Violent Fantasies

***VIOLENT FANTASIES***

Nobody will ever come out and admit to having violent fantasies about their enemies, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Everybody has that one person in their lives who they feel deserves double hand strangulation, a blast from a flamethrower, a Columbian Necktie, or any other savage means of torture or murder. Some fantasize about violence more than others, but it’s something we all do whether we’re open about it or not. Anybody who says otherwise is a goddamn liar. Even the most peaceful people have angry thoughts every once and a while. That’s what the mind is for: it’s the last sanctuary of privacy we have. If we actually had psychomantic powers (a.k.a. telekinesis), then we would all be shit out of luck.

Having violent thoughts doesn’t make you an evil person. Hell, it’s the sanest thing a human being can do without actually committing those acts. The moral crusaders like to complain that videogames make the youth of today violent people and we all know that’s serious bullshit. Videogames, martial arts cinema, horror novels, these things don’t promote violence, but they give the average human being a channel to release their most hateful thoughts. When I was in high school, my favorite form of violent entertainment was watching old school ECW (not the WWE revival of it, which sucked). Watching The Sandman and Tommy Dreamer smack their opponents with kendo sticks and suplex them onto barbed wire made me feel giddy inside. Did I actually do any of these things to my fellow classmates? No, I didn’t, because that’s considered assault and it’s highly illegal.

Being able to separate fantasy from reality is the most important thing a person with angry thoughts can do. There are kids who play Gears of War or Call of Duty on their X-Boxes and think they can go overseas and do actual military service. When you step on a landmine in a videogame, that’s okay, because there’s always a reset button. If you step on a landmine in the real world, you’ll either lose your legs or you’ll die instantly. And trust me when I say this: real life war has no reset button. The same thing is true when you are the aggressor and another person is the victim. If you think about shooting another human being with an AK-47 and that fantasy makes you smile on the inside, congratulations, you’re a human being. But if you actually shoot someone with an automatic weapon, it’ll fuck with your mind for the rest of your life.

There are plenty of ways to channel violent fantasies into productive and creative results. I, for example, wrote a heavy metal song last night called “Chainsaw Samurai”. Not only was it about a samurai who preferred a chainsaw over a katana, but that samurai was a murderous psychopath who left seas of blood everywhere he went. In the fictional world, a chainsaw-wielding samurai is cool to me. Hell, I’d even watch a movie, read a book, or play a videogame if that person was the lead character. But if someone like that popped up in real life, I’d be scared out of my mind. I might not even want to come out of my room for several months if I knew such a vicious person was coming to Port Orchard. Of course, violence in Port Orchard is about as unnatural as a fireball falling from the skies, so I don’t know why a chainsaw-wielding samurai would ever want to come here, but that’s beside the point.

So go ahead, ladies and gentlemen. Relax in your easy chair and visualize your worst enemies chained to wooden posts with tires stacked around their bodies and a blazing fire crawling up their soon-to-be corpses. As long as you don’t do it in real life, you’ll be just fine. That’s what made the 2000’s detective show The Shield so cool. We cheered like animals when Vic Mackey pressed Armadillo Quintaro’s face against a burning stovetop. If Darren Wilson did that to Michael Brown, however, the media shit storm would never end. It would just become a biblical flood of brown juices stinking up the entire country and making everyone sick to their stomach. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Speaking of violence and burning people alive, my next Dark Fantasy Warrior will be Debra Cameron from the “American Darkness” short story “The Pyrocrats”. Does it seem strange that a woman who burns everything to the ground for a living is considered the sensible one in that story? This is a violent fantasy at its most brutal level. I’ve already drawn a picture of her psychotic partner Eduardo Mendez, so Debra Cameron is naturally the next one to be featured. I probably won’t draw a picture of The Fire Marshal (because we never actually see his face) or Xavier Melanson (because he’s not a warrior; he’s a puss-bag).

***MUSIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

“Dear Diary, it was cold today. The sun came out later, so I strolled about looking at the shops. Didn’t see anything I liked, so I didn’t buy anything. On my way home, I posted a letter. It’s been quite a nice day. Somebody exploded an H-bomb today, but it wasn’t anybody I knew.”

-“Dear Diary” by The Moody Blues-

Chainsaw Samurai

OPENING SCREAM

Chainsaw Samurai!

VERSE 1

Forget about your fucking dishonor

And focus on your eventual slaughter

Which one of your limbs must go first?

Your arms, legs, or German bratwurst?

Slice off your head, a mummified trophy

He opens your mouth and says, “Blow me!”

A bloodbath is coming from the Rising Sun

Violence and gore became a shit-load of fun!

CHORUS

Chainsaw Samurai!

It’s too late to beg and cry!

Enter the dragon, bitch!

Death is a business; he is rich!

VERSE 2

Hara-kiri has never been so easy

But the anxiety makes you queasy

He’ll choose for you; kick down your door

Squeeze every drop of blood from your pores

Chug your red juices like a bottle of sake

Chew your flesh with an appetite so sloppy

Dinner is served to the disgraced samurai

He’s hungry for more, get ready to die!

CHORUS

Chainsaw Samurai!

It’s too late to beg and cry!

Enter the dragon, bitch!

Death is a business; he is rich!

VERSE 3

The beast from the east has enjoyed his feast

And he doesn’t feel sorry in the fucking least

He’s going back to the Land of the Rising Sun

But his war with the world is far from done!

EXTENDED CHORUS

Chainsaw Samurai!

It’s too late to beg and cry!

Enter the dragon, bitch!

Death is a business; he is rich!

Kill Bill he fucking will!

He’ll cut quickly if you hold still!

Ninja Assassin, your life is passing!

“Who can stop him?” is what you’re asking!

CLOSING SCREAM

Chainsaw Samurai!

The Hydromancer

Clint Magnus barreled through the forest like a stampede of buffalos. His metal boots pounded into the ground with resounding thuds. His exhaling released clouds of steam into the chilly morning air. His ribs and legs felt like they were on fire. His tongue was drier than desert air. But if he stopped now, that twenty grand bounty was as good as gone.

The bounty hunter could smell the fear emanating from Fatima Rose. It was a sweeter scent than any perfume and gave Clint a massive boost of energy. He was so close that any minute during this chase he could grab a hold of that wet raven hair and have her to himself. The sweat pouring off of the witch’s body as she ran smelled like sweet autumn rain. Clint continued to dash after the witchcraft practitioner until he was fingertips away from clutching that heavenly neck of hers.

Clint was so distracted by this maiden’s terrified charm that he didn’t realize until falling face first that she had led him to the river. The bounty hunter’s heavy breathing caused him to suck water through his nostrils before pulling his head out and coughing up a storm. He shivered from the sudden cold splash like he was trapped in a meat locker.

While on his knees catching his breath and coughing out the water from his lungs, he saw Fatima lying on the other side of the river breathing heavily and holding her ribs. She looked so beautiful to him in her vulnerable state. Her wet green dress clung to her body like a chilling, frostbitten embrace. She was so exhausted that Clint could just scoop her up and take her to the authorities anytime he wanted.

When the middle-aged cowboy stood up and brushed his damp gray hair back, however, he saw two fountains of water bursting up from the river on either side of him. Another one formed behind him and another in front. Clint Magnus danced around in fear and shivered for a different reason than being soaked.

The bounty hunter could see Fatima’s hands raised from her sides while she was still laying down. They were clouded with a blue and purple mist of energy while her eyes glowed a brilliant and hauntingly beautiful neon green. The hydromancer levitated to her feet and gazed at her assailant with scorn and power.

“You…you really are a witch!” said a shaky Clint Magnus while pointing his wrinkled finger at her.

