***MAKESHIFT WRESTLING TEAMS***
Whether you’re a wrestling fan or not, this journal is strictly for my own amusement. I have a raunchy sense of humor with a little bit of Peter Pan Syndrome going on, so I can’t let this opportunity at cheap laughs to slide. Anyways, if you’re a wrestling fan, you know who Team PCB are. The acronym in their team name is made up of their first initials: Paige, Charlotte, and Becky Lynch. They used to be called The Submission Sorority, but when WWE found out that the name was already being used for a porn movie title, they took the route of using initials. And that got me thinking…what other makeshift teams can be formed the same way? Hmmm….
1. Kane, Kalisto, and Konnor (Team KKK)
2. Goldust, Ryback, and Rusev (Team GRR)
3. Cesaro, The Undertaker, Neville, and Tamina (Team CUNT)
4. Kevin Owens, Christian, and Kane (Team KOCK)
5. Fandango, The Undertaker, Cesaro, and Kane (Team FUCK)
6. Sin Cara, The Undertaker, and The Miz (Team SCUM)
7. Sin Cara and Adam Rose (Team SCAR)
8. Big E and Diego (Team BED)
9. Jimmy Uso, Neville, and Konnor (Team JUNK)
10. Hornswoggle and Erick Rowan (Team HER)
11. Sting, Hideo Itami, and Tamina (Team SHIT)
12. Blake, Alex Riley, and Fernando (Team BARF)
13. Randy Orton and Adam Rose (Team ROAR)
14. Bayley and Alberto Del Rio (Team BAD)
There. It’s all out of my system. I couldn’t be more proud of myself. I love having Peter Pan Syndrome. Hehe! We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***EDITING PRIORITIES***
With Occupy Wrestling holding a rating of 2-75 stars and Poison Tongue Tales being close to hitting the 50th story, it seems as though I’ve come to a crossroads when it comes to editing and working with the ultra awesome Marie Krepps, who’s tough when it matters and a kick-ass best friend. She insists that Occupy Wrestling should take priority since it’s already on the market and she doesn’t want it to be unfairly judged. Good point. Damn good point. But she also said that the decision was ultimately up to me when it came to which book I should edit. I took that to heart when I made my decision. The decision is, why can’t I work on them side-by-side? Is singular focus so sacred that these books can’t coexist in the same process? One day could be spent bulldozing short stories, the next day could be spent editing the hell out of individual OW chapters, and the cycle will repeat until both books are finished. Granted, it will require a great deal of discipline, but that’s something I’m capable of showing even during my low energy days.
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTEST AND COMPANY***
It’s a new week at the WSS and the prompt is “Fireworks”. The story I produce for that prompt won’t be part of Poison Tongue Tales since it’s a modern drama. It’s called “Football Sucks” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Irwin Gladden, New Mayor of Paulson City
Fred Jacobs, Irwin’s Bodyguard
Random Protesters
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Protesters set off fireworks as part of their demonstration.
SYNOPSIS: As Irwin’s first official act as mayor, he plans on balancing the city budget by converting a taxpayer-funded football stadium into the city’s largest public library. He even goes so far as to taunt opponents of this measure by saying, “Football sucks”. The morning after making this announcement, Irwin has an army of protesters outside his political headquarters and things don’t get better when Fred enters the room dizzy and bleeding.
***POISON TONGUE TALES***
Last night, I wrote story number 48, which was “Wasteland”. Story number 49 will be called “Mastodon” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Christopher Brown, Bounty Hunter
Courtney Robyn, Psychotic Criminal
PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.
SYNOPSIS: In a Dungeons & Dragons-like atmosphere, the city of Middlesex is overrun with criminals and it’s up to human fighter Christopher Brown to capture them for a reward. His latest hunt is Courtney Robyn, a psychotic serial killer whose body count is in the hundreds. Just when he’s closing in on her location, Courtney comes stampeding through the streets riding on a mastodon, crushing everyone in her path.
And in case you were wondering, no, Christopher Brown isn’t based on the rapper Chris Brown, although the former’s job requires him to fight a female serial killer. I swear it’s only a coincidence, though. I swear on my mother’s grave (even though she’s still alive).
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
The next drawing to come from this series will be of Elizabeth Dempsey, a human ranger from Blood Brawl who is in no way related to Brock Dempsey from Maggie’s Wisdom. It’s amazing that even though Blood Brawl is suspended, I still have the desire to draw the characters from that would-be novel. The more, the merrier I say.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“If I hear one note out of that trombone, I’m going to send all three of you to a place that makes Suplex City look like Disneyland!”
