"Fight" by K.L. Cottrell

BOOK TITLE: Fight

AUTHOR: K.L. Cottrell

YEAR: 2014

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Urban Fantasy

GRADE: Extra Credit

When last we left the Light Force, a new breed of enemy from the Dark World was next in line to bring chaos and destruction to this world: the Tatts. Inked up magic users along with their demonic brethren the Hellions have made life miserable for those who don’t conform to their evil agenda. Marienne and Gabe, along with the rest of the Light Force, refuse to go down without a fight. They have the tools, they have the know-how, but most importantly, they have each other and will do anything to protect what is sacred in their lives. There will be blood and death, but there will also be victories and love. Who will survive in this classic clash between good and evil?

Yes, this book is about slaying monsters. Yes, there’s a lot of violence. Despite it all, however, this book maintains a positive vibe from the beginning to the end. The way the Light Force treats each other is refreshing to anybody who wants a break from the drill sergeant mentality so prevalent in fantasy and sci-fi fiction. Don’t get me wrong, I love a dark story as much as the next sicko, but even I need a breath of fresh air every now and then. This book delivers on that front and so much more. You can create conflict in a novel without having your beloved good guys constantly at each other’s throats. The author proves that over and over again. The Light Force isn’t just a group of likeminded people. They’re family. They’re friends. They’re lovers. They’re everything they need each other to be…except Rafe, who’s a total jerk.

As long as we’re keeping the positive vibes going, let’s talk for a bit about the romance between our two narrators, Gabe and Marienne. I’ve read a lot of novels in my day with romantic subplots and I can safely say that these two are my favorite couple, hands down, end of story. They’ve got more chemistry than a periodic table. They can kiss and be physical with each other without being hokey. They’re equal to each other in terms of respect given and how well they perform in fights with Hellions and Tatts. Everything that can go right in this relationship does go right…and I love it to pieces! You know who else I can love as a couple? Wes and Beatrix, who are just as lovey-dovey and just as respectful to each other as Gabe and Marienne. I’m feeling giddy even as I write this review!

But with every hero, there are villains waiting in the wings to bring the happiness to a grinding halt. Though not technically a villain, Marienne’s ex-boyfriend Rafe is painful to read about due to his obnoxious and jealous behavior (which makes me wonder why he’s not secretly a Hellion or a Tatt). Claire, Marienne’s sister, has always been nasty and malicious with her salty dialogue and newly acquired demonic tone. If there’s one villain you have to look out for more than others, it’s Leuan Cain, Tatt billionaire. Yes, he has dark magic and fighting abilities equaled by nobody, but that’s not what’s scary about him. He’s scary because he’s charming to ordinary people. He gives civilians hope and love and in return they give him their free will. He’s a typical politician without ever once landing a position in the White House. In the same way Donald Trump appeals to white nationalists, Cain appeals to the weak and frail. That is one way to make a villain believable and formidable at the same time.

I could go on and on about how much I love K.L. Cottrell’s Light series. I could make a laundry list of reasons why this book in particular deserves five out of five stars, a grade I don’t give out so freely. But when you finally pick up a copy of this novel, it’ll all become clear to you in a heartbeat. You feel the love and positivity right away with the opening speech about our fights in life. You want to be best friends with everybody in the Light Force (except for Rafe). You want to see Cain and other villains get their comeuppance by the time the third novel in this series is over. Those things by themselves are enough to convince me to give any book five stars. But together? Oh man!

Small Talk

VERSE 1

I don’t care about the weather, not now, not ever

Even in a blizzard, I can think of a topic much better

I don’t give a shit about how your day is going

I could go my whole life without once ever knowing

I don’t give a fuck about where your ass is from

Could you think of a question that isn’t so dumb?

I don’t give a damn about who your family is

I’m not a part of it nor someone you will miss

CHORUS

Fuck small talk! It’s boring!

All these words you’re storing!

I want peace! I want quiet!

I want motherfucking silence!

VERSE 2

I don’t give a rat’s ass about where you work

But telling you to fuck off will label me a jerk

I don’t give a flying fuck about your childhood

Sleep in your fetus jar like every child should

I don’t give a good goddamn about your car

Get your ass in it and drive away really far

I’d rather shoot myself in the fucking skull

Than listen to you give your string another pull

CHORUS

Fuck small talk! It’s boring!