“Witch?” asked Fatima. “And what exactly is a witch? Is it supposed to be one of your disgusting slurs? Is it a label you put on anybody you disagree with? Or do you just reserve it for someone you want to exploit for money? I know this is a post-apocalyptic nightmare for all of us, but you, sir, are out of excuses!”

The four fountain bursts of water grew taller as Fatima’s energy-covered hands rose over her head. “Oh, shit!” said Clint to himself before the rising water came crashing down over his head, pinning him to the river bed and drowning him as well. He struggled and flailed in the raging waters to where his face was turning purple.

The water torture was mercifully over when Fatima swept her hands to the side and cast the freezing liquid away from Clint, who was hacking and wheezing while pathetically on his knees. “Get up, you fool!” ordered Fatima. “You’re supposed to be a goddamn bounty hunter, not a fucking amateur.”

Huffing and puffing, Clint Magnus slowly made it to his feet while his teeth clicked together from the hard convulsing. As soon as he got his bearings, he pulled out his Desert Eagle pistol and said, “I’ve had just about enough of your bullshit, lady!” When he pulled the trigger, only sand and rocks came out of the barrel.

“Well, look at that! Your pistol’s shooting blanks. Your wife must be so disappointed in you right now. So disappointed that she’ll run off with another man while you’re busy chasing little old me,” taunted Fatima while she giggled.

“That’s grounds for getting your neck snapped, little girl,” growled Clint. “What the fuck do you know about my family? I have to support them every damn day in this screwed up world! Chasing you was all about the money. It was never personal. But if you’d rather mock my family instead of supporting them, that’s fine, I’ll beat your ass anyways!”

“And I’m sure you’ll make an excellent role model for your children one day,” said Fatima sarcastically. “While turning me in will ensure that your family gets paid, you’re also teaching them how to label others. That’s how we got into this post-apocalyptic mess in the first place: by judging each other and slapping labels on our neighbors. And what do your politicians do when they can’t play nicely? They don’t work things out. They drop bombs on each other. Is that what your children are going to grow up to be: bomb-dropping politicians?”

“My children have a better future than that!” shouted Clint.

“Your children have no future at all!” retorted Fatima. As the uncomfortable silence took over, Clint hung his head in sorrow while the hydromancer maintained her authoritative gaze upon him. “Then again, nobody has a future around here. They call it Armageddon for a reason: because it’s all over. As long as we continue to cast hatred on each other, we will never, and I mean NEVER, rebuild to what we once were.”

Clint kept his chin tucked to his chest as he contemplated this harsh talking point. There were even hints of tears in his eyes, which caused Fatima’s deadly stare to soften. The bounty hunter picked his head up and said, “So that’s your solution? We just throw down our weapons and love each other? That hippie-dippie shit sounds good on paper, but how many assholes out there actually want to do that? You can’t make them be nice people!”

“What about you, cowboy?” asked Fatima with her finger pointed at him. “Can you be convinced to carry a message of love across the world? Can one act of kindness spread into several others? Or do you just want to shoot people for the rest of your life and collect your blood money?”

Another beat of uncomfortable silence washed over the scene. Clint had a decision to make. Would he continue to perpetuate the hateful sins of the apocalypse or will he show them that they are all capable of change? He shook his head and said, “You are so full of shit, lady. You are so full of disgusting shit!”

Clint quickly pulled a knife from his belt and chucked it into Fatima’s shoulder, causing her to drop to her knees and scream demonically in pain. The bounty hunter had a ghoulish grin on his face as he slowly approached the wounded witch. He even cracked his knuckles, wrists, and neck for dramatic effect.

He held his hands out in an attempt to grab Fatima by the throat and choke her, but the hydromancer still had one good arm and used it to work her magic. The river turned into a violent whirlpool that sucked Clint Magnus into the center. He flailed his arms and kicked his legs like a small child, but it was hardly any resistance against the much stronger waters. The river rose and Clint’s head sunk beneath the freezing liquid. He swam and stroked as hard as he could, but soon enough, his eyes would close and body would go limp. His last few bubbles of breath reached the surface and popped just as quickly as his life faded out.

