300 lb. body. The barbarian tried to rake and punch at his opponent’s eyes, but the zombie wouldn’t relent. He tossed the smaller opponent across the dirt arena and caused him to bounce up and down along the way, forming bruises the size and disgustingness of rotten tomatoes.

Everything in Dargoth’s body felt as though he had been stepped on by Godzilla and rubbed across the asphalt. Yet the mental images of his beautiful wife and his two sweethearted daughters sent a rush of hot lava through his veins. This kind of money would keep them fed forever.

It would give the daughters an education they wouldn’t have dreamed of having in the ghetto neighborhood. It would give his wife a life of happiness and stability. If he didn’t get up and fight at this very moment, they would think of him as a failure and they’d most likely die from hunger in such a downtrodden economy. It was such a distasteful way to make money, but in Dargoth’s mind, there was no such thing as too much hard work.

By the time the barbarian heaved his clumsy ass off the ground, he peered up through bloodshot, dirt-covered eyes to find Zeal had a live chainsaw roaring to life in his hands. There were weapons scattered everywhere on the bloodstained ground from staves to swords to axes. Dargoth picked up an axe in his sore hands and then in a surprise move broke it over his knee to send a message: “Weapons are for pussies! If you want to fight like a pussy, I’ll treat you like one, Zeal! Come on, bitch!”

The gargantuan zombie rushed towards Dargoth swinging his power tool like a deranged samurai while Dargoth egged him on with a “come at me” hand gesture. The chainsaw blazed and buzzed all around the barbarian while the muscly warrior dodged and cartwheeled to safety despite losing a lock of his own sweaty hair.

Dargoth saw his opening when he ducked a decapitation attempt and went for a hard uppercut to the jaw. Zeal staggered backwards in dizziness and dropped his weapon. The barbarian continued to pummel his opponent with hard-hitting, rapid fire strikes that connected with thuds, cracks, and explosions. The primitive warrior tucked his head underneath Zeal’s crotch and hoisted the hefty warrior on his shoulders before slamming him down on his back with a shotgun blast thud. Even more cracks and bursts echoed throughout the arena as did the obnoxious cheers of both the audience and Andrea Lovell, who sat at her throne mockingly clapping for her independent contractor. “Finish him, Dargoth! Finish him now, you sick son of a bitch!”

The barbarian stared at the scantily clad, leggy CEO with cyanide in his eyes and iron in his gritted teeth. Winning the Lion Cup Tournament would guarantee him all the money he wanted for his family, but he would still be locked in a contract that put him in danger with every match. His body ached twenty-four-seven. He threw up his meals nightly. If he got the chance to go home at all, he would look like a monster to his family and scare them off. Maybe Zeal’s harsh rumors of infidelity would be completely justifiable at that point (if they were true). Surely, there had to be other ways of making lucrative money with his skills. Maybe there was…

Dargoth’s iron will wouldn’t be broken. One more death to go. Just one more. His target was in plain sight. The Lion Cup and everything that came with it would be his forever. He glanced at the live chainsaw and heaved the heavy machinery over his head with the intent to rip and shred. The audience roared and bellowed for Zeal’s bloody and disgusting death. He was just laying there ready to be dissected. Dargoth smiled a sadistic smile and approached Zeal with slow movements while the zombie rolled around and groaned in horrific pain. And then…the barbarian tossed the chainsaw like a boomerang.

But instead of grinding zombie meat, he chucked the whirring blade at Andrea Lovell so many feet in the air. The CEO gasped in horror before tucking and rolling out of the blade’s path. The audience gasped as well at the sight of the chainsaw embedded in the golden throne still buzzing.

After straightening her hair and fixing her skirt, Andrea stood back up with a queen’s posture and glared with hellish hatred at the menacing barbarian. She picked up the microphone and sneered, “So that’s how you plan on getting out of your contract, huh? By killing me?” Dargoth nodded and the audience booed him with plenty of bass in their voices.