-Stephanie McMahon to The New Day-
Sunday, November 29, 2015
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Wasteland
Sweat poured down Faye Blood’s dark skin like a desert rain. Her fiery red hair was pasted to her forehead like horse glue. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her baggy white pants were draining even more sweat her already exhausted legs. Her orange monk’s sash clung to her upper body like a wrestler’s bear hug. Then again, all of this was to be expected from wandering the wastelands with a short supply of water and a hunched over body. The sun’s rays punished Faye’s body to where everything hurt. And to think, this much foot travel was all in the name of making a pilgrimage.
Pilgrimage? What kind of cruel and sadistic god would ever encourage his followers to walk aimlessly through these unforgiving sands? Couldn’t said deity at least have the decency to splurge for some camels? What about barrels of ice cold water and buckets of dry rations, was that asking too much as well? Faye would be lying if she said these thoughts hadn’t crossed her mind at least one time. But as quick as they haunted her, she pushed them back out of devotion to Salaam, the God of Benevolence. Her religious zeal trumped any complaints she had about doing this much exercise in one day.
The things Faye Blood would do at that moment for even a teardrops of fresh, nearly frozen water. She could strangle somebody. She could disembowel them. She could commit genocide and completely ruin her zealous track record with Salaam. An hour of zombie-like walking later and she would have two reasons for sudden violence. Just to make sure it wasn’t a mirage, Faye rubbed her eyes with balled up fists. With clear vision, no, this wasn’t a heatstroke-induced illusion.
What Faye saw at that moment could have been described as sensually pornographic, even from her outside perspective. A blue tent had been pitched and judging from the shadows of the two occupants, a man and a woman, there was some serious hanky-panky going on in there. The dominant male rained kisses upon his lovely female and touched her in places that made her squeal with delight and giggle with pleasure.
She didn’t have a whole lot to puke up, but if Faye did, she would spill her breakfast, lunch, and dinner all over the desert ground. Public display of affection was more disgusting to her than a battlefield full of dead bodies. To make matters worse, the male in the tent opened what looked like a bottle of water and was pouring it all over the female’s chest and face, causing her to arch up in orgasmic ecstasy.
Now Faye was pissed off. That was valuable water that could have gone to anybody dying of thirst in this god forsaken land. Instead it was being used for a cheap aphrodisiac between two equally cheap people. The monk’s fists were clinched and her muscles were tensed. Any tiredness she felt beforehand was replaced with energetic rage. Adrenaline pumped through her veins like the river she so desperately wanted to drink from.
The religious warrior stomped over to the tent and jerked it open with one frustrated rip. The lusty couple jumped backwards in surprise and scrambled to put their clothes back on. All the male had to put back on was a black mesh tank top while the female had a black leather breastplate. Their lower halves were completely covered with black baggy pants and black combat boots.
Faye actually allowed these two the time they needed to dress just by standing there in her muscle-tensing pose with the ripped tent still in her balled up fists. She couldn’t stand looking at them half-naked anymore. She didn’t care how smooth and toned their “sexy” bodies were or how lovely their long hair looked. Faye was thirsty. Whether she was thirsty for water or blood was a question that couldn’t be answered just by looking at her viciously angry pose.
“I could snap both of your necks right now and nobody would even try to find you two nitwits,” said Faye through gritted teeth. “If you’re not going to use that water intelligently, then at least give it to someone who will. Show me where you keep your jugs of water and I’ll be on my way.”
The male paramour, identified as Marco Torres, drew a rather long blade from its leather sheath and said in a smooth Spanish accent, “Hold on a second, babe. Who the hell do you think you are interrupting a beautiful thing like lovemaking?”
“Trust me, macho-nacho,” said Faye. “There’s nothing beautiful about wasting water just so your little harlot over here can have a fifteen-hour orgasm.”
The female paramour, identified as Rook Maxwell, drew a claymore from its sheath and heaved up a metal tower shield before saying, “Now sugar bear, if it’s water that you want, you don’t have to threaten to rip our heads off. By all means, you can have as much as you want. You’re not getting it from those jugs, though. This kind of water comes from spending seven minutes in heaven with the two of us!”
Faye instantly knew where the source of “water” was supposed to be and screamed in disgust while covering her ears with her palms. She then sang an agonized, tone-deaf version of “La-la-la-la-la!” before Marco and Rook got annoyed and lunged at her full force.
