Hulk Smash!

***HULK SMASH***

This past week was filled with what I like to call Incredible Hulk rage. No, I didn’t actually smash anything, but you wouldn’t know it from the intensity of my screams and the vulgarity of my curse words. But just like with any other fit of rage, I feel so tired afterwards that I don’t feel like getting any creative work done. White hot anger is a waste of energy, especially when directed at inanimate objects. And to think, my week started off with something that was easily fixable.

Since this past Wednesday, I’ve been house-sitting for my parents while they’re away in Pennsylvania visiting with extended family. They’re expected to be back late Thursday night, but their return can’t come soon enough. This past Thursday was when my Incredible Hulk rage flared up. I had just gotten back from an exhausting walk to my brother’s workplace to drop off his book. The computer was in sleep mode, so I shook the mouse, clicked it, hit the return button multiple times, and powered the computer on and off. No matter what the hell I did, my computer wouldn’t wake up. So you know what logical thing I did about it? I screamed, “Wake up!” multiple times in a voice that bordered on drill instructor and raging barbarian. I also used some colorful swear words that I don’t plan on repeating before I went into whiny mode, begging and pleading for my computer to wake up.

Believing something was seriously wrong with my computer, my last resort was to take it to Northwest Computers in Bremerton to have it fixed. By the time I was done raging like a lunatic, the store was closed. Friday would have worked, but my brother James was out all day at work and school, so he couldn’t give me a ride. Northwest Computers is closed on the weekend and major holidays (including Columbus Day), so the earliest I could have taken my computer in was Tuesday. It’s true, folks: I’m a stereotypical millennial who’s addicted to digital crack. I’m also an author with a short story collection to finish, so maybe I’m not a complete stereotype.

Either this past Friday or Saturday, I’ve been using my spare laptop to get my internet business done. And then for some reason, my laptop decided not to open Google Chrome or Internet Explorer when I double clicked the respective icons. I tried running anti-virus software and it took forever to update, so I was just resigned to the fact that the laptop was a glorified paperweight. Speaking of useless technology, it was also this past Friday or Saturday that I dropped my television remote and couldn’t turn the damn thing back on even after changing batteries. The laptop situation was easy to remedy since my mom and step-dad have a spare computer downstairs. As for the TV remote, I could just use my Wave Broadband control to turn it on and off. But the rage…so much rage…so much hate…so many curse words that I once again won’t repeat at the risk of sounding like an insensitive prick.

This past Sunday night, I ran a gamut of possible problems with my computer through my head from an overworked fan to a broken monitor. My monitor is ten years old, so it was probably closer to that than anything else. I had a spare monitor in my room, but when I hooked it up to my computer, it wouldn’t work. Just like the laptop, my spare monitor was a glorified paperweight. And then I plugged the original monitor back in and screwed the prongs in tighter this time. It worked! It’s a miracle! Praise the Lord and all of that voodoo mumbo jumbo. All of the rage, all of the tiredness, all of the heartache, it was all for nothing. It was a waste of energy that solved no problems, but only made them worse.

I’ve tried harder to control my rage in the past, but it still bubbles up every now and then, so I can’t really say I’ve learned anything from those experiences. I guess I’ll try harder next time. And the time after that. And the time after that. Or maybe I can just accept that rage is a byproduct of schizophrenia and/or depression. No breathing exercises or yoga classes are putting out this wildfire anytime soon. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

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

Because of my mom and step-dad’s computer downstairs, I was able to enter this week’s WSS contest with my latest short story “Peacemaker”. Hopefully, it’ll be a big hit with audiences everywhere. As of now, there are only ten more stories I have to write before Poison Tongue Tales 2 is complete and I can focus on writing a novel again. The next short story will be called “He’s Only Thirteen” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Danny Killian, Child Brawler
2. Saijin Lector, Demon Gangster
3. Gloria Summers, Church Choir Girl

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: Gloria practices her singing alone in the church when there’s a loud banging at her doors. When she answers, Danny, who’s covered in bruises and cuts, collapses into her arms and allows her to bring him to safety. When asked about his wounds, Danny reveals that he’s a child prize fighter and he’s trying to get out of the business. The only thing stopping him is his overbearing taskmaster Saijin Lector, who has spent years training him to become a moneymaking machine with his fighting skills. Feeling ripped off, Saijin bolts into the church looking for his “prospect”. Gloria and Danny must now try to sneak out of the church and get to higher ground. Fighting isn’t an option since Saijin is a seven-foot tall beast with a chain whip as his favorite weapon. Even with all of Danny’s championship accolades, he’s too frightened to take on his former boss.

***FANG AND CLAW: UNDEAD UNIT 1***

Wrestlecrap is a distant memory and now it’s time for a new book. My original plan was to read Seraphina by Rachel Hartman, but I bailed out of it early. The confusing writing style, boring plot, and weird terminology influenced my decision to stop reading. In its place will be “Fang and Claw: Undead Unit 1” by Markie Madden, an independently published author who’s good friends with Marie Krepps. I’m on page 36 right now and so far, so good. The main character Lacey Anderson reminds me of Olivia Benson from Law & Order: Special Victims Unit with how she tackles rape cases.