All these words you’re storing!

I want peace! I want quiet!

I want motherfucking silence!

VERSE 3

An introvert’s dream is a Gracie Films shush

That goes unchallenged, not even a little push

An introvert’s paradise is a cat and a novel

Away from those who flap their gums and waddles

I’m not sorry for standing up for my own peace

I’m not sorry for making this conversation cease

Meaningless words fell on the deafest of ears

I don’t care if this makes me awkward and weird

EXTENDED CHORUS

Fuck small talk! It’s boring!

All these words you’re storing!

I want peace! I want quiet!

I want motherfucking silence!

Fuck small talk! It’s annoying!

There’s nothing worth enjoying!

I need rest! I need sleep!

Now beat it, you fucking creep!

Eat My Beef

VERSE 1

I had a lunch date with Ronald

We ate just like The Donald

And then he whipped it out and said

“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 2

We had some chicken nuggets

And then we said, “Fuck it!”

The Colonel from Kentucky can

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 3

We ate some salty fries

And then some salty guys

Tried to shame us, but we told them to

“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 4

We drank a lot of Coke

Until we almost choked

My cholesterol’s a joke, so

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 5

We slid into the ball pit

Even though we didn’t fit

If you really give a shit, then

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 6

I say fuck the heart attacks

We need a fucking snack

We’re addicted like crack, so

EAT MY BEEF!

Intro: When I Was Young

When I was young, I could tell the world to fuck off with little to no consequences.

I could throw the first punch.

I could bruise the biggest egos.

I could walk among giants.

And then one day…the world fought back.

A shade of purple underneath my eye.

A shade of red in my tunnel vision.

A shade of gray in my foggy mind.

Ever since then, I broke down my own walls just to make others feel comfortable.

I gave you all comfort you didn’t deserve.

You took full advantage of that and more.

The only way you left my life was on your own terms.

Did I give you permission to walk all over me? Don’t answer that.

I don’t care if you think I’m a boring person.

I don’t care if you think I’m an awful writer.

I don’t care if you think I’m too ugly for love.

I stopped caring what you think the minute you haunted my mind like a schizophrenic ghost.

I learned how to cope using positive thinking.

And then you gave me permission to feel bad.

I guess I was only just fucking myself.

The day will come when I’m able to rise up and tell the world to fuck off once more.

It won’t be today.

It won’t be tomorrow.

But one day when you’ve pushed enough of my buttons, I will strike.

I held back too many times for fear of fucking everything up.

But when I unleash my full strength…I’ll take every one of you motherfuckers with me to hell.

Irresponsible Christian Parody

VERSE 1

What would Jesus do? Pretty much anyone

Who walks on water with God’s favorite son

He gives me strength for an eternal length

He makes me sing for the blessings he brings

My heart flutters every time I hear his name

Suddenly masturbation doesn’t feel like a shame

He brings me the hope and peace I’ve looked for

Ever since I walked into that Christian bookstore

CHORUS

Walk on water with the one I love

Enter paradise in the heavens above

Listen to the music of golden harps

And the beating of my bleeding heart

VERSE 2

Nonbelievers say that we’ll never last

They’ve got too many stones to cast

The only stones I’ve got belong to you

My boss is a carpenter and a practicing Jew

Let’s build Noah’s Ark with our bare hands

Collect every animal across these lands

Show them the love we have between us

Teach them to value the life of a fetus

CHORUS

Walk on water with the one I love

Enter paradise in the heavens above

Listen to the music of golden harps

And the beating of my bleeding heart

VERSE 3

The planet is melting, the oceans are boiling

But only because hell on earth is uncoiling

Let’s show them what we’ve got with prayers

Why should we blame it all on the industrial air?

Your love will set the human race totally free

If that makes us fruitcakes, be our honeybee

Only one way to heaven and it’s not a stairway

It’s to kneel for Jesus while bashing the gays

CHORUS

Walk on water with the one I love

Enter paradise in the heavens above

Listen to the music of golden harps

And the beating of my bleeding heart

FINAL LINE

April Fools, bitches! Hail Satan!

