Jerry Frost Is the Colonel Sanders of Jim Roots

We’ve all had days where we were out of fettle. Getting out of bed couldn’t be harder if you were cuffed to the fucking thing. Even the act of ordering fast food proved more difficult than cooking a three-course meal yourself. The wintry mix of gray diarrhea and depressive smoke bears down upon you whether you have a roof over your head or not. Wouldn’t it be nice to have somebody to talk to during these difficult moments? Someone who won’t judge you (because your brain does that enough already). Someone who won’t make you talk about things you’re not comfortable with. Someone who can put things into perspective in a way you couldn’t see before (probably because your damp eyelids were too heavy to lift). That someone could very well be licensed art therapist Jerry Frost, one of the few RPG characters I managed to get right.

Okay, so he wasn’t 100% perfect, but who would want that anyways since Gary-Stus are about as appealing as a wet paper towel. But while his portrayal of a psychotherapist was dead-on, his background story could have used a hell of a lot more work than I gave it. His childhood would have given Sigmund Freud a massive stroke (the kind in his brain, not the kind in his jockey shorts, you sick fucks). Jerry’s parents were tough on him as they pushed him towards becoming a STEM guy. He could forget his artistic pursuits and just mix chemicals all day long, because that’s what the wallet wanted. But even Jerry knew that wallets were hungry for more than just Big Pharma money or electrical engineering cheddar. Just like with menus at restaurants, there were many avenues for Jerry to choose from. But his strict parents insisted he become a STEM guy, because that was the wallet’s equivalent of an all-you-can-eat Brazilian steakhouse.

Jerry had other plans. Mixing chemicals and fusing wires together sounded about as much fun to him as watching dust accumulate on his bookshelf. Why care so much about the dust when there were perfectly good books there with stories of dragons and elves, kings, queens, and themperors, magical diamonds and fiery swords? He could write his own stories. He could draw his own creatures. He could compose acoustic guitar songs about an elven archer’s final shot into the heart of a cannibalistic ogre. He could do it all! But of course, the message of STEM guys being paid handsomely was beaten into his head so much that he had to come up with a nice compromise so that he didn’t get chucked out of the house before he was ready. Jerry Frost would become an art therapist. He still got to explore his creative avenues, but he could satisfy his STEM obligations since psychology is still a science.

So far, so good. He’s got a background story. He’s got motivations. He’s got a psychological edge to him. Now all he needs is a way to pay for college so that he can get that degree and get out there into the world. And he plans on paying for it by…working extra hours at KFC. Why wouldn’t he want to work at KFC? He looks like Jim Root from Slipknot and Jim Root has that beard and hairstyle combo that almost reminded him of Colonel Sanders. Jerry Frost is the Colonel Sanders of Jim Roots. He made a shit-load of fried chicken and served it to the hungriest bellies, all day, every day, until he earned enough to pay for his tuition. There’s just one problem with all of this: in the real world, working at KFC doesn’t pay for shit. Barely surviving in an apartment that costs an arm, a leg, a brain, and a heart is closer to reality than this dream scenario I concocted. It’s a uniquely millennial and Gen Z experience. That is where Jerry’s back story falls apart.

Another way in which it falls apart is through the act of art therapy itself. I didn’t learn this until after the RPG session, but apparently, having art as your most obsessive hobby is dangerous, because once he lose the will and the energy to do that, you’re left with nothing. Absolutely nothing. I felt personally attacked by this revelation (another uniquely millennial and Gen Z idea). As of today, almost everything I do involves creativity in one form or another: writing, reading, drawing, photography, even watching movies has creative merit (media literacy). And once I’m too tired for creativity, then what? Do I just lay around and wait for the feeling to pass? Yes! Jerry Frost probably should have warned his first patient Christian that this was going to happen, but like the chicken he made, his brain was too fried to comprehend such possibilities.

And thus we segue from the back story to the main role-play. Jerry Frost has his office set up just the way he likes: heavy metal posters nailed to the walls, drawings strewn about on his desk, books on a wooden shelf that told stories of epic fantasy battles and space opera death matches, and of course, a marble skull on his desk. Why a marble skull? Does he really need a reason? Yes, some of these decorations sounded too creepy to be in a psychologist’s office. The In This Moment poster with bloody hands sticking up and the Pink Floyd poster with the screaming face come to mind the most. But Christian didn’t seem to give two fucks about that. He was just sitting there on a puke green couch with his head in his hands and a shit-load of anger boiling inside of him. And so Jerry asked him, “What brings you to my office today?”