***COMEDY ROUTINE OF THE DAY***

TSA AGENT: Did you pack your bags yourself?

GEORGE CARLIN: No. Carrot Top packed my bags. He, Martha Stewart, and Florence Henderson all came over to the house one night, cooked me a lovely Lobster Newburg, gave me a full body massage with sacred oils from India, performed a four way around the world, and then they packed my bags. Next question!

TSA AGENT: Have your bags been in your possession the entire time?

GEORGE CARLIN: No. Usually the night before I travel, just as the moon is rising, I place my bags out on the street corner and leave them there unattended for several hours…just for good luck. Next question!

TSA AGENT: Has any unknown person asked you to carry anything onboard?

GEORGE CARLIN. Hmm…Well, what exactly is an unknown person? Surely, everybody is known to somebody. In fact, just this morning, Kareem and Yousef Ali Ben-Gaba seemed to know each other quite well. They kept joking about which one of my bags was the heaviest.

Wreck-It Ralph

MOVIE TITLE: Wreck-It Ralph

DIRECTOR: Rich Moore

YEAR: 2012

GENRE: Children’s 3D Animation

RATING: PG for comic mischief

GRADE: Pass

In a digital universe inhabited by arcade game characters, Wreck-It Ralph is the bad guy of his respective videogame Fix-It Felix. As such, he feels unappreciated by his good guy cohorts and seeks to do gain a hero medal from another game. He finds one in a first person shooter called Hero’s Duty, but takes it with him to a candy-themed racing game called Sugar Rush. There he meets a glitch character named Vanellope who feels just as isolated as he does. The two annoy the hell out of each other, but agree to help each other achieve their goals, Ralph’s being to retrieve the medal and Vanellope’s being to win the race. Standing in their way are the tyrannical King Candy and a virus bug from Hero’s Duty that swarms and multiplies.

The message of this movie is one we’ve heard time and time again, but it never gets old because we have to keep reminding ourselves of it. That message is to be yourself and be proud of who you are. Don’t let the world bring you down and don’t let anybody else define who you should be. If you want to be well-liked, do something admirable and leave the trophies and petty jewelry behind. A medal is a tiny coin, but a legacy is something that lasts forever. This whole movie is a journey for Wreck-It Ralph to find acceptance by doing what he does best: destroy things. He tried too hard to be the good guy and he ended up being a worse bad guy. As far as Vanellope goes, she too has a journey to go through that involves individuality. She’s spunky, sweet, and delightfully annoying, yet she’s the most determined racer in Sugar Rush. Ralph and Vanellope are characters we can get behind as well as the others who support them like Fix-It Felix and the captain from the first person shooter Tamora Jean Calhoun. That’s what makes the message of the movie so special: relatable characters.

Another thing I must applaud this movie for his the creativity it took to make this movie. This could be considered fan fiction in some ways because it features M. Bison and Zangief from Street Fighter II and Bowser from the Mario games just to name a few. Granted, those are cameo appearances, but the movie still makes good use of them as part of a bad guy support group. The Sugar Rush videogame is candy-themed, so everything from the Laffy Taffies to the chocolate quicksand to the Mentos and Diet Coke lair is well-done, well-placed, and important to our story. Creativity also involves the various outcomes and high and low points of the movie, not just physical features. The big low point at the end will make you weep, the sweet ending will make you giddy inside, and the build up to both of those things will remind you of a brother-sister dynamic at home. When it comes to creativity, the makers of Wreck-It Ralph left no stone unturned and made sure the audience went home happy.

Speaking of making everything click, the storyline actually makes sense considering all of the variables in this movie. Whenever a game glitches or has a character crossover, the arcade machine is “out of order” and pulling the plug on it will erase the entire game. There’s a train station connecting all the games together via the power strip and its various cords, which is important for keeping everybody in order and with their own games. Crossing over is actually a huge no-no in this world, which is no more evident than when Wreck-It Ralph accidentally leads a virus bug into Sugar Rush and all of his friends have to come rescue him before it multiplies. When you have a movie with this many loose ends, it needs its own set if strict rules so that it doesn’t become too unbelievable. I commend anybody who can maintain order with this much chaos going on.

If you’re looking for an enjoyable movie for the whole family, young or old, be sure to watch Wreck-It Ralph. Older audience members will have retro-grade nostalgia for these arcade games. Younger audiences will enjoy the quirky characters and their silly jokes. Film critics will love how everything clicks together and nothing is left unattended to. It shouldn’t come as a big surprise that this movie won a boat-load of awards and was the 14^th highest grossing film of 2012. A passing grade will go to this piece of 3D animated joy. How does that sound?