The two lovers swung their respective blades full force and made heavy “woosh” noises as Faye Blood cart wheeled and back flipped out of the way of these deadly strikes. With two people attacking her at once, Faye couldn’t find a split second of offence and spent most of this battle acrobatically dodging attacks. If she kept moving around this quickly for much longer, she would have another reason to collapse in exhaustion other than her desert travels.
As Faye continued to tuck, roll, flip, and fly out of the way of Marco and Rook’s tireless slashes, the monk noticed how they were concentrating only on the upper half of her body. Therefore, Faye did the splits and went down low with five knuckles of death right into Marco’s testicles.
The Spanish thug doubled over and howled in a raspy voice before dropping to his knees and rolling around on the ground. With him dispatched of, it was only Rook Maxwell swinging her heavy blade at Faye Blood, who continued to flip and fly around the battlefield to avoid getting struck.
Evasion was much easier for Faye with one opponent, but not for long. Rook pointed her lengthy hunk of metal at her opponent and shot little black energy grenades that exploded into smoke. Faye could try to run, but the thick smoke enveloped her and she soon found herself on her knees hacking and wheezing, much worse off than being dehydrated in the desert.
Rook sauntered over to her vulnerable victim with a kinky smile and a clear path through all of her magical smoke. Faye was passing in and out of consciousness by the time Rook waved her sword and blew her own smoke away. The dark paladin held her blade against Faye’s coughing and bloody mouth with the intent to make the final kill.
“Look at it this way, sweetheart: at least now you won’t have to worry about dying of dehydration. I plan on making this as quick as possible, but only because I really like you,” said Rook.
She slowly positioned the blade to Faye’s throat when the monk shakily and languidly made it to her feet. Rook thought this was some kind of last ditch effort, a second wind maybe. But all Faye had to come back with was vomiting in the dark paladin’s face. Blood, ashes, and desert sand filled her stomach with enough contents to make the projectile vomit that much more disgusting.
All of that biological slop was enough to deter Rook Maxwell from carrying out a murder, however. She danced around and clutched her “beautiful” face as the stomach acids burned her eyeballs. Some of it even managed to go down her throat, so she was choking as well.
They weren’t dead, but Faye was satisfied with her combat results long enough to spot jugs of water with her blurry vision. “Must…have…water…” she said over and over again to herself when she crawled on her hands and knees over to the leather skins. She pulled the cork from one of them and chugged like it was her last chance at fresh water. And oh, did it taste fresh. It was like a waterfall of icy coldness soothing her throat and energizing her stomach. Chills went up and down her flesh as she gulped some more. This was heaven to Faye Blood. Pure, wonderful, lovely heaven.
“Thank you, Salaam. Thank you so much!” she said in a prayer position. But soon all of that heavenly coldness turned to drugged dizziness. Her vision was blurry and everything around her was spinning into darkness. The cool sensation was turning to uncomfortable warmth and sweat. Before long, Faye Blood passed out with her face buried in the sand.
It must have been hours before the monk awakened. When she did, she felt so weak and crippled that even opening her eyes took a lot of physical and mental energy out of her. All she could see was Marco Torres’s blurry face looking down on her while he stroked her sweaty hair. Every word he said to her from that point on had a little bit of an echo behind it with some reverberation off the walls of the tent.
“You feel that, my love?” asked Marco in a sensual voice. “That wasn’t water you drank. That was a cask of Salaam’s most magical wine. Granted, it was laced with other lovely drugs, but hey, you wanted to make your pilgrimage to the heavenly lands and now you’re here.”
“Wha…wha…what the fu…”
“Shh-shh-shh! There’s no need for talking, my sweet. Just relax and let Salaam’s holy cocktail wash over you. You often wondered what exactly it was you were traveling to. And this is it, my love. Your priests sent you on this mission to find me. I am Marco Esteban Torres. Rook Maxwell was one of my wives. But she won’t be joining us tonight. Salaam has taken her to a better place. But you, Faye Blood, will make a suitable replacement for my lost fifteenth wife. Welcome to the good life, sweetheart. This is the true definition of Salaam’s Heaven.”
The setup to be Marco Torres’ wife was sealed with a passionate kiss between himself and an unwilling, yet unresponsive Faye Blood. The monk would soon find out what had happened to her this whole time. And when she did, it was doubtful she would be so zealous to her religion anymore. “Fuck you, Salaam. Fuck you badly!” said Faye in her own mind.