Donate Your Blood Money

***DONATE YOUR BLOOD MONEY***

Have you ever done something for money you’re not necessarily proud of? Does it feel wrong to have that resulting wad of cash because of it? Maybe your paycheck comes from a far-right conspiracy theorist, overseas dictator, drug lord, or otherwise objectionable human being. Of course, if you need that paycheck to survive, then there’re no two ways about it. But…if you’re able to afford it and you’re not comfortable with your blood money…donate it to a worthy cause. If money is the root of all evil, then turn it over to the root of all that’s good in the world and watch the balance of power shift.

Suppose you’re a WWE wrestler and you’re being assigned to perform for the Saudi Arabian government. You can’t stand the oppressive way they treat women and LGBT people. You can’t stand the fact that there’s no freedom of speech. There’s no freedom of anything in that country, but you must perform there at the risk of being fired by the WWE. It’s money from the Saudi Arabian government, so it’s going to be a big fat payday…for a charity of your choice! It could go to RAINN (Rape and Incest National Network). It could go to HIV/AIDS research. It could be used to prevent LGBT suicide. Hey, it’s your hard-earned money. If you want to donate it to a cause that’ll make the Saudi government’s heads explode, that’s your call. WWE can’t tell you not to do that.

Suppose you’re a waitress at a restaurant Rush Limbaugh likes to frequent. You love the fact that he’s a high tipper, but can’t stand the shit he says on live radio whether it’s against women, people of color, the LGBT community, or god knows what else. What do you do with that big ass tip if you don’t feel comfortable with it in your bank account? What any normal person would, of course: donate it to a women’s shelter or a women’s health clinic! This was actually a true story that the Young Turks reported. I can’t imagine Rush was very happy with it and quite frankly I don’t give a shit.

I don’t want you all to think I’m just standing on my soapbox and spouting off my beliefs through a bullhorn, as much as I love to do that. Donating blood money can actually be something a protagonist does in a piece of creative writing. Suppose your main character is a space mercenary who gets a fat briefcase full of money from a disgusting Jabba the Hutt-esque crime lord. Said space mercenary could donate it to impoverished children in the galaxy. Suppose your main character is a streetwalker who takes a hefty paycheck from a client she fucking hates. She can donate it to a women’s shelter.

Part of that ongoing story arc is what the boss man does after the protagonist donates his money to a rival cause. Does he send goons after the protagonist? Does he sue the protagonist? Does he go after the charity with explosive devices? Boss men hate that sort of thing, so it’s going to make your story a hell of a lot spicier than before. Just think of how wicked it would be if Boba Fett donated his bounty hunting money to helping women escape from Jabba the Hutt. It’ll never happen, but just think of the world of possibilities!

To be honest, I didn’t really think this blog entry all the way through. It happens sometimes. I’ll have this big idea that only expands to…one full page of text. That’s okay. I said everything I needed to say. Remember: only donate your blood money if you’re in a stable enough position to do so. In this fucked up economy, pinching your pennies is paramount to survival. I get that. But if you’re ever feeling uncomfortable with such unclean money, the ASPCA is more than willing to use it to protect precious fur babies. I can only imagine that’s what happened to Michael Vick’s assets once they were seized and rightfully so. Dog murdering bastard! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER AND EMILIO & MARIGOLD***

Yard sales, house chores, concerts, illness, and general sleepiness have slowed down the process of putting together manuscripts for Beautiful Monster and Emilio & Marigold. But as Valarie Savage Kinney once said in a You Tube video, slow progress is better than no progress at all. E&M’s manuscript is complete and the first three chapters of Beautiful Monster are put together, which leaves twenty-five more to comb through for glaring flaws. Once the manuscripts are complete and I’m sure there are zero typos, I plan on sending them back to Hollow Hills for another few rounds of editing. My other beta readers have been wonderful, but Hollow Hills is the least expensive out of all of them. Plus, with two manuscripts instead of just one, being frugal is important. Sleepiness can kick my ass all it wants, but I’ll keep getting back up even if it fucking kills me!