Clint bathed in darkness with nothing but his final thoughts. He saw his wife’s beautiful face and gorgeous brown locks while she donned her favorite while dress. He saw his two toddler sons clinging to their mother’s legs and bouncing up and down while waiting for daddy to come home. Daddy would be coming home soon, Clint kept telling himself. But those twenty thousand credits were out of reach the minute he drowned in Fatima’s watery magic.

And then the cowboy coughed up another puddle of icy water while shivering some more. He slowly opened his eyes and found that he was lying alongside the river while holding a shining blue pendant with a note attached to it. Clint took a few more deep breaths before rolling over onto his knees and letting his eyes adjust to the fading light of the day.

The note read, “Water is something we all need in this dying world. Your family can’t drink money, but they can drink clean and healthy water thanks to this pendant I’ve left with you. The pendant is charged with hydromantic powers. Use it on any source of water and it will multiply and purify it for drinking. Neither you nor your family will ever go thirsty again. One act of kindness can soften the heart of even the coldest people. I hope it softened yours as well. Don’t give up on humanity just yet. Yours forever, Fatima Rose. P.S.: Don’t worry about my shoulder wound. I’ve suffered worse wounds from worse people.”

Clint stared at the pendant in his wrinkly hand and began to shed tears over the marble orb. “Thank you, Fatima,” he sobbed silently. “Thank you for everything!” He spent the last few moments of the day crying to himself, something his “manly” stereotype wouldn’t allow him to do for the longest time. Getting it all out felt as good as a nice chug of clean drinking water.

"Cowboys and Aliens" by Scott Mitchell Rosenberg

BOOK TITLE: Cowboys and Aliens

AUTHOR: Scott Mitchell Rosenberg

YEAR: 2006

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Western Science Fiction

GRADE: Pass

In the year 1874, Westward Expansion is in full effect in the state of Arizona. White settlers are purging the land of Indian tribes and claiming the territories as their own. In the middle of this conquest, a race of extra-terrestrial aliens crash lands in the desert and begins wiping out every human in their path, white or Indian. The only way for this new threat to be confronted is if the warring humans can put aside their differences and work together for the common good. They’ve already gotten a hold of some alien technology during the crash, so they might as well put it to good use and save the world from invasion.

My favorite part about this graphic novel has to be the blatant use of irony. White settlers were invading Indian territories only to have their world invaded by aliens. Maybe that’s what we need to solve the “immigration crisis” in this country: an alien invasion carried out by slimy green creatures with superior weaponry and technology. Maybe we just need to shown what kind of hypocrites we really are. This graphic novel is a good first step into exposing our beastly nature. Then again, some people like to shrug off hypocrisy claims with nationalistic or religious justifications. There’s just no reaching some people.

And here I thought the irony would be easier to swallow for those people considering how action-packed and violent this graphic novel is. If you’re going to be taught a lesson in getting along with your neighbors for a greater good, then it should at least be entertaining, which “Cowboys and Aliens” is. We’re Americans; we love violent entertainment. We like gunfights, martial arts, and science-fiction energy slinging. This graphic novel not only has all of that in their choreography, but the fight scenes are so frequent that it’s like riding a rollercoaster. The breaks are few and far between, so buckle up and get ready for the adrenaline rush your American blood so desperately craves.

As long as you’re going to read a graphic novel with violence and irony, you might as well read one with as many genres blended into it as possible. In addition to being bloodthirsty, we also have a nerdy side to us, though some people don’t like to admit it. Our nerdy sides get tickled whenever we read a book about genre mixing. In this case, it’s a combination of spaghetti westerns, hardcore action, and soft science fiction. UFC commentators say all the time that styles make fights. Gun-slinging cowboys and brawling Indians vs. hulking aliens with even better guns? That’s the kind of fight you’d want to see on pay-per-view. Maybe that’s why “Cowboys and Aliens” was adopted into a movie.