Obligation. That’s what brought him there. Christian didn’t see the point in coming, only that he had no other choice. Jerry, being the art therapist that he was, recommended some creative activities as a form of free association, or piecing together someone’s psychological makeup through symbols and phrases in the creations. Jerry even recommended rocking out to Sepultura to getting all of that anger out of his system. And then Christian lost it. “NO! I don’t want to rock out to Sepultura! It’s not going to bring her back!” Jerry knew that he fucked up badly. He pushed buttons that he had no business pushing. Any minute, Christian could have walked out of the room and this would mark Jerry’s first failure as a psychologist. And then he asked…

“What do you mean ‘bring her back’?” And suddenly, Jerry was on the right track once again. Christian opened up about how his lover was murdered by her own family. He wanted to get revenge on them through murder of his own, but if he did, he and Jerry would be doing this session from a prison cell that’s scarier than any heavy metal poster-decorated office. There would be no marble skulls in his cell except for the ones shattered on the floor by a dude named Bubba. So instead of murder, Jerry suggested a creative activity once again, this time as a positive outlet for his pain. Yes, drawing pictures didn’t solve everything, but they were something. And wouldn’t you know it, Christian drew a nice picture of his lover with techniques that even surpassed Jerry’s own abilities. Jerry showered him in compliments and earned his trust, while also keeping his job and his license. But the trust and the humanity was more important than a constantly starving wallet.

In the final moments of the role-play, Christian wanted to take Jerry on a field trip to the cemetery to pay respects to the dead girlfriend. But before that scene could come to fruition, the RPG group went dark for the longest time. It didn’t get deleted. It was just…inactive. A ghost town, of sorts. I didn’t know when they were going to be back. I didn’t know what the future held for Jerry Frost. So I left the group without saying goodbye. Do they still think about me to this day? That’s the hope I have with a character like Jerry Frost. I wanted him to have a positive impact on my fellow role-players.

Come to think of it, that’s what I want for myself going forward: to have a positive influence on the people who read my stuff. For years and years now, I’ve been writing stories purely for shock value. Yes, they had a clear-cut narrative with a beginning, middle, and end, but they also had things like torture, rape, pedophilia, and a whole shit-load of disgusting garbage that would never qualify as positive in this or any other world. Some people don’t mind being disturbed, but if that’s all I have going for my stories, then that’s a good way to drive my audience elsewhere. Everybody has their limits when it comes to raunchy content. We all have things that disgust us beyond belief and none of it makes us “snowflakes”. Okay, maybe the people who are asking schools to remove Maus could be considered snowflakes, but that’s beside the point. At least Art Spiegelman had a message. What do I have? Shock! I’ve got shock!

Jerry Frost is one of the few shining examples I have of a character gone right (KFC and art therapy be damned). He didn’t have to be an edge lord. He didn’t have to be vile. He didn’t even have to be overly flawed. Being a gentle and understanding soul was a requirement for the job he took. If it feels like he’s not flawed enough, that’s why. Yes, he did almost cause Christian to storm out of his office when he pushed the art therapy narrative too hard, but that’s only because he’s still a rookie at his profession. Inexperience is a great flaw for a character to have.

So…will I revive the Jerry Frost character in a future RPG? How about a future story? Or a poem? That all depends on whether or not I need a psychologist in any given work. He has potential to be something greater than a flash in the pan. I might have to tweak his back story a little bit, but there’s still hope for him…somewhere in the world…

Good Morning to No One

7:30 in the morning

The sky looks like shit

Wintry mix is pouring down

And I’m getting sick of it

9:30 in the morning

Hit the head, go back to bed

I never once believed in

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead”

11:30 in the morning

Put on clothes, feed the cat

Doom scroll into infinite

And wonder why I feel sad

1:00 in the afternoon

I eat a Hungry, Hungry Man

Breakfast of champions

It’s amazing I can still stand

2:30 in the afternoon

It’s the same old, same old

Watch a video, learn nothing

Spend the rest of the day cold

4:30 in the evening

Will I or will I not?