Peacemaker

Gerard Killings paced back and forth with his hands tucked in his trench coat pockets. He gazed around at the animal trophies mounted on the wall while shaking his head in disgust. Deer heads, tiger rugs, bear dolls, and fox pelts made this politician’s home feel like an animal graveyard. Protecting Senator Schneider from assassination filled Gerard’s eyes with dollar signs, but his heart with emptiness. He felt no different from a street whore selling her body for cocaine. The mercenary plopped down on the zebra striped couch and ruffled his clean shaven head and face.

He snapped out of his disgusted trance and leapt into business mode when he heard the sound of wood creaking in the next room. Gerard pulled two sais from his trench coat pockets and crept towards the kitchen. When he arrived, he saw that the scene hadn’t been disturbed except by an elderly dog lying on the floor snoozing away. The irony wasn’t lost on Gerard as he shook his head some more while holding the bridge of his nose.

The time to earn his paycheck arrived when Gerard felt a heavy presence crash down from overhead. He dropped his sais and gasped for air as he felt a furry arm wrapped around his neck with a knife pointed into his jugular. A feminine voice whispered, “Don’t even think about it. I’ll slash you from asshole to appetite if you move one inch.”

Gerard didn’t listen. He snatched his assailant’s wrist and chomped down on her arm with the strength of a bear trap. The furry female yelped and back flipped off of her opponent, leaving a smattering of blood across the floor. Gerard used this valuable time to crawl quickly across the floor to retrieve his sais. Before he could lay one finger on them, he felt a knife graze his scalp as it flew into the kitchen cupboard.

The mercenary blinked tightly in pain while pressing a hand to his wound. He opened his eyes just widely enough to see that his assailant was dressed in black ninja gear except for part of her face and arms, which were covered in animal fur (and blood from the bite wound). She angrily whispered, “You’re one dead motherfucker!” before pulling out a katana and lunging towards a seated and prone Gerard. The mercenary moved his head just in time to avoid being decapitated. The fuzzy ninja slashed and lunged some more only to have Gerard tuck and roll out of the way every time.

Mr. Killings, still on his back, kicked the ninja in the head and dazed her long enough for him to wrap both ankles around her neck and flip her over. She crash landed into the kitchen cupboard, but accidentally landed on the sleeping dog. The dog yelped and crawled pathetically across the floor. Both fighters were distracted by the condition of the elderly animal, so much so that the ninja crawled across the floor and petted the little guy. “I’m so sorry,” she gently whispered. “You poor little sweetheart.” The ninja’s petting caused the dog to roll on her back and kick in the air.

“Wait a damn minute here,” said Gerard before he nipped up and ripped the ninja’s mask off to reveal she was a humanoid fox. The ninja gasped and crab-walked backwards, knowing her identity was plain to see. “Why am I not surprised? Misty Blades, anti-hunting activist. You’ve been all over the news talking about using peace and love to advance your cause, yet here you are trying to stick a blade in my fucking neck.”

Misty waved a dismissive paw and scoffed, “Like your politician friend is any better. Have you seen all the animal corpses around his house? And what about you? You’re guarding this place, so you’re every bit as guilty. Now you have to involve a poor little doggy into this.” She petted and kissed the dog some more, much to the little pooch’s smiling delight.

“Do you need help there, Gerard, or can you do it yourself like you were paid to do?” asked Senator Randy Schneider, who stood in the bedroom doorway dressed in a blue bathrobe holding a peacemaker handgun. He had a calm demeanor about him despite finding Misty Blades in his kitchen. “What are you waiting for, Gerard? Must I hold your hand?”

“You’re actually going to listen to this guy?” asked Misty. “I saw you making those faces at the animal trophies. You’re just as disgusted as I am. You could finish this right now if you wanted to.”

Randy sighed, “And how exactly does he plan on doing that, Miss Blades, if that is your real name? I’m the one with the gun and you two are just sitting there with your knives up your asses. That’s the thing about hunting, my friend: you need the best weapons. You think I claimed all of those deer heads with a fucking katana? Hell no. I was smart enough not to bring a knife to a gun fight.”

“Guns are for cowards!” belted Misty. “Killing animals is just as cowardly. Why in the hell would anybody want to support your new bill, Senator? You fucking right-wingers are all the same. You’ll protect an unborn fetus, but you’ll gladly shoot a defenseless creature. Don’t think for a minute that your gun is going to save you now. All the firepower in the world means jack shit without the fighting skills to back them up.”

Randy squeezed off a shot and only managed to tear a piece of fur off of Misty’s cheek before the ninja leapt across the room and held a blade to the politician’s throat. Senator Schneider shook so hard that he could be confused for a Parkinson’s patient. No amount of pathos could wipe the look of white hot, drooling rage from Misty’s vixen face. “Gerard! Help me!” Randy shouted.

“Shut up, you whimpering piece of shit! Stop whining and start listening! When that bill hits the senate floor, that shit is dead on arrival! If it isn’t, then you will be! What do you say/ Senator? Is your life really worth having more animals die in your name?” grimaced Misty.