The CEO scolded, “It’s a good thing your children are being well-educated with all of this money, because their daddy is the biggest dumb shit to step in my coliseum! Sure, you can kill me and rob me of the rest of your earnings, but you won’t be solving a damn thing, my friend. Ever heard the phrase power vacuum? Without me, all of your worst enemies will be gunning for my position. If you thought fighting to the death for my entertainment was bad, try fighting for the power I wield on a day-to-day basis. You already know what ISIS looks like. Try and picture the Lionize Entertainment version of ISIS! My corporation will last until the end of time, but your misery will be forever, just like your contract! You didn’t think this one through very well, did you?!”

Dargoth clenched his fists so tightly that his bloody fingernails dug into his palms and he didn’t give a shit about the pain. He didn’t want to admit it, but she was right: cutting off the head of the snake would create a hydra, not a corpse. A contractual slave like him couldn’t even dream of the power it took to run a whole corporation. What havoc had he brought upon himself? What danger did he put his beloved family in?

As he contemplated the consequences of his “easy way out”, Dargoth felt a tight presence squeeze around his torso until his body was pencil thin. His head turned purple, his veins grew to the size of tunnels, and his ribs were cracking like Rice Crispies. He peeked up and saw that Zeal Cottonwood was the one squeezing like a motherfucker, much to Andrea’s laughing delight. She even chimed in, “Squeeze harder! Pop him like a pimple! Make him suffer!”

Listening to that wasp-like voice sent Dargoth into rampage mode when he stomped on Zeal’s foot with the force of a jackhammer and head butted him in the jaw. The barbarian staggered around in dizziness and rasped for oxygen, but the zombie had released his grip and stumbled backwards himself.

As soon as Dargoth’s lungs no longer felt like he swallowed a battleaxe, Zeal went for an overhead strike. Dargoth ducked underneath and transitioned behind the zombie with an arm choke. The barbarian squeezed with enough force to pop more pimples and blood vessels on Zeal’s face. He even loosened a few rotten teeth. But the minute the zombie’s eyeballs popped out of his head, his brains leaked onto the floor and he was limp as Dargoth’s “spaghetti dick”.

As soon as Zeal plopped over dead, Dargoth Destroyer raised his fists to the sky to declare victory. The audience roared like jungle cats in approval and high fived each other while chanting Dargoth’s name. Even Andrea gave him a little golf clap while saying into the microphone, “I hope your wife is watching!”

Indeed she was watching. From the comfort of her soft, silky-sheeted bed, Mrs. Destroyer watched the violence with a satisfied, teary-eyed smile on her face. “Thank you so much, my dear! Thank you!” The other man who was grateful unwrapped the towel from his muscular waist and climbed into bed with her with a silver tray of cocaine in his hands. The wife smiled lovingly at her paramour before rolling up a dollar bill and snorting sweet candy right up her slender nose. The paramour snorted some too before the lovers got it on underneath the sheets.

Little did they know that from the crack of their bedroom door, two teary-eyed girls watched the whole thing. The daughters hugged each other tightly and smeared their salty eye fluids across their Winnie the Pooh pajama sleeves. “I miss daddy,” one of them whispered to the other while a night of hot cocaine-laced sex was unfolding before them.

My Feelings

***MY FEELINGS***

I got to see Jason Mewes (Jay from the View Askewniverse) perform a hilarious Q&A session the other night in Tacoma. Lots of sex jokes. Lots and lots of sex jokes. So many sex jokes that I laughed like a James Bond villain because of them (much to Jason’s delight). As much fun as I had that night and as awesome as it was to meet Jason Mewes and take pictures with him, that’s not what this journal is about (though yes, my brother and I had a great time that night).

During the car ride home, my brother James asked me a very profound question that I blew off as being asinine: “What goes through your head when you have a certain experience?” He elaborated by saying that I respond to even the most amazing things in life by saying, “It was fine” in a monotone voice. Part of his comedic rant was that I could be at the bottom of the Himalayas or having sex with a younger version of Cameron Diaz (or doing both at the same time), and all I would have to say is, “It was fine.” James then talked about the time he worked hard cooking a salmon steak with the right amount of herbs, spices, and sauces and all I said once I was done eating it was, “It was fine.”

There are many reasons why I don’t talk about my true feelings. One reason could be that it’s a male thing and since I have a penis and two testicles, I fall under that category. The other reason is that talking about my feelings leaves me exposed to whoever I’m talking to. Sure, I could just give James the proper critique for something as simple as a salmon steak, but even that moment of positivity could open the door for him or other people to ask about the darker parts of my emotions.