A quick read, deadly violence, and a bold political statement are all things you can expect from this graphic novel. Yes, it’s short. Yes, it ends too quickly (even though it is technically a complete story). So if you’re going to enjoy the ride, you’d better savor the adrenaline boost. In the words of heavy metal band In This Moment, “Welcome to the gun show!” A passing grade for a wonderful piece of graphic fiction. I don’t care what other readers say, because I loved the hell out of this book!

"Swamplandia!" by Karen Russell

BOOK TITLE: Swamplandia!

AUTHOR: Karen Russell

YEAR: 2011

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Magic Realism

GRADE: Mixed

In the Everglades-based theme park Swamplandia, Hilola Bigtree wrestles alligators for a live crowd of stereotypical tourists. The entertaining action is enough to keep the Bigtree clan financially stable. And then one tragedy after another strikes the family. Hilola gets cancer and passes away. Hilola’s husband, simply known as Chief Bigtree, ventures out to the mainland for a “business trip” (which feels more like crazy abandonment). Grandpa Sawtooth becomes senile and is confined to a nursing home. The eldest son Kiwi tries to earn the minimum wage at a rival theme park called World of Darkness. The middle child Oscela becomes obsessed with dark magic and runs off with a ghost to marry him. And now it’s up to Ava Bigtree, Hilola’s daughter and understudy, to bring them all back together and save Swamplandia from becoming foreclosed on.

If I could use one word to describe the mood of this novel, it’s heartbreaking. One moment of depression snowballs into several other tearjerking moments. Losing a mother is bad enough. But then the financial burdens stemming from her loss become all too real for any reader. We’re currently living in an economy where homes are being taken away, people are becoming broke from healthcare costs, and the only people who are hiring the new blood are minimum wage employers. Sometimes, working to exhaustion isn’t the answer no matter how many times the Republican Party says it is. In fact, exhaustion is what makes this novel so depressing, because we see the aftermath of trying to scrape together enough money and stay alive. It’s stressful to think about and I wouldn’t wish this kind of poverty on my worst enemies. In terms of putting together a realistic picture of economic worries, Swamplandia does that job perfectly.

I know the World of Darkness theme park is supposed to be a horrible place to work judging from how poorly Kiwi Bigtree is treated by everyone there. It is, after all, a hell-themed amusement park. The swimming pools are dyed red (to resemble fire), the merchandise has devil horns on it, the food is fattening (because gluttony is a sin), and all of the rides are basically comparable to being swallowed by a ferocious, fiery demon. While I condemn the working conditions of the World of Darkness, I praise Karen Russell for inventing such a place in her novel. I am a dark fantasy nerd and the diabolic themes of this place make me think of barreling through Diablo II: Lord of Destruction dungeons with a dual-wielding barbarian. But I know why Karen Russell had this theme park in her story: because she wanted to parody Disneyworld and hold a mirror up to their horrible working conditions. It tickles my dark fantasy urges and depresses me at the same time.

However, there is one thing that irks me about this novel and it’s the reason I’m giving it a three-star review instead of a four or five-star one. The pacing of Swamplandia feels like I’m dragging my eyes across sandpaper just to make it to the next chapter. In other words, it’s slow and it’s tiring. I don’t know if I should owe the exhausting pace to the purple prose writing style, the obscure references, the over-thinking and overanalyzing, or the constant dips into the past. I can’t quite pinpoint what makes this book such a slow read, but if Karen Russell wanted me to feel just as exhausted as the main characters after they work their fingers to the bone to protect their theme park, then mission accomplished. It may have been by design, but that doesn’t mean it’s an effective technique.