Little did the ninja know that Randy dropped the peacemaker on the floor and slid it across to Gerard with his foot while shaking in fear. Sure enough, the bodyguard picked it up and cocked it before pointing it at both Misty and Randy.

“Don’t even think about it!” shouted Misty. “You put that thing down or I’ll spill his throat all over the fucking floor! Then maybe I’ll take him down to the taxidermist to get stuffed!”

“Just take the shot, Gerard; she’s going to kill us both anyways!”

“Shut the fuck up! Both of you!” Gerard roared. “I am getting sick and tired of this political bullshit! All I wanted was a paycheck tonight and you two have turned this into a fucking nightmare! Maybe I’ll kill both of you! Or maybe I’ll just kill you, Randy, and leave the fox lady to do her bidding elsewhere! You think I enjoy looking at all of these animal trophies?! They make me sick! In fact, I should probably throw up in that orange face of yours right now! It can’t look any worse than it is now!”

Misty grinned at Gerard’s threat while Randy whimpered a small prayer. This was it. That bill was going to die a nasty horrible death, which could also be said about the pants-pissing Randy Schneider. Gerard seethed with drooling anger like a rabid wolf ready to devour a hunter’s leg. The animal analogy was perfect for the rage bubbling up inside of him. Mother nature was ready to strike with a whirlwind vengeance.

“But then again…as much as I agree with Misty Blades more than anybody else…she doesn’t write my paychecks!” said Gerard before he squeezed off another shot and put a bullet in the fox ninja’s head. Her brains splattered all over the kitchen floor as she fell to her death. The elderly dog crawled over to her and licked her bloody wound like a bowl of puppy chow.

“Dogs are such filthy creatures,” said Randy with a chuckle. “Then again, so was that crazy bitch. You put on a hell of a show, Gerard. You had me going for a minute there. You’ll get that paycheck just like I promised you. Maybe if the bill passes, I’ll throw you an extra bonus so that your cancer-stricken son can go to Disneyland. You only live once, right? Well, I got to get to bed now. You did good tonight, my friend. Oh, and did I mention you’re one hell of an actor?”

“I wasn’t acting at all, Senator. I still think you’re a piece of shit for what you’re doing,” said Gerard as he handed the peacemaker to his boss.

“Correction: I’m a piece of shit who’s going to send your child to Space Mountain before he drifts away to heaven. There’s a difference, you know,” grinned Randy as he accepted the peacemaker and whistled his way back to bed.

“What do you want to do with Misty’s corpse?” asked Gerard.

“I’m sure I can find a nice place for her next to the lion’s head. Goodnight!” said Randy from the bedroom before he flicked off the light and yawned.

Gerard plopped back down on the zebra-striped couch and stared at his blood-covered hands. His whole body felt as though he had just taken a swim in a river of innocent blood. He did it all in the name of his cancerous son’s happiness, but what if he ever found out how he achieved that happiness? Could Gerard keep this secret forever? So many guilty thoughts ran through his mind at a million miles an hour.

A single tear dropped from his eyes and he could do nothing about it but bury his face in his murderous hands. He had no choice, just like anybody voting for Randy Schneider or his opponents. The system owned him. If they wanted him to dress in a turkey suit and dance like a monkey, he would do it if it meant a hefty payday. Maybe he wouldn’t feel nearly as guilty if he sucked dicks for a living. How sad. How relentlessly sad.

"Wrestlecrap" by RD Reynolds and Randy Baer

BOOK TITLE: Wrestlecrap: the Very Worst of Pro Wrestling

AUTHORS: RD Reynolds and Randy Baer

YEAR: 2003

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Wrestling Biography

GRADE: Pass

The history of professional wrestling has seen its fair share of colorful characters and soap opera storylines. Wrestlecrap documents the silliest of those gimmicks from the cartoonish WWF days in the 1980’s all the way to 2003 when the book was published. Whether it’s a voodoo priest named Papa Shango who put curses on his opponents, a magician who was one monocle away from looking like Mr. Peanut, or a baseball player named MVP (Most Violent Player) to name just a few, the idea was for various wrestling promoters to throw something out there and to see what stuck. In many cases, they’re simply throwing wrestle-crap.

The first quality I’d like to praise this book for is the historical significance and research that went into writing it. The authors traced the first real gimmick back to the 1950’s, when Gorgeous George, an effeminate and arrogant athlete, would spray his opponents with perfume so that they didn’t stink up the joint. In the 1980’s, Vince McMahon, CEO of WWF, would take this inspiration and create the colorful characters that era was known for, whether it was the muscle-bound superhero Hulk Hogan or the corrupt millionaire Ted DiBiase. The late 90’s saw a period of more realistic shades of gray characters with TV-14 rated bloodbaths and sex angles. But just like the end of this biography says: the less things change, the more they stay the same. New company, same old wrestle-crap. While some gimmicks stood the test of time, most of them were too unbelievable to be taken seriously. Even in the year 2017, nothing has changed.