***BEACH BALL Z***

I’m sure you all have noticed that in between edit jobs for E&M and BM, I’m writing more short stories for the Poison Tongue Tales and American Darkness trilogies. The next short story on deck will be a Dragon Ball Z parody called “Beach Ball Z”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Zoku, Martial Artist
2. Jeeta, Martial Artist
3. Nameless Audience Members

SYNOPSIS: In the finals of the Dragon Fist Tournament, Zoku and Jeeta square off at the world famous Preparation H Pavilion. Despite the warriors’ efforts to put on an intense, violent fight for the crowd, the audience is preoccupied with bouncing a beach ball around and getting a Twitter trend going on called #BeachBallZ. While Zoku has a lax attitude towards the distracted fans, Jeeta feels overwhelmingly disrespected and pops the beach ball mid-match, much to the crowd’s booing dismay.

FUN FACT: This story was inspired by true events that took place during a WWE Tag Team Championship match at Summer Slam between The Hardy Boys and Cesaro & Sheamus. Some idiots in the crowd were playing with a beach ball during what was an intense and brutal match, so Cesaro ran out in the crowd and popped the motherfucker. Good on him!

***WRESTLING PROMO OF THE DAY***

(RE: Jake “The Snake” Roberts)

“The first thing I want to be done around here is to get that piece of crap out of my ring! Don’t just get him out of my ring; get him out of the WWF! ‘Cause I’ve proved, son, without a shadow of a doubt that you ain’t got what it takes anymore! You sit there, you thump your bible, and you say your prayers and it didn’t get you anywhere! Talk about your psalms, talk about John 3:16! Austin 3:16 says I just whipped your ass! All you got to do is go buy a cheap bottle of Thunderbird to get back some of that courage you had in your prime!”

-Stone Cold Steve Austin after winning the 1996 King of the Ring tournament-

The Battle About Nothing

Gonzo Kramer fingered a jovial TV tune on his bass guitar, hoping for an audience of some kind in this tiny New York apartment. But alas, all the attention was on his three whiny friends in the kitchen, Jerry Stonefield, George Katana, and Elaine Berretta. No matter how ordinary the topic was, there remained no shortage of comedic observations or general complaints about it. The more they bitched, the harder Kramer’s bass playing became. It had nothing to do with being heard, but everything to do with wanting to slap his friends instead of a bass guitar.

The wavy-haired Jerry Stonefield held a jug of milk in his hands and asked, “Why is it called two-percent milk?! It’s a hundred-percent full when you buy it. It should be called a hundred-percent milk! And why is it so funny when Oval Teen dissolves in it? And why is it called Oval Teen? The jar is round. The teenagers who drink it become round. It should be called Round Teen!”

This earned a corny laugh from anybody not named Gonzo Kramer, who slapped his bass guitar with even more aggression. He could have played bagpipes, a kazoo, and crash cymbals and still wouldn’t have drawn a crowd.

All the attention now was on the horseshoe-haired, stumpy George Katana, who said, “I drank a whole jar of Oval Teen on TV once. I didn’t even put milk in it, I just ate the powder. I had powder all over my face and there were no napkins around. Whoever was responsible for shooting that footage cost me a relationship!”

“You should’ve just eaten soup, George,” said Elaine, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Soup is not a meal unless you crumble some crackers in it.”

“It’s the Bubble Boy’s fault anyways,” said George.

“No, it’s Newman’s fault,” said Jerry. “Everything is Newman’s fault! He’s not a mystery wrapped in a riddle! He’s a mystery wrapped in a Twinkie! There’s LESS to Newman than meets the eye!”

The kitchen drivel blended together and became more obnoxious for Kramer to listen to than any instrument he could have been playing. It didn’t matter how hard he banged his instrument, because it was his own head that needed banging against a brick wall if this conversation was allowed to continue. And then…he got an idea.

“I like Newman, but I don’t know if he’s sponge-worthy!” confessed Elaine before Kramer got up and smashed his bass guitar over her head, crushing her skull and splattering her brains all over the counter. The guitar wasn’t in any better shape since the neck broke off and the thick strings coiled up.

Jerry and George backed up against the fridge shaking in horror. Jerry yelled, “Kramer, what the hell are you doing?! You killed her!”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship with her,” confessed Kramer with an evil grin on his face.

George whimpered and stuttered, “Have you ever killed somebody before?”