Another day in stasis

Emotions of a porno bot

6:30 in the evening

Eat my dinner way too fast

More COVID deaths on the news

And it sure won’t be the last

8:30 in the evening

Should I eat a whole pizza pie?

It’s the only thing I can do

To resist the urge to cry

10:00 at night

I’m not ready for the sack

I’d probably wake up anyway

With all this pain in my back

Midnight, oh, midnight

Will you come take me away?

I can’t believe in tomorrow

When it’s another shitty day

2:00 in the morning

My eyes are too heavy

Here comes the final flood

To break down the eyelid levies

Good morning to no one

You couldn’t hear me anyway

Too busy with your own life

Earning peanuts for your pay

To Be a Magetan

What does it mean to be a follower of the Magetan faith? One definition that won’t ring true among the elven covenant is, “Going to snuggle town with a dead cat.” Though dead our lord and savior may be, Mageta was certainly no ordinary cat. A domesticated beast wouldn’t have saved an entire race of people from the greedy clutches of humankind. Only a lion of blessed might could come from the Promised Land itself and annihilate racist tormentors with such ease. A Deus Ex Machina conclusion to a centuries-long story of oppression would seem ridiculous on the surface, but the key word in that old phrase is Deus. Mageta wasn’t a mere lap cat. He was a lion god.

And with this lion god’s protection, the elven race was able to rebuild their once dead society from its crumbling foundation. They made sure never to repeat the evils of their human captors. Instead of lusting for corporate gold, Magetan society became moneyless, trading services for products and fulfilling each other’s needs. They do not engage in hateful politics; this is a religion of love. Even a simple gesture such as holding hands, which would be frowned upon in far-right human society, is encouraged among followers of Mageta. Respect for the animal kingdom is a must for these zealots, whether it’s conforming to a vegetarian diet or taking in wayward pets and giving them the best years of their lives.

Why do the elves practice their religion this way aside from not wanting to repeat the bitterness of human slave masters? They don’t see it as blind zeal, but rather gratitude for a historical figure who paved the way for their culture to flourish. They have carved monuments and statues of him. They gather in church to send him their prayers every week. They encourage creativity among each other whether it’s drawing, sculpting, writing poetry, or constructing prose. Most of the Magetan lore is an anthology of creative writing exercises, all of which didn’t need the approval of human society in order to feel valid.

But sometimes contact with the outside world is necessary to sustain their own culture. Selling fruits and vegetables in the streets of Morgan Town, selling art to elitist galleries, and attending technology boarding schools are just some of the ways elves reach out to their hostile communities. Elves are still met with prejudice and shunning in these societies, whether it’s being called a slur such as “lizard” (due to their light green skin) or “cucumber penis” (due to their vegetarian diets). The beatings ramped up so much that the elves once again had to learn how to fight.

By the time they had enough, Mageta was already slain in battle, hunted for his meat and pelt. Some elves were recaptured into slavery, not just by Mageta’s killers, but also by one of their own: Mother Ruth. She had a specific role to protect Mageta’s literal children, but was secretly earning money to sell them into servitude. The term Mother Ruth had become a slur of its own for elves who turned their backs on their own kind. Because of elven betrayal and human prejudice, Magetan society began to suffer once again. But every day they look towards their savior for the strength to carry on.

Because their lion deity was powerful himself, the elves’ combat training regimen sought to mimic such strength on the battlefield. Exercises for elven soldiers were often so difficult that it wasn’t uncommon to pass out by the end of the session. Running, weight lifting, leapfrogging, and weapons training were all mixed into one session after the other. Soldiers willingly gave up their comfortable love so that they could protect their people, which meant they were mentally tormented by their instructors as well as physically. This would seem hypocritical of a race determined not to repeat their human tormentors’ mistakes, but there was no other choice.

Those who followed Magetan progressiveness and protected each other from the evils of the world were rewarded in death by having a place in the Promised Land, a cloudscape of comfort that they weren’t afforded in the living realm. Laying down in any part of the Promised Land was akin to a soft, fluffy bed that one wouldn’t mind sharing with a dog or a cat. If an elven follower was lucky, they could easily schedule a cuddle session with Mageta himself. He may have been a violent god when dealing with bigots, but only when it was warranted. The remainder of the time, he was as gentle as his booming baritone voice.