As long as we’re having a laugh at these bizarre characters (not the wrestlers portraying them, mind you), feel free to enjoy the lighthearted and comedic writing style employed in this book. The style comes off as extremely sarcastic and razor-tongued, but there are also some good zingers in there to leave you chuckling as well. I mentioned the Mr. Peanut analogy in the opening paragraph. There’s also a line about how Mantaur, a guy dressed in a bull suit, looks like his costume was made by a deranged taxidermist at Disney World. My favorite zinger in this whole book would have to be the author’s answer to, “What could be better than [the plot of the Ready to Rumble movie]?” A trip to the dentist. Getting beaten with a lead pipe. A Pauley Shore movie marathon. I got a few chuckles just transcribing those lines. If wrestling gimmicks and storylines are going to be silly, then expect nothing less than a hearty laugh.

While it’s nice to have a few laughs at the expense of the characters, never forget that RD Reynolds and Randy Baer are wrestling fans to the core, which means they know when it’s time to get serious. Remember, they’re poking fun at the characters, not the people playing them. They have all the respect in the world for anybody who dares get in a wrestling ring to ply their craft. It’s a tough job that taxes the human body like nothing else. That’s why when I read about Renegade’s suicide, it legitimately broke my heart. Say what you want about the guy’s wrestling ability, but he didn’t deserve to have a gimmick completely ruin his life and send him spiraling into the path he took. The way that segment was written was done tastefully and respectfully, which is more than anybody could say about the promoters who saddled the wrestlers with these awful gimmicks.

One thing I will criticize the book for is its occasional grammatical errors. I say occasional because they don’t happen often enough for me to downplay the fun I had reading this book. But noticeable they are, such as when there are dashes in between words that are already whole. It’s as if the book formatting placed the hyphenated words at the end of a sentence in the middle of the paragraph. It looks awkward and doesn’t paint a good picture of anybody who takes up writing as a profession. However, I still give this book a passing grade for knowing when to be funny, knowing when to be serious, and caring enough about the sport to delve into its history. Wrestlecrap is nothing to sneeze at (the book, not the actual crap).

Villains: Psychosis vs. Calmness

***VILLAINS: PSYCHOSIS VS. CALMNESS***

When I’m submitting short stories to the WSS, a common critique I get is to focus on writing about calm villains instead of psychotic ones. I admit, my borderline bipolar villains are fun as hell to write about, but I believe there’s a lot of truth in what Angie (the one who gave this advice) says when it comes to calm villains. Think about it for a minute: who would you be more afraid of: a guy who says, “I’m going to kill you” while cartoonishly laughing or a guy who says, “I’m going to kill you” while breathing calmly through his nose? Since cartoon characters don’t exist in the real world, you’re more likely to be afraid of the calm and collected guy.

Case in point, WWE Smackdown superstar Kevin Owens. A wrestling example? Again? You got that right! In his mind, he’s justified in his anger against Smackdown Commissioner Shane McMahon. Kevin believes Shane is showing bias against him and screwing him out of important championship victories. So what does Kevin do? He tells Shane to his face, “Your whole family would have been better off if you didn’t survive that helicopter crash. Your father, your wife, and especially your kids!” Shane beats the hell out of Kevin to where the latter threatens a lawsuit against the WWE (because authority figures aren’t supposed to assault the wrestlers (tell that to Stephanie McMahon)).

Shane’s father and CEO of WWE, Vince McMahon, makes an appearance on Smackdown to quash the potential lawsuit and put Kevin Owens in a Hell in a Cell match against Shane McMahon. Kevin, in his calm and collected manner, wants Vince’s word that he won’t be fired if he, “Beats a McMahon senseless.” Vince gives the okay, but without realizing that Kevin meant ANY McMahon. He heat butts the 70-year-old Vince and opens a deep cut in his forehead. The beating continues in the form of rib kicks, a super kick, and a frog splash. Kevin has a shocked look on his face like, “What the fuck did I just do?”

Next week on Smackdown, Kevin Owens, once again being the calm and collected villain he is, blames Shane McMahon for his father’s assault. His passionate tirade against the Smackdown Commissioner ends with, “For what I’m about to do to you at Hell in a Cell, people like me don’t go to Hell; people like me go to Heaven.” Imagine that last line being said through a cool demeanor. Creepy, huh?

The coolness becomes ice cold when the next week on Smackdown, Kevin Owens has a wrestling match with his longtime rival Sami Zayn. The match ends in a No Contest when Kevin power bombs Sami onto the corner of the ring apron (the hardest part of the ring) and possibly fractures his ribs and spine in the process. What does the calm villain do as Sami Zayn is being carted out of the arena? Well, he sits on the announce table and stares at Sami like he had just taken a bowlful of Prozac and washed it down with warm milk. Peace and quiet washes over Kevin Owens like warm and soothing beach water. It’s the loveliest feeling in the world for him.