Talking about the darker side of my emotions isn’t easy for me because, as a schizophrenic, I have to relive those moments again and feel like shit afterwards. Living with my mom’s ex-boyfriend Art, getting bullied in high school, and being lonely at Western Washington University are all off-limits topics for me. The less I talk about dark emotions, the better I will feel mentally.

For the sake of this journal, I will talk about an emotional experience I had that was more than just “fine” or “whatever”. Consider this your one and only invite into my mind. If you see me in real life and you want to talk about it some more, forget it. Not happening. Even now, I have butterflies in my tummy, and this is just writing about it.

In 2016, I went to see Slipknot in concert for the second time in my life. One of my favorite songs that they played that evening was “Killpop”. If you Google the lyrics, you’ll see that they contain themes of psychotic love and sexual frustration (even though the song is about something completely different).

I loved this song so much that I sang along with it in my loudest, most passionate voice possible. In that moment, I could forget all about being a sexual has-been and a 30-something virgin. In my senior year of high school, I looked like a goddamn stud muffin with my leather jacket, sunglasses, thin body, and badass haircut. I had women flirting with me from all angles and even had cyber sex (yes, I know it’s just masturbating to a computer screen, but it was still enjoyable, so shut up). And then I had schizophrenia. The disease itself made me act crazy and the medication made me gain over a hundred pounds. Goodbye sexy Garrison, hello Uncle Creepy.

It seems shallow-minded to have that be a source of pain for me, especially since people are willing to give you the worldwide disaster argument over and over again (“people in Africa have it worse than you do, there are hurricanes everywhere, blah, blah, blah”). I’ve had a taste of love and I want it again, but I’m also aware that this 300 lb. body isn’t fit for such things. Therefore, when I sang “Killpop” in my most passionate voice, I could forget all of that and give a metaphorical middle finger to anybody who doubts my likeability. Ironically, when the song was over, a sexy lady in a dress and a cowgirl hat kissed the back of my hand in approval. I never got that girl’s phone number or email address, but it was probably for the best.

There you go, folks. That’s my emotional experience. Now I’m locking the doors in my mind and you’re never getting back in. If you want to know how I’m doing today, I’m doing just “fine”. Today was actually a good day for me. The past four days have been exhausting because I was angry about mopping up my dog Maggie’s shit and piss. Today I didn’t burst into a hodgepodge of swear words and I was able to use that energy to write a short story called “Witch Hunt”, read 30 pages of “Paper Towns”, and draw a picture of Fatima Ruiz (a gangster from another short story called “How Could You?”). Imagine that: fiery anger can be tiring as hell! We’ve got ears, say cheers!

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

As I just told you, Witch Hunt is in the books, so now it’s time for another short story. This is another old one called “Lionize” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1.      Dargoth Destroyer, Human Barbarian

2.      Zeal Cottonwood, Zombie Giant

3.      Andrea Lovell, CEO of Lionize Corporation

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: Andrea’s corporation specializes in deadly arena combat as public entertainment. Dargoth and Zeal are in her latest pay-per-view main event after both of them went undefeated for such a long time. All combatants who work for Andrea are locked in an ironclad contract with promises of a high payday and threats of a lawsuit if they’re in violation. Dargoth, who desperately wants to get out of his contract, attempts to assassinate Miss Lovell during his match with Zeal.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

And now that we’re on the topic of Lionize, my next Dark Fantasy Warrior will actually be a fantasy-themed fighter! Imagine that! He’s Dargoth Destroyer and he’s, you guessed it, another beefy barbarian! He won’t be a Gary-Stu, though. Maybe. I’m not sure yet.

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

REINA: What did you do productively today?

ME: Stuff.

REINA: What kind of stuff?

ME: Just stuff.

REINA: Garrison! That’s not a real answer!

ME: (Whiny groan.)