If you want to read a story about Murphy’s Law on steroids and have the patience of a saint, I would gladly recommend Swamplandia to you. A warning to the wise: if you manage to make it towards the middle and you haven’t figured out if this is a fantasy or modern day drama book, I don’t blame you. The only reason why I know it’s labeled “Magic Realism” is because I looked it up on Wikipedia. Maybe the genre confusion is all part of the suspense. That would have been a great tactic if the suspense wasn’t reserved for the near-end of the book. A mixed grade goes to Karen Russell’s debut novel. Will I ever pick up another Karen Russell book again? I haven’t decided yet.

Weapons and Warriors

“What are we looking at here? Formaldehyde, necrolium, nitro benzene. This thing actually has over seven thousand chemicals. Don’t get me started on what they do to you. Prematurely wrinkled skin, stunted lung growth, tooth loss, cancer…”

“Cut the bullshit, Dr. Archer, you know damn well this is wrong,” said Nurse Taylor Patrick, who stood across the mad scientist’s lab in pink scrubs with her arms folded tightly to her chest.

“Wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Miss Patrick,” said Dr. Adam Archer as he ate a slice of pepperoni pizza while twisting the last few bolts on his “project” with a monkey wrench. “You know those goddamn hippies outside of our lab? They just so happen to be getting in the way of production. And if it wasn’t for the hard work of these loyal CEO’s, you’d be out of a job. Well, not really a job. More like an internship. Or indentured slavery. Haha!”

Dr. Archer dropped a slice of pepperoni into the “life core” of his machine and ate it shamelessly, causing Taylor to cover her mouth in disgust. “Look, I need this internship, I really do, but putting a serial killer’s mind into a robot body? That’s just sick and twisted. Not only that, but it’s probably illegal too! You know, there’s always that remote possibility of prosecution.”

“Don’t worry about the legal shit, Miss Patrick,” said Dr. Archer as he finished tightening the last bolt on his robot. “It’s nothing a little hush money can’t fix. And trust me, we’ve got enough hush money to go around, kind of like that welfare shit you hippie liberals love so much. Haha!” Taylor rolled her eyes and shook her head.

The puffy white haired scientist in a dark lab coat stepped backwards to admire his handiwork…and to uncomfortably wrap his arm around Taylor’s shoulders. “You see this, my dear?” said Dr. Archer as he waved his hand about for theatrical purposes. “I want you to meet the new enforcer for Sexton-Naylor Oil Trade.”

“SNOT?” said Taylor when putting the company name into an acronym.

“We don’t call it that, sweetheart,” said Adam before patting Taylor on the shoulder and causing her to shove his arm off. The mad scientist danced happily over to the power box to flip the electrical switch while Taylor sat down in the fetal position with bile coming up from her throat. The poor nurse rocked back and forth silently praying to herself that she would live though this scientific nightmare.

“World? Meet Cain Gutwrench, society’s most sadistic, bloodthirsty, animalistic, and gory serial killer! He’s perfect for slaughtering protesters and anybody else who decides to screw up business for us! Are you ready? I said! Are! You! Ready?!” Adam threw down the electrical switch and lightning bolts flooded through the cords attached to this hellish creation. The robot thrashed and wailed about while Taylor Patrick cried softly to herself. Was this internship really necessary? Were there no other jobs out there for a nurse like her? How did she wind up in this shit-hole of a project? What the fuck was she thinking?!

The lightning flowing through the robot’s body turned purple, green, and blood red whilst crashing into the metallic body in larger waves. Taylor slowly picked her head up from her fetal position to see that the electricity was getting slower and gentler before it fizzed out. The cords running through Cain Gutwrench’s body snapped off and the creature from the ninth circle of hell slowly sat up on the table with an ogre-like groan.

Cain’s face was that of a metallic dragon. His body was that of a robotic skeleton. His hands and feet both held scythe blades that could cut through a telephone pole like a stick of butter. He had black bat wings on his back to make his appearance even more frightening. The life core in his chest had the appearance of blood and ooze in a nuclear container.