Kevin Owens doesn’t have a cartoonish laugh. He doesn’t wear clown makeup. He doesn’t have bulging eyes and a nearly exploding forehead vein. He’s just this calm, cool, and collected tormentor who feels so numb that his brain might as well have been rubbed with Novocain. A straightjacket is too good for him. He needs a prison cell in the worst way. That’s how scary Kevin Owens is as a villainous wrestler. You don’t have to be a wrestling fan to appreciate how calmly psychotic he is.

Pay attention to those two operative words: “calmly psychotic”. It’s not just one or the other. It’s a combination of both, whether the psychosis is subtle or not. If Kevin Owens told you that he was going to rip your intestines out and feed them to vultures and coyotes, you’d better run as fast as you fucking can. If he told you he was going to show up at your home while you were away and hoped that your kids answered the door for him…well, you get the idea.

And then you have the other WWE example in this blog entry, the overly psychotic Bray Wyatt. Since 2013, Bray Wyatt has had the same gimmick of a backwoods cult leader. He would speak in these cryptic promos and he would back up his spookiness with a 300 lb. frame and a hard-hitting fighting style. He once had a choir of sheep-masked children sing, “He’s Got the Whole World In His Hands”, which was so spooky that it reminded me of the scene in Pink Floyd the Wall where they sang, “Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2”. Couple this with backwards tarantula walking, brainwashing abilities, a worm-infested compound to live in, and a bearded face with a head full of long dirty dreadlocks and you’ve got a recipe for psychosis.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I modeled a lot of my villains after Bray Wyatt. But on the advice of my awesome friend Angie, it could be time to at least try a new style: the calm and collected villain with a subtle psychotic nature. It could be a guy who picks the wings off of flies and keeps a straight face the entire time. It could be a handsome gentleman in a suit and tie who orders human jerky online. It could be a gentle and loving grandpa who instead of slashing the shit out of people, suffocates them with duct tape by covering their mouths and noses. This is already sounding pretty creepy to me, so yes, there’s a lot of truth in what Angie says. Happy early Halloween, by the way! We’ve got ears, say cheers! Hehehehehehe!

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

Despite the subtitle of this short story collection, this next piece could be my first real attempt at crafting a calm villain. He’s a politician, so being calm and charismatic comes with the territory. This story will be called “Peacemaker” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1.      Gerard Killings, Human Assassin

2.      Misty Blades, Fox Ninja

3.      Randy Schneider, Politician

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: Gerard has the unfortunate mercenary work of protecting Randy Schneider, a politician who is trying to introduce a bill that would legalize fox hunting. One night while Gerard is camping out in Mr. Schneider’s living room, the mansion is invaded by Misty Blades, an anthropomorphic fox who takes offense to the pompous politician’s anti-animal views. Gerard Killings has to decide between collecting a paycheck from Randy or giving into his disgust for his client and agreeing to help Misty. Either way, Randy Schneider isn’t a slouch himself; he’s armed with a peacemaker handgun while Gerard prefers a machete and Misty possesses a jagged katana.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Speaking of calmly villainous politicians, next on the chopping block is Randy Schneider. Maybe I could use Patrick Bateman as a reference model when I draw Randy. Or perhaps Alan Shores from the TV series “Boston Legal”. Or perhaps David Aceveda from “The Shield”. Whoever I end up modeling Randy Schneider after, it won’t be another chubby villain like I normally have. Marie Krepps likes to rib me over that, but she’s truthful in her friendly ribbing. It’s time for a change!

***WRESTLECRAP***

Another wrestling reference? Again? What’s with me and these…ugh…Anyways, now that Stuck Rubber Baby and Paper Towns are both in my rearview mirror, it’s time for a new book. Stuck Rubber Baby was a graphic novel and Paper Towns before it was a fictional novel, which means the next choice has to be nonfiction (that’s a new rule for me when I choose which book to read: I have to cover all three bases). Enter Wrestlecrap, a biography of the worst gimmicks and storylines in the history of professional wrestling, dating all the way up to 2003 when the book was published. So far, so good. It’s not earth-shattering, so it’ll probably earn a passing grade at best. I like it, though. I like it a lot!

***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY (AGAIN?!)***

If Dude Love and Juice Robinson formed a tag team together, they’d be called Dude Juice.

Through It All

Even though the armor-donning orc Elijah Heartland was built like a brick wall, the Master Judge always knew how to make his body feel microscopic and his testicles feel like shards of glass. Towering over Elijah at eight and a half feet tall, the golden-armored and powder-wigged Master Judge held his oversized war hammer over the orc’s head as easily as a pool cue and gave him a shiver-worthy evaluation.

“I must say, Elijah,” boomed Master Judge in a god-like voice. “You’ve excelled tremendously during the physical tests to becoming a paladin. Then again, such barbaric violence is always to be expected from a member of your race. You have the strength of a thousand warriors, but not the intelligence or wisdom of them. Ever since these trials began, you’ve been nothing short of an embarrassment to yourself. Your hair-trigger temper and dagger tongue have gotten you into more trouble than you’re worth. I should consider failing you right now!”