Witch Hunt

Sonya Jade allowed the calming effect of stirring pie-filling to wash over her like warm beach water. There she was sitting cross-legged with her chin propped up on her fist and her eyes closed while she hummed a gentle tune. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was about baking pies that made her so relaxed. Maybe it was a hobby. Maybe it was a future career choice. Maybe it was an escape from the daily grind of religious school. Whatever it was, she licked her lips in anticipation of the resulting gooey strawberry pie. The tart flavor, the moist texture, the crunchy crust, they would all come together to create a symphony of heaven on her tongue. The thought of it made her mouth water so much that she wiped some spittle from the corner of her lips.

Her baking-induced hypnosis was rudely interrupted by a rapid-fire knock on her cottage door. Sonya gasped heavy and scrambled to move the pie filling away from the heat. She dumped a tiny portion of it on the straw floor and stifled a storm of curse words when a tiny droplet burned her toe. She ruffled her baker’s dress and straightened her long purple hair as the knocking grew intense. “I’m coming!” she yelled impatiently while power walking to the door.

She messed with her hair one last time before opening the door and nearly getting bowled over by her best friend Devon Cross. Her own black dress and messy black hair suggested she had been in a struggle of some kind, not to mention her erratic pacing and nervous shaking. Devon grabbed Sonya’s arms and begged her, “Please! You’ve got to help me! They’re after me! They think I’m a witch!”

Sonya cupped her hands over Devon’s face and said, “Settle down. Who’s after you?”

“The Order of Light! They’re going to burn me alive! Hide me somewhere!” Devon shouted frantically, to which Sonya shushed her and motioned her to hide under her straw bed.

There was another knock on Sonya’s door and this time it sounded like boxing punches. “Open the door, harlot!” a male voice shouted. “We know you’re in there! God has no place for you in this world! Come out here so we can send you straight to hell with the rest of the demons!” The knocking grew so violent that splinters breezed off the cottage door. Sonya once again scrambled to fix her dress and hair before frantically answering the door.

At her doorstep stood a small, white-robed militia carrying poleaxes and torches, their leader as hefty as a pumpkin and scraggly as a yeti. “Where is she?” asked the leader in a gruff and furious voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, good sir,” said Sonya with a modicum of innocence as she leaned against her doorway.

“Don’t lie to me, young lady. Lying is a sin. We know you’re harboring a witch in that cottage of yours and if you don’t surrender her to us, we’ll have you crucified as well!”

“There’s nobody here but me, sir,” said Sonya. “I’m just baking pies and getting ready for a wonderful meal.”

“Baking pies, huh?” asked the lead witch hunter, who sniffed the air with his piggish snout and gagged with his tongue hanging out. “Smells like ogre dung if you ask me! Your husband should be ashamed of such perverse cooking methods!” The chubby man peeked down at her fingers and noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding band of any kind. “You don’t have a husband, do you?”

“Unfortunately, no, sir, I don’t. It’s just me here,” said Sonya with a sullen expression.

“Well then,” said the leader as he smacked his horse lips. “We’ll see if that pie of yours is any good after all.”

“I thought you said it smelled like ogre shi, I mean, ogre dung,” said Sonya while sheepishly covering her mouth after that accidental swear words.

“I wasn’t talking about that abomination you were baking,” said the witch hunter while gazing down at Sonya’s crotch with drooling lips and wild eyes. The single lady slowly backed away, but the witch hunters swarmed on her, grabbing her arms and legs while she struggled and yelled to be let go. “Come on, everyone! Who wants to get married to this fine young piece of ass?!”

The cheers of the witch hunters sent shivers down Sonya’s spine and numbness throughout her brain while she was being pinned to the floor by these heavy men. She had experienced sexism all the time at her religious school, but never once had this many men tried to gang up on her at once. The brushing of their skin against hers, the whips of their tongues, and their ale-stench breath made her want to vomit inside out.

Sonya’s dress was flipped over her head and her crotch was exposed to these piggish beasts who dared hide behind religion to justify their actions. Any minute now, she would feel a disgusting piece of meat driven into her repeatedly again and again. And then…the witch hunters backed off toward the doorway.

After catching her breath and flipping her dress back down, Sonya gazed with weary eyes at the floating pot of pie filling, which glided across the air and toward the jittery witch hunters. The still piping hot filling bubbled and shot in the air like a geyser before splashing down on each of the witch hunters’ faces. They screamed like little girls and scrambled around clutching their burned flesh.