Throwing the neck of the bass guitar on the ground, Kramer held out his bloodied hands and said, “What do you think, Junior? Have these hands been soaking in Ivory liquid?” He then wiped the blood all over George’s flannel shirt and Dockers pants. “Wait a minute…cotton Dockers! One hundred percent! If they’re not Dockers, they’re just pants!” In one fluid motion, Kramer ripped George’s pants off and left him trembling in his boxers and socks.

With Jerry unable to help him due to cowering in the corner, George begged, “Please don’t hurt me, Kramer!”

“Shut up, you whiny bitch!” yelled Kramer. “Fifty years ago, we would have had you upside down with a fucking fork up your ass! In fact, now that I’ve got you here…” He grabbed George by the ear and allowed the victim’s glasses to fall on the floor. George could scream all he wanted, but his trembling legs weren’t backing him up in his begging for freedom. Kramer dragged George to the open apartment window and bent him over the sill.

As George whimpered and squealed, Kramer let out a few yodels to taunt him before ripping off his victim’s underwear. “Aww, what’s the matter, you big baby?!”

“Kramer…I think it moved…”

“Get a life, you faggot!” yelled Kramer before smacking George on the ass. He spanked him a few more times until George’s naked butt was blistered and bleeding. “Hey, George! Are you sponge worthy?! Can your boys swim?!”

“For God’s sake, Kramer, let him go!” cried Jerry, huddling in the corner despite his small moment of bravery.

“You want me to let him go?! Okay! I just hope he doesn’t need radical reconstructive surgery afterwards!” Kramer shoved George out the window and it was only seconds after that the sound of crunching metal and glass echoed across the street. It was even more musical to Kramer’s ears than his bass guitar playing, but it was not nearly as boner-inducing as Jerry’s pleas for forgiveness in the corner of the kitchen.

Kramer slowly stalked towards his final victim and stood over him like a giant over a sea of frightened villagers.

“Please, Kramer, don’t kill me! I won’t tell anybody about this! I won’t even do it in my standup comedy!”

Kramer knelt beside Jerry and placed a hand on his vibrating, tear-stained arm. “And here I thought you liked edgy comedy. This is far more compelling than arguing about two-percent milk and whether or not soup is a meal. Aren’t you always complaining about how everything is too politically correct these days? Well, you’re being a snowflake right now!”

“Kramer, you murdered them!” Jerry wiped his leaky eyes with his other sleeve.

“Your audience was dead long before I smashed that bass guitar over Elaine’s head! Who gives a shit about two-percent milk?! Who gives two fucks about Oval Teen?! In fact…” Kramer pulled out a jar of Oval Teen from the cabinet and scooped up a handful. “This should help with your little crying problem.” He threw the powder in Jerry’s face and caused him to blubber some more.

Trying to talk over Jerry’s screams of pain, Kramer said, “You know why they should call it Round Teen?! Because your crappy comedy is like a circle! It just goes on and on and on! It never changes! It’s the same shit over and over again and I’m sick and tired of it! Do something edgy! Change it up a little bit!” He grabbed handful of Jerry’s hair and said, “Don’t make me come back here again!” Kramer then slammed the back of Jerry’s head against the cabinet. “Maybe that’ll scramble your brains enough!”

Months after the incident, Kramer never returned. Jerry’s brains did get scrambled. This was the wakeup call he never asked for. Quite frankly, nobody else asked for it either. Kramer sat in his jail cell watching TV one night when he saw Jerry debut new material on a late night talk show. He sported a shaved head and an older look (probably because of the beatings and trauma respectively), but he was definitely ready to charm the audience.

“Oh, people. They’re so important to you,” said Jerry. “You’ve got to be on your phone all the time because the people in your life are important. Really? They don’t seem that important with the way you swipe right by them like a gay French king.” The audience laughed as Jerry made exaggerated swiping motions with his finger. “Who pleases me today? Who shall I favor? Who shall I delete?”

“Okay, maybe I fucked him up a little too hard,” said Kramer to nobody in particular. “Can you go back to talking about Oval Teen?”

A prison guard knocked on his cell bars and said, “Gonzo Kramer? It’s time for your last meal.” And what did he get for a last meal? Soup with crackers crumbled in the broth.

“Soup is not a meal, damn it!” yelled Kramer. “Jerryyyyyyyyyyy!!”