Thunder and lightning punctuated the Master Judge’s recent words, which sent Elijah backpedaling on his ass. The gigantic knight continued, “But instead I’ve opted to give you one final test: to confront the scathing ghost of your past. If you successfully complete this test, you will become a paladin and your prison sentence will be expunged. If you don’t, you will rot in solitary confinement for the rest of your waste life. And to think, all of this hateful violence was over a woman. Heh…a woman. Pull yourself together, you imbecile, or this will be the last time you see the light of day!”

A final bolt of lightning crashed down upon the Master Judge and he disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Without his massive frame to cover Elijah’s field of view, the orc gazed upon the test that lied before him: a heavenly white marble staircase with black hooded ghosts lining either side of it. He wondered if he would become acrophobic at such great heights.

Whatever fear Elijah previously had from being emasculated by the Master Judge disappeared when he stood back up and spit on the ground. He drew his sword thinking he would need it by the time he got to the top. Perhaps he could cut down these hooded ghosts and flee the scene? No, too risky. It wasn’t worth being locked in solitary confinement until the day he died. With furrowed brows and clenched fangs, the orc took his sweet time in ascending the marble stairs.

To his surprise, the ghosts just stood there chanting religious hymns instead of just pounding on him. The Master Judge said it best when he iterated Elijah had the strength of a thousand warriors, but even that wouldn’t be worth banking on against these freaks. The flight of stairs seemed to go on forever, like Elijah had been walking on a conveyor belt. His muscled legs refused to give out, especially when a golden ray of light grew brighter as he neared the top.

What Elijah saw at the platform caused him to lick his lips with violent lust and sharpen his sword with the corner of the stairs: a woman in orange monk’s robes on her knees with shackles pinning her arms to the ground and a black hood over her head. No matter how intensely she struggled, she couldn’t free herself. “You’re making this too easy, Master Judge!” shouted Elijah when he approached the woman and ripped the bag off of her head.

The orc’s scaly green skin turned as white as the marble staircase when he saw who was under the hood. “No…no, this isn’t happening! Shiva?! Is that you?!”

Shiva Terkai was the name given to the purple-haired, porcelain-faced lady who peeked up at Elijah with begging sorrowful eyes. “Please, Elijah. Help me. Don’t leave me here to die.”

Elijah Heartland chuckled and scoffed, “Leave you here to die? The irony is killing me, babe. I wish I had the right to say that when you ran away with that goofy looking shit-weasel you call a human! You ripped my heart out that day, Shiva. I should really be thanking you, though, for making me open my eyes and see the world for the hellhole it is. You human women are all the fucking same!”

“It’s not my fault you turned out this way, Elijah!” belted Shiva. “There’s no rule that says you have to go on a rampage every time some girl breaks your heart! There are other women out there! I bet you would have found one and gotten married if you hadn’t ended up in prison!”

“You would have done the same thing if I found another hot sexy woman while we were dating! I don’t expect you to understand what a broken heart does to people, because you never had a fucking heart to begin with! You think infidelity is okay?! I’m an orc and even I get disgusted by that shit!” shouted Elijah.

“Don’t act like you’re the saint around here! If you hadn’t gone on that rampage when we broke up, you would have done it for some other stupid reason! Your skull is thicker than a fucking brick! You have the temper of a goddamn five year old! How do you expect me to live with someone like you?! Running off with that other man? It would have happened sooner or later, but it didn’t happen soon enough!” snapped Shiva as she wrestled in her shackles some more.

“Why you!” stormed Elijah as he raised his sword to the sky and caused Shiva to flinch. His muscles twitched and pulsated, his pores released a floodgate of sweat, and his fangs could have chewed through stone with how hard he chomped down. This was his chance to exact revenge upon the woman who “drove him nuts”. One slash and her head would roll down the stairs like a keg of whiskey. The seconds he spent frozen in this position seemed to go on forever.

“What are you waiting for, Elijah!” screamed a familiar godly voice. The orc turned his head and saw the Master Judge standing only a few stairs behind him with his arms folded and his steel booted foot tapping. “Go ahead and kill her already! Save us the time of actually having to rehabilitate you into a righteous human being! It’ll be fun watching you squirm and sizzle in solitary confinement!”

Elijah sweated and trembled some more before the Master Judge and his ghost minions removed their hoods. The orc’s eyebrows shot sky high and his eyes bulged out of his head like a cartoon when he saw that underneath their hoods, they too were orcs. Scaly skin, wide noses, razor-sharp fangs, but a somehow milder stench than what Elijah was used to. The criminal gulped hard as he still had a decision to make involving the sword in his hands.