Sonya took this opportunity to leap to her feet and kick the lead witch hunter in the balls, which made him scream at an even higher pitch. He plopped to the ground while crawling away on his hands and knees. One of the other witch hunters tried to “grab that bitch”, but the pot of pie filling slammed him square in the stomach and doubled him over. Taking a hint from each other’s misery, the witch hunters scrambled in retreat and disappeared behind the dense foliage of the forest, shouting like they were being gutted alive with an olive fork.

Sonya shivered in both anger and traumatic fear. Somehow kicking that man in the balls wasn’t enough for her. She wanted to rip him limb from limb and use his body parts to beat the holy hell out of his disgusting friends. She wanted to rip their skins off and wear them like a winter coat. She wanted to use their innards as filling for her strawberry pie and wolf it down like…well…a starving wolf.

“Are you at all considering dropping out of religious school?” said Devon Cross, who stood in Sonya’s doorway with a green aura surrounding her hands and a wicked smile on her face.

Sonya wanted to thank her for the obvious witchcraft that saved her from a gang rape, but instead she slapped the smile right off of her friend’s face. “How dare you lead those men to my house?! If your witchcraft is so great, why didn’t you just take them down beforehand?! I actually believed that you were anything but a witch! You lied to me, Devon! You lied to me and almost got me killed!”

“Settle down, sweetheart,” mocked Devon. “I came over to your house because I didn’t know if my magic would work or not. I’d only been studying it for a couple of months now and, really, how much can you learn in a couple of months?”

“You shouldn’t be studying that crap at all, Devon!” belted Sonya. “You could have gotten the two of us killed! You know the Order of Light despises that kind of magic!”

“So you’re just going to do what the Order of Light tells you to do for the rest of your life?” asked Devon with arms folded. “You’re a fucking drone, Sonya Jade. You really are.”

“Watch your mouth, Devon! He could be watching us!” whispered Sonya angrily.

“Who could be watching us?!” roared Devon. “The man upstairs? The man downstairs? The man in the middle level? Who?! Who the fuck is listening to the conversation about witchcraft?! And while I’m at it…” Devon stepped out in the middle of Sonya’s hard and did a kick dance while singing “Goddamn it!” repeatedly in a joyful tone. Sonya tried to shush her, but the dancing and singing continued even louder.

“For fuck’s sake, Devon, knock that fucking shit off!” shouted Sonya, which prompted her to cover her dirty mouth and Devon to stop dancing like a fool.

“You hear that, babe?” asked the witch while cupping Sonya’s face in her hands. “That’s what I like to see. You don’t really give a shit about that stupid religion. You’re just scared. You’re scared of what those men will do to you when they recover. You’re scared of what the entire Order of Light will do. You’re scared of the afterlife that follows. Or maybe what really scares you…is that they’ll eventually find out your little secret.”

Sonya’s eyes widened and her lips quivered while she stuttered, “W..what secret?”

“The secret that involves one of these,” said Devon with lust dripping off of her words like the pie filling that never was. She planted a passionate kiss on her friend’s lips and Sonya did nothing to reject it or even show the slightest amount of disgust. The tongues swirling sent butterflies flapping in Sonya’s stomach and a sparkle of wetness in her nether regions.

Once their kiss was over, Devon fondled Sonya’s hair and wiped the resulting tears from her eyes. “How did you know?” asked Miss Jade.

“Never mind how I know, Sonya. You’re asking the wrong question. The real question is…why are you so afraid? You’ve crossed the point of no return with that kiss. The Order of Light has nothing over you anymore. If you learned witchcraft with me, the two of us can be unstoppable. Catch my drift, sweetie? Or am I about to get you killed again?”

This time, it was Sonya’s turn to plant a sexy kiss on Devon Cross’s mouth. Her lips tasted sweeter than any strawberry pie she could have baked. Wrestling with her tongue eased the demons in her mind of what almost happened with the witch hunters. Men were disgusting to her, but Devon was easy to fall in love with. Her silky black hair, her creamy dark skin, and her curvy figure made her feel alive with every kiss. Fuck the Order of Light and everything that they stood for.