Pilgrimage? What kind of cruel and sadistic god would ever encourage his followers to walk aimlessly through these unforgiving sands? Couldn’t said deity at least have the decency to splurge for some camels? What about barrels of ice cold water and buckets of dry rations, was that asking too much as well? Faye would be lying if she said these thoughts hadn’t crossed her mind at least one time. But as quick as they haunted her, she pushed them back out of devotion to Salaam, the God of Benevolence. Her religious zeal trumped any complaints she had about doing this much exercise in one day.
The things Faye Blood would do at that moment for even a teardrops of fresh, nearly frozen water. She could strangle somebody. She could disembowel them. She could commit genocide and completely ruin her zealous track record with Salaam. An hour of zombie-like walking later and she would have two reasons for sudden violence. Just to make sure it wasn’t a mirage, Faye rubbed her eyes with balled up fists. With clear vision, no, this wasn’t a heatstroke-induced illusion.
What Faye saw at that moment could have been described as sensually pornographic, even from her outside perspective. A blue tent had been pitched and judging from the shadows of the two occupants, a man and a woman, there was some serious hanky-panky going on in there. The dominant male rained kisses upon his lovely female and touched her in places that made her squeal with delight and giggle with pleasure.
She didn’t have a whole lot to puke up, but if Faye did, she would spill her breakfast, lunch, and dinner all over the desert ground. Public display of affection was more disgusting to her than a battlefield full of dead bodies. To make matters worse, the male in the tent opened what looked like a bottle of water and was pouring it all over the female’s chest and face, causing her to arch up in orgasmic ecstasy.
Now Faye was pissed off. That was valuable water that could have gone to anybody dying of thirst in this god forsaken land. Instead it was being used for a cheap aphrodisiac between two equally cheap people. The monk’s fists were clinched and her muscles were tensed. Any tiredness she felt beforehand was replaced with energetic rage. Adrenaline pumped through her veins like the river she so desperately wanted to drink from.
The religious warrior stomped over to the tent and jerked it open with one frustrated rip. The lusty couple jumped backwards in surprise and scrambled to put their clothes back on. All the male had to put back on was a black mesh tank top while the female had a black leather breastplate. Their lower halves were completely covered with black baggy pants and black combat boots.
Faye actually allowed these two the time they needed to dress just by standing there in her muscle-tensing pose with the ripped tent still in her balled up fists. She couldn’t stand looking at them half-naked anymore. She didn’t care how smooth and toned their “sexy” bodies were or how lovely their long hair looked. Faye was thirsty. Whether she was thirsty for water or blood was a question that couldn’t be answered just by looking at her viciously angry pose.
“I could snap both of your necks right now and nobody would even try to find you two nitwits,” said Faye through gritted teeth. “If you’re not going to use that water intelligently, then at least give it to someone who will. Show me where you keep your jugs of water and I’ll be on my way.”
The male paramour, identified as Marco Torres, drew a rather long blade from its leather sheath and said in a smooth Spanish accent, “Hold on a second, babe. Who the hell do you think you are interrupting a beautiful thing like lovemaking?”
“Trust me, macho-nacho,” said Faye. “There’s nothing beautiful about wasting water just so your little harlot over here can have a fifteen-hour orgasm.”
The female paramour, identified as Rook Maxwell, drew a claymore from its sheath and heaved up a metal tower shield before saying, “Now sugar bear, if it’s water that you want, you don’t have to threaten to rip our heads off. By all means, you can have as much as you want. You’re not getting it from those jugs, though. This kind of water comes from spending seven minutes in heaven with the two of us!”
Faye instantly knew where the source of “water” was supposed to be and screamed in disgust while covering her ears with her palms. She then sang an agonized, tone-deaf version of “La-la-la-la-la!” before Marco and Rook got annoyed and lunged at her full force.
The two lovers swung their respective blades full force and made heavy “woosh” noises as Faye Blood cart wheeled and back flipped out of the way of these deadly strikes. With two people attacking her at once, Faye couldn’t find a split second of offence and spent most of this battle acrobatically dodging attacks. If she kept moving around this quickly for much longer, she would have another reason to collapse in exhaustion other than her desert travels.
As Faye continued to tuck, roll, flip, and fly out of the way of Marco and Rook’s tireless slashes, the monk noticed how they were concentrating only on the upper half of her body. Therefore, Faye did the splits and went down low with five knuckles of death right into Marco’s testicles.
The Spanish thug doubled over and howled in a raspy voice before dropping to his knees and rolling around on the ground. With him dispatched of, it was only Rook Maxwell swinging her heavy blade at Faye Blood, who continued to flip and fly around the battlefield to avoid getting struck.