The prospect of the Promised Land sounded so appealing to the elves that for some of the more suicidal ones, it was more appealing than the living world. There was plenty for an elf to be suicidal about: trauma, war, unwanted sex, bullying, and a lifetime of negative messages from those who never cared. Whenever the mental and physical stresses of real world combat became too much for an elf, they would descend into a trance-like state known as the Death Valley March. They become so uncaring and unaware of the violence around them that they march blindly into a suicidal scenario.

Not everyone can snap out of this trance, but those who do are tasked with attending therapy sessions with a Magetan shaman. The couch will be as comfy as a Promised Land cloud, the music will be as pleasing to the ears as a tingly massage, and the therapist will be so sweet and empathetic that a traumatized elf can tell them anything they need to without fear of the details leaving the cozy cottage. Talk therapy is the method of choice for these healers. Only in extreme cases will they use herbal remedies and brain salves, but these are not replacements for a much-needed conversation about mental health.

Can Magetan values succeed in such a disgusting world where racist humans control the majority of land? Every day it seems like a definitive no. Every day the elves wonder what the point of all of this is, especially with a mysterious blight covering their once fresh crops. Every day they pray to Mageta and wonder why his answers won’t help them escape a sex dungeon or a slave auction. Every day they wonder if they’ll be the next ones to take the Death Valley March.

And yet, the religion is still alive in the year 500 AM. That’s because it is not a religion, but a spiritual bond. It is nationalism. It is family. It is protection. The world may be a cold place, but somewhere in life is a warm leonine embrace. The elves may have to search far and wide to find it, but when they do, it is pure magic. Magic may be gone from the elven culture, but it is not forgotten and never will be. Trauma can suppress creativity and lore, but it can’t kill it forever.

Simping for a Succubus

VERSE 1

It gets lonely in the middle of nowhere

My future plans include, “I don’t care”

Wouldn’t know where to start looking

For adult fun time that’s worth booking

I have dreams about being taken away

Though I wouldn’t know where to stay

Where, oh, where is the Promised Land?

Succubus lady, take me by the hand

CHORUS

Simping for a succubus

She’s the only one I trust

To be tender, to be sweet

Then discard me on the street

VERSE 2

I know it’s wrong, but what else is there?

It’s Valentine’s Day, love is in the air

Smells a lot like a perfume miasma

To mask the stench of a decaying Santa

Candies and chocolates to make me fat

Fall flat on my face, be a perfect doormat

You can call it depression or desperation

It’s better than a lifetime of masturbation

CHORUS

Simping for a succubus

She’s the only one I trust

To be tender, to be sweet

Then discard me on the street

VERSE 3

Doctor man, what is wrong with me?

Psychoanalyze every little fucking thing

Attachment issues because of autism?

Too much width in my social schism?

Too much trauma? Too much Taco Bell?

You can’t even tell? Got more pills to sell?

Being well-adjusted to a fucked up world

Can’t compare the love of a succubus girl

EXTENDED CHORUS

Simping for a succubus

She’s the only one I trust

To be tender, to be sweet

Then discard me on the street

Simping for a succubus

Though she’ll turn me into dust

Just like ashes, just like cocaine

Up the nose into another’s brain

When Destruction Means Nothing

VERSE 1

You won a debate while sipping caramel coffee

Chugged the whole thing without even coughing

You could have won with duct tape on your mouth

Whether you were in Seattle or in the Deep South

Everyone says you destroyed your opponent

But you’ve forgotten one little minor component

Nobody changed their minds after it was all over

Couldn’t be more pissed off if traffic was slower

CHORUS

Destruction means nothing at all

Still breathing, they didn’t fall

When destruction means nothing

The world just keeps on sucking

VERSE 2

You say the best solution is to meet in the middle

Every time some murderer receives an acquittal

Every time a loved one drops dead from Corona

Every time that ICE deports a Jose or a Paloma

The middle of what? A bloody battleground?

An internet brouhaha with dug up Tweets found?

Can’t shake someone’s hand if they’re holding a gun

Especially if they must insist that their side really won

CHORUS

Destruction means nothing at all

Still breathing, they didn’t fall

When destruction means nothing

The world just keeps on sucking

BRIDGE

People only change if they want to do it

At some point you have to say, “Screw it!”