Taking one look at this robotic monster caused Taylor to tuck her head and cry a waterfall onto her knees. She wanted so badly to leave this place, but she was too terrified to stand up and move. She shook harder than one of Dr. Archer’s power tools.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that! It’s going to be amazing! There’s going to be blood everywhere on the streets! It’ll be great!” boasted the sadistic scientist, who received a slash to the gut for his efforts. Taylor screamed like a banshee as Cain Gutwrench stood up from the table and hoisted Dr. Archer’s gushing corpse high in the air. The murderous robot gave a sick laugh before tossing the limp body off to the side and allowing the stomach wound to soak the floor.

As Cain slowly stalked the nurse in the corner, Taylor screamed bloody murder once again before crawling quickly on her hands and knees toward the door. The robot flapped its bat wings and stood in Nurse Patrick’s way, causing her to scream and sob some more while on her knees.

“Please! Please don’t kill me! I’ll do whatever you want! I swear! Just please let me go!” Taylor begged with her hands together prayer style.

Cain held a finger to his monstrous face and creepily shushed her. With tears and snot rushing down the nurse’s face, Cain petted her hair gently and sang in his demonic rasp a lullaby for her. “Hush little baby. Shh! Don’t say a world. Momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don’t sing, papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. Shh. It’s okay, little princess. I won’t let the big bad monster hurt you.”

Taylor tucked her head down and puked all over Cain’s bladed feet, to which the serial killer said, “Oh, for shit’s sake! You can stop acting now! We all knew you switched out life cores! Well, everybody except Dr. Archer, but you get the point!”

“Sorry,” said Taylor in a weak, shaky voice. “it’s just that seeing the violence for the first time…it’s just a little too much, that’s all.”

“You saw it alright, Taylor. And you’re going to see it again…and again…and again. Did you already forget how angry you were when the CEO stiffed you on your payments? Did you already forget how traumatized you were when they stuck you in this dump basement with that pervert Adam Archer?” Cain leaned his head down so that he was making direct eye contact with his co-conspirator. “Did you also forget that time when Adam offered you money to put your mouth on his…you know what? You’re right. It is a lot to take in at once.”

The trembling voice turned from frightened sadness to volcanic anger when Taylor said, “Trust me, Cain, I didn’t forget about any of that. I had fantasies every night about killing Dr. Archer. I thought about slaughtering every executive in this whole fucking building for the shit they put me through. It’s all I could think about. All those sleepless nights led to this moment. And yet…I still feel empty and cold. This isn’t right, Cain. This isn’t right at all.”

“Do I also need to remind you that it was you who swapped out life cores in my body with out Dr. Archer’s knowledge? Just because you don’t like the results of your actions, doesn’t mean you’re excused from them. There’s no turning back, Taylor. Either you see this whole thing through, or you can puss out and sit in a jail cell. Which will it be?” asked Cain.

Taylor wiped the tears and snot from her face and slowly rose to her feet to give the robotic demon her answer. “I’m sorry, Cain. I really am. I can’t go through with this, not after seeing Dr. Archer looking the way he does. You slaughtered him like a farm animal. It smells awful in here!”

“It’s okay, Taylor. I understand,” said Cain as he put his bony hand on her shoulder. “Not everybody can handle this kind of violence. Which is exactly why…I’m not letting you live a life as a prisoner. Then again…you won’t be living at all!”

In one swift motion, Cain kicked Taylor in the stomach and impaled her body on his scythe feet. Her spine was severed, her life juices poured out of her like a biblical flood, and the room just got a whole lot smellier now that she emptied her intestines and bladder. After discarding her corpse on the floor like common trash, Cain said, “I’m sorry, Taylor. It had to happen. You were going to jail for this one way or another. But since you took the coward’s way out, there was no future for you. Revolution is only for the brave.”

There were heavy knocks on the bolted steel door of the laboratory along with shouts of, “Open up! Security! Open up this goddamn door now before we get the battering ram! Move it!”