Evasion was much easier for Faye with one opponent, but not for long. Rook pointed her lengthy hunk of metal at her opponent and shot little black energy grenades that exploded into smoke. Faye could try to run, but the thick smoke enveloped her and she soon found herself on her knees hacking and wheezing, much worse off than being dehydrated in the desert.
Rook sauntered over to her vulnerable victim with a kinky smile and a clear path through all of her magical smoke. Faye was passing in and out of consciousness by the time Rook waved her sword and blew her own smoke away. The dark paladin held her blade against Faye’s coughing and bloody mouth with the intent to make the final kill.
“Look at it this way, sweetheart: at least now you won’t have to worry about dying of dehydration. I plan on making this as quick as possible, but only because I really like you,” said Rook.
She slowly positioned the blade to Faye’s throat when the monk shakily and languidly made it to her feet. Rook thought this was some kind of last ditch effort, a second wind maybe. But all Faye had to come back with was vomiting in the dark paladin’s face. Blood, ashes, and desert sand filled her stomach with enough contents to make the projectile vomit that much more disgusting.
All of that biological slop was enough to deter Rook Maxwell from carrying out a murder, however. She danced around and clutched her “beautiful” face as the stomach acids burned her eyeballs. Some of it even managed to go down her throat, so she was choking as well.
They weren’t dead, but Faye was satisfied with her combat results long enough to spot jugs of water with her blurry vision. “Must…have…water…” she said over and over again to herself when she crawled on her hands and knees over to the leather skins. She pulled the cork from one of them and chugged like it was her last chance at fresh water. And oh, did it taste fresh. It was like a waterfall of icy coldness soothing her throat and energizing her stomach. Chills went up and down her flesh as she gulped some more. This was heaven to Faye Blood. Pure, wonderful, lovely heaven.
“Thank you, Salaam. Thank you so much!” she said in a prayer position. But soon all of that heavenly coldness turned to drugged dizziness. Her vision was blurry and everything around her was spinning into darkness. The cool sensation was turning to uncomfortable warmth and sweat. Before long, Faye Blood passed out with her face buried in the sand.
It must have been hours before the monk awakened. When she did, she felt so weak and crippled that even opening her eyes took a lot of physical and mental energy out of her. All she could see was Marco Torres’s blurry face looking down on her while he stroked her sweaty hair. Every word he said to her from that point on had a little bit of an echo behind it with some reverberation off the walls of the tent.
“You feel that, my love?” asked Marco in a sensual voice. “That wasn’t water you drank. That was a cask of Salaam’s most magical wine. Granted, it was laced with other lovely drugs, but hey, you wanted to make your pilgrimage to the heavenly lands and now you’re here.”
“Wha…wha…what the fu…”
“Shh-shh-shh! There’s no need for talking, my sweet. Just relax and let Salaam’s holy cocktail wash over you. You often wondered what exactly it was you were traveling to. And this is it, my love. Your priests sent you on this mission to find me. I am Marco Esteban Torres. Rook Maxwell was one of my wives. But she won’t be joining us tonight. Salaam has taken her to a better place. But you, Faye Blood, will make a suitable replacement for my lost fifteenth wife. Welcome to the good life, sweetheart. This is the true definition of Salaam’s Heaven.”
The setup to be Marco Torres’ wife was sealed with a passionate kiss between himself and an unwilling, yet unresponsive Faye Blood. The monk would soon find out what had happened to her this whole time. And when she did, it was doubtful she would be so zealous to her religion anymore. “Fuck you, Salaam. Fuck you badly!” said Faye in her own mind.
Friday, November 27, 2015
Not For Sex
(From my sister-in-law Susan’s point of view.)
VERSE 1 (BARE FEET)
If feet are not for sex, then what are they for?
They’re for getting your ass to the grocery store
What would you do without Diet Mountain Dew?
Your breakfast Hot Pockets, they equal two
Get a spicy burrito with a bag of Doritos
Take a good long gaze at that bag of Lays
“Thank you, hun, have a good one now!”
Says the elderly clerk with the Scottish know-how
VERSE 2 (DUCT TAPE)
If tape is not for sex, then what is it for?
It’s for shutting people up in a verbal war
The conversation lasted for an hour and a half
About Bubba-Bob and a forced southern laugh
The next conversation is music to your ears
If you like pop music from the golden years
She needs to borrow money, will you give it to her?