“I don’t have all fucking day, Elijah! Kill her already!” shouted the Master Judge. His orc friends chanted, “Kill her!” in succession like they were at a sports bar. The blade was raised, Shiva’s eyes grew damp, and Elijah’s muscles twitched even harder. And then, the blade came down like a bolt of lightning, a heavenly judgment for a “sinful” woman. Except the blade didn’t come down on her neck. He slashed one of the shackles in half and proceeded to slash the other, freeing her from bondage.

The two former lovers hugged it out and dampened each other’s shoulders with tears of joy. The Master Judge, on the other hand, had a face full of red hot lava and the trembling temper of a berserker. By drawing his thumb across his own throat, he signaled for his robed orc cohorts to charge up the stairs and finish the job themselves.

Elijah and Shiva got into their fighting stances and cut the ghostly orcs off at the top of the stairs. Elijah swung his blade at his opponents with rapid precision and a barbarian’s might, severing arms, legs, and heads while turning their bodies into blood bombs. One of the orcs threw a hatchet into Elijah’s arm and caused him to roar in pain. The fiery agony surged through his body for only a few seconds as he ripped it out, licked up the blood like a kissing lover, and slashed that minion’s throat with the same hatchet.

Shiva was a martial artist by nature and threw lightning quick punches and kicks at her opponents, shattering ribs and splitting skulls. Bodies rolled down the stairs and shattered even more bones on the sharp corners.  One of the minions managed to catch her in a bear hug, but she stamped the heel of her foot down on his toes and crunched them all to force his release. She delivered the final blow in the form of a back elbow to the jaw before throwing him across a group of orcs and watching them tumble down the stairs.

Body parts, shattered bones, and squishy organs decorated these once beautiful marble stairs until one orc minion remained. Elijah and Shiva nodded at each other before they both ganged up on him with a stab to the gut and a flying knee to the chest. The final minion sloshed onto the stairs like a puddle of violent pudding. “Enough!” shouted the Master Judge as he held out his hand and collected the spiritual essences of each ghost warrior under his command. Glowing white energy took the place of blood and body parts as it gathered into a silver orb in his hand until the stairs reverted back to their old beauty.

“I told you what was going to happen, Elijah, and by gods be damned, you’re going to get it!” belted the Master Judge as he held out his gigantic war hammer. Elijah and Shiva both stood back in their defensive positions expecting the Master Judge to smash them into bloody morsels. The two even held hands while Shiva whispered, “I’m sorry” and Elijah whispered back, “Me too.” The war hammer was raised high in the sky and brought down in a thunderous fury.

“Congratulations! You’ve passed the final test. I dub thee Sir Elijah Heartland,” said the Master Judge in a gentle voice as he knighted his criminal apprentice with the war hammer. Elijah and Shiva gazed up at their overlord in confusion rather than feeling instant elation. The Master Judge explained, “The paladin trials are just as much of an emotional challenge as they are physical. By sparing Shiva Terkai’s life, you’ve shown her forgiveness. Being able to forgive your enemies is a stronger feat than anything you can do with that blade of yours. The only time you needed that blade was to defend an innocent victim, which you’ve done a marvelous job of. This is what being a paladin is all about: knowing when to strike and when to forgive. Even under my harshest words, you’ve demonstrated that wisdom to a fault. You’re free to go, my friend. May you always walk in the light.”

A lightning bolt crashed down upon the Master Judge and he disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving Elijah and Shiva to stare at each other in awe and wonder. Shiva tried to hold her former lover’s hands, but he pushed them away and said, “We can never have what we used to have. What’s in the past should stay in the past. But if you want, I can walk you home just this one time. After that, we both go our separate ways. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” whispered Shiva while she hung her head. “But if you don’t mind…would it be okay if we…held hands while we walked home? I swear we’ll both go our separate ways, but just this once?”

Elijah sighed, “Sure, why not? Come on, let’s leave this place.” Sure enough the two of them locked their fingers together and descended the marble stairs slowly and carefully. They picked up their pace once the gray clouds gathered overhead and sprinkled some much needed cold rain on their sore skins.

Gyromancer

Are you a spin doctor or a gyromancer?

Both of those options are your final answer

Excusing racism and other forms of bigotry

Excusing homophobia while practicing bigamy

Excusing cop violence as the body count soars

Excusing blood oozing from minorities’ pores

As long as you have an R next to your name

You’re instantly immune to shame and blame

Justice was tailor made for the silver spoon

You’re not fooling anyone anytime soon

You wonder why we march in the streets

When the flag is flying, we take our seats

It’s Freedom of Speech, you fucking leech

It’s something you’re always proud to preach

As long as you’re the only one who uses it

Who’s triggered now? You’re the one who loses it

You call us snowflakes for doing what’s right

You’re triggered too! You’re not too bright

You don’t give a shit about liberty and freedom

You only give a shit about ruling the kingdom

Goosestep your ass back to the 1930’s

Or the 1500’s where it’s diseased and dirty

But at least your old values will be alive and well

Gyromancer, I’ll see you in hell!