Some people are just stuck in their ways

Especially if their rhetoric heftily pays

VERSE 3

Murdered by words? They’re still sucking oxygen

It could be because they’re seeing a psychologist

Don’t be so open-minded that your brain falls out

Don’t choke on your tongue when it’s time to shout

CHORUS

Destruction means nothing at all

Still breathing, they didn’t fall

When destruction means nothing

The world just keeps on sucking

FINAL LINE

Destruction doesn’t mean jack shit, little man

A Brief History of Honey Valley

“Honey Valley isn’t known for its bee population.”

Throughout the history of the former dwarven lands, that joke had been beaten to death almost as badly as the soldiers who fought over control of said lands. The younger inhabitants see the word honey and instantly think of elven sex slavery, which in a perverse way had become Honey Valley’s national product. But the bloody roots of the dwarven island run much deeper than a shallow night of adult fun time. Conquest is the word of the day, and the many days after that if history seemed intent on repeating itself.

In the early days of its inception, five hundred years ago to be exact, Honey Valley didn’t even have a name. If it did, it wasn’t kept in any public records. It was simply referred to as the home island of the dwarven culture. The dwarves were labeled as savages by anybody with no knowledge of tribal culture. The dwarves made ends meet by farming and hunting for food, not generally bothering anybody. One of their favorite crops to farm was coffee beans, which they would combine with caramel to make the perfect caffeinated drink, enjoyed by mostly chiefs and other warriors higher on the pecking order.

During the course of this farming for coffee, a poisonous plant was accidentally mixed in with the ground beans and the drink was subsequently consumed by one tribal chief in particular. Instead of killing him outright, the poisonous plant turned him into a psychotic monster capable of ravaging large numbers of his own population. His skin turned bright red, his muscles bulged to the size of cannonballs, his fangs and fingernails grew into sword-like weapons, but it was his aggression that became synonymous with his genocidal tendencies.

As the poisoned chief slaughtered his own kind, more dwarves became infected with his brain-altering disease. This went on for several years until the entire dwarven population was cannibalizing each other. When they got too feral for each other, they swam across the sea to the mainland looking for victims to dine on. The dwarves were so powerful that they couldn’t be fought off by ordinary soldiers and civilians; they could only be negotiated with once the poison tapered off.

In exchange for the dwarves not invading their lands, several kingdoms offered to donate prisoners to the island whether they were deserving of a death sentence or not. This arrangement continued for several years until the prison population exceeded the rabid dwarves’ appetites. Among those imprisoned on the island was a green-skinned woman named Ryoka, who is believed to be the first “elf” in the history of the world.

The greenish hue, pointy ears, and funky-colored eyes were believed to be part of a rare auto-immune disease Ryoka had. As a result of her strange appearance, she was bullied by her peers to the point where she couldn’t find work and ultimately lived on the streets. Her official imprisonment came when she appeared to conjure magic and set one of her tormentors on fire. Ryoka went on a killing spree against those who wronged her until she was caught and sent to the dwarven island along with several other dangerous prisoners.

In addition to Ryoka, an elite human warrior known as Thomas Xavier joined the roster that would be known for driving the dwarven population underground, never to be seen again. The kingdoms got greedy with their prison exiles and sent too many fighters over to the island. Now that the humans and Ryoka were the supreme masters of what would later be called Honey Valley, they started forging their own alliances and building their own towns and kingdoms. The northern territory belonged to the Atwood lineage, Atwood being a literal name for living near the forest. The central territory was home to the Shadow Asylum mercenary guild, a longstanding organization headed by the ultra-rich Rinehart family.

Ryoka and Thomas Xavier found their own paradise in the southern portion of the island, a forested area with a lovely beach at the tip. Because of the threat of the infection keeping the northern, central, and southern territories isolated from each other, Ryoka and Thomas had enough alone time together to forge a romantic relationship and begin the Xavier bloodline. Several generations of isolation has led to a growth period of the elven race, to the point where their magic usage was becoming too much of a threat to the northern and middle territories.