Cain Gutwrench reached inside his life core, pressed a few buttons, and detonated a secret bomb that Taylor tucked away in the core should things go south. They went south in a hurry and now a volcanic flow of hellfire blew through the laboratory, taking the SWAT-like security team and anybody else standing around with him to the underworld. Even with the sprinkler system going nuts to put out the fire, it grew and grew until the SNOT building resembled a corporate effigy. One way or another, this shit was going to end badly for somebody. It wasn’t best for business. But then again, if Taylor was still alive, she wouldn’t give the shits that came out of her intestines when she did die.

Debating

***DEBATING***

Even though I post a lot of short stories with controversial topics and post John Oliver videos on my Face Book page, I actually don’t like debating that much. I agree with the idea of being open to new ideas and not being completely coddled from the opposing side. However, if someone tries to engage me in a debate, the most talking points I’ll ever have in that conversation is…maybe two. After those talking points are on the table, I have nothing left and I’m completely vulnerable to the limitless number of talking points the other guy has. Being on this jobber losing streak in a debate has nothing to do with the fact that I’m right or wrong. It just means that I don’t have an unlimited number of talking points. I suppose I could cure that with extensive research, but that only adds maybe two or three more talking points to the already short list.

It didn’t dawn on me just how bad my debating skills were until I moved into my dorm room at Western Washington University in 2007. I had a roommate named Carl who was always helpful to me and an all around nice guy. However, when he tried to engage me in a debate, I would sit there in silence not knowing how to answer his talking points. Carl described himself as a “conservative with a strong liberal twist”, but most of his talking points were right-leaning in nature. He’d present all of these carefully-worded arguments that went on for about a minute or a minute and a half and it always drove me nuts that I couldn’t debunk all of them.

So whenever I hear somebody talk about open-mindedness, I always tell them it’s a two way street. In other words, if you want me to be open to your viewpoints, you have to be open to mine. But that’s the problem: my viewpoints only have a lifespan of one burst of alphabet soup. After that, it’s over. I’m like a bottle rocket when it comes to debating, which is why I avoid it most of the time.

Of course, there’s another reason why I avoid debates and it’s because I have this fear of offending my best friends by justifying the things they hate. It’s the reason why I don’t wave a Richard Dawkins book in the face of one of my Christian friends. Not only is it offensive to do, but it could kill the friendship. I put love and friendship before politics and religion every single time. If somebody gives me a ride when I need one or cooks me a nice meal or gives me twenty bucks to buy my favorite book, why should it matter what side of the political spectrum they’re on? Of course, I wouldn’t accept a million dollars from Donald Trump, but that’s because…well…he’s Donald Trump. But you get what I’m saying, right?

So if you see me back out of an argument, it’s not because I’m closing myself off to that person. It’s because unlike that person, I can’t keep talking forever and ever and ever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to watch some more John Oliver videos and chase them down with a rant by Immortal Technique about vegetarianism. Peace! I’m out!

***SWAMPLANDIA***

As many of you have noticed either from my Deviant Art journals or my Good Reads account, I’ve been chipping away at “Swamplandia” by Karen Russell for a little under two months now. According to my Good Reads account, I’m 83% done with it, which means I’m going to spend one day blowing through the rest of it. Even though I’m not finished with it yet, I’ve already decided that it’s going to receive a mixed grade (three stars) when I review it. The concept is great, the depressing themes are great, and even the idea of a World of Darkness theme part ignites the dark fantasy passion within me. But what gives it a three star rating is the pacing. It’s slow enough to tire my eyes out after five or six pages of reading. I don’t know what exactly to owe the pacing to, but it’s definitely a slow one and that would explain why I’ve spent so much time with this book. That and it’s 400 pages long.

***WRESTLING DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

JERRY LAWLER: If Emma was a vegetable, she’d be a cute-cumber.

MAURO RANALLO: The world is pun-derful and I’m glad you agree, King.