The official start of human racism towards elves began when an elven boy accidentally set Morgan Town on fire with too little control over his own magical powers. An overabundance of magical energy swirling around wasn’t uncommon in those days and ultimately the Morgan Town government and Atwood monarchy teamed up together to keep the elves under control. Generations of brainwashing, beatings, and enslavement of elves were done to ensure no more accidents would happen and that magic would be completely erased from the elven culture. The xenophobia was bad enough, but when the disenfranchisement of elves became a business, that would be how the new generation of prisoners would negotiate with the mainland.

The newly minted Honey Valley was now in good standing with the mainland kingdoms with elven slave trade becoming lucrative. Slavery was even used to rebuild Morgan Town and refurnish the northern and middle territories with technology unheard of at the time. As traumatizing as the slave trade was for elves, they would get their well-deserved reprieve from their nightmares in the form of a “lion god” they dubbed Mageta.

To this day, the elves don’t know if Mageta was an actual lion who succumbed to the dwarves’ infection or if it was a powerful elf who wore the skin of a lion. Either way, this lion god would prove instrumental in keeping the elves safe for a long enough time that they could get back on their feet again. By the time Mageta was hunted and killed by slave trading warriors, the elves were powerful enough that they could forge their own empire with the recuperation time they were given.

The elves were so grateful for Mageta’s help that they built an entire religion around him, which is still practiced to this day. Because actual history was lost in the elven/human conflict, most of the mythology surrounding this religion was crafted by creative minds. Storytellers, artists, and poets came together to give the elven race their epic Magetan tale, which is why many elves are regarded as being creative types. But with this creative prowess, there was still a need for the elves to defend themselves against the humans that hated them so much. Many Magetan zealots became soldiers hardened by combat and rigorous training. While elves are seen as being overly sensitive, the trauma they hold deep is just waiting to be unleashed on a xenophobic human waiting to strike.

Just as the southern elves began a quest to find their missing brethren who were lost to the slave exchange, another force emerged in the form of a mobile castle run by the Stonewall Kingdom. The knights were sent to investigate the happenings of Honey Valley, but they were short on manpower due to some of their own soldiers and citizens being caught up in the slave trade despite not being elves. Without the support of their superiors, the Stonewall Kingdom had no choice but to throw money at Shadow Asylum since they had no loyalty to any crown.

The current Queen of the Xavier bloodline, Llewellyn, wants to secure a trade deal with the current Stonewall King, Lars, since his mobile castle brought so much technology with it that the elves could use for farming and rebuilding. While Lars and Llewellyn have the same goal in mind of eliminating the slave trade forever, they are two different rulers with a lack of real communication between them.

And now here we are in the year 500 PM (Post-Mageta). The table is set for all out war among the different kingdoms and territories. The Atwood monarchy seems intent on expanding its power and not giving up any sliver of it to the other territories. Shadow Asylum wants to maximize profit and grow fat together off of their earnings. The Xavier and Stonewall monarchies want to put an end to generations of torment and anguish, which all began with the bullying of a green-skinned woman with pointy ears. Who will survive?

Somewhere beneath the surface are the dwarves who have not been heard from since the takeover of the mainland prisoners. Will they rise again? Will they take back their island and erase the Honey Valley name forever? If the threat is not real, then the paranoia is.

Love Me Back

CHORUS

I could fall in love with life

Life won’t love me back

It’s not a girlfriend or a wife

There’s way too much to unpack

VERSE 1

I could put everything I’ve got

Into this passion that I call mine

But passionate is what I’m not

I guess I’ll settle for just fine

Not enough energy to carry on

Life is better under the blanket

The social contract is just a con

Lowest of lows if you want to rank it

CHORUS

I could fall in love with life

Life won’t love me back

It’s not a girlfriend or a wife

There’s way too much to unpack

VERSE 2

I used to believe in meritocracy

Until they slammed the door in my face

I used to think life was a democracy

Until my vote was stuck in last place

And now I ask myself what’s the point

When the world has forgotten about me

Always been destined to disappoint

The machine pumps along without me

BRIDGE

You could call it a case of apathy

You could call it laziness if that’s better

I don’t know why you’re asking me

Take it up with the real trendsetters

EXTENDED CHORUS

I could fall in love with life

Life won’t love me back

It’s not a girlfriend or a wife

There’s way too much to unpack

I could fall in love with nothing at all

But the abyss won’t love me in return

It’s not a shelter with a roof and walls

It’s an underworld in which I burn