Will she pay you back or will this be a curse?
VERSE 3 (ADULT DIAPERS)
If diapers aren’t for sex, then what are they for?
They’re for dirty assholes and nothing more
It’s not the natural function that you intended
But it’s where our conversations always ended
Maybe one day when you have a child
His diaper’s stench will be murky and wild
Can you keep your lunch down a few more minutes?
It’s parenthood: you got to be in it to win it
HOOK
Whatever happened to the good old fashioned way?
Why can’t you just have a normal missionary lay?
We’re all equal when it comes to orgasms
No matter the method, your legs will spasm
VERSE 1 (BARE FEET)
If feet are not for sex, then what are they for?
They’re for getting your ass to the grocery store
What would you do without Diet Mountain Dew?
Your breakfast Hot Pockets, they equal two
Get a spicy burrito with a bag of Doritos
Take a good long gaze at that bag of Lays
“Thank you, hun, have a good one now!”
Says the elderly clerk with the Scottish know-how
VERSE 2 (DUCT TAPE)
If tape is not for sex, then what is it for?
It’s for shutting people up in a verbal war
The conversation lasted for an hour and a half
About Bubba-Bob and a forced southern laugh
The next conversation is music to your ears
If you like pop music from the golden years
She needs to borrow money, will you give it to her?
Will she pay you back or will this be a curse?
VERSE 3 (ADULT DIAPERS)
If diapers aren’t for sex, then what are they for?
They’re for dirty assholes and nothing more
It’s not the natural function that you intended
But it’s where our conversations always ended
Maybe one day when you have a child
His diaper’s stench will be murky and wild
Can you keep your lunch down a few more minutes?
It’s parenthood: you got to be in it to win it
HOOK
Whatever happened to the good old fashioned way?
Why can’t you just have a normal missionary lay?
We’re all equal when it comes to orgasms
No matter the method, your legs will spasm
"A Street Cat Named Bob" by James Bowen
BOOK TITLE: A Street Cat Named Bob: And How He Saved My Life
AUTHOR: James Bowen
YEAR: 2012
GENRE: Nonfiction
SUBGENRE: Cat Memoir
GRADE: Pass
James Bowen has been down on his luck in London, England for a whole decade. He was estranged from his family in Australia and used heroin to cope with his raw emotions. He lived on the streets in cardboard boxes until he was finally able to qualify for public housing. Ever since making an effort to get clean, he became a street musician begging for handouts, which came few and for between and often came with aggressive attitudes toward the poor.
Mr. Bowen’s luck started to change when he found a ginger tomcat he named Bob curled up in his apartment building. He nursed the kitty back to health with the intention of sending the little guy back on the streets. When Bob started following him to work, however, Mr. Bowen attracted more money and more friendly attention. It was a long process, but with a cute cuddly feline in his life, James slowly began to put his life back together.
The biggest upsides to this book are the tale of redemption and the cuteness of Bob that goes along with it. It’s amazing what a simple thing like love can do for a person’s life. James Bowen is an animal lover by nature, so taking the little orange sweetheart into his life was easy. It’s what these two did for each other afterwards that makes their relationship special to the reader. I found myself wanting James Bowen to get clean and have a stable income despite all of the nasty things he’d done with his life prior to this point. If nothing else, this book teaches a valuable lesson in being too quick to judge a person by his past. Bob isn’t judgmental in the least bit. Animal cuties rarely are.
The writing style is exactly what I’d expect from someone who’s writing his first memoir: fast-paced, simple, and clean. It’s a no-nonsense style that gets the reader from place to place while still allowing the reader to peer into James Bowen’s innermost thoughts. Those thoughts can be anything from the fear of losing Bob to the flashbacks of withdrawing from heroin, all of which can be emotionally heart wrenching. I have to admit, though, there were parts where I zoned out as I was reading it. Maybe it’s not the flashiest book ever written, but it’s one I can get through and enjoy the journey along the way.
I’ve often heard the phrase that a story doesn’t end at the final page, but at where the author chooses to stop. The story does stop at a happy place in James and Bob’s lives, but I’m not telling you how it happens; you’ll have to buy the book and read for yourself. I will say this, though: the ending feels a little open-ended, meaning I still fear for the author and his cat’s safety while they’re out on the street doing their thing. In hindsight, the fear is probably a good thing since that makes the two main characters sympathetic and heroic to the reader.
If you like stories about redemption, cute and cuddly animals, and the power of altruistic love, be sure to pick up a copy of “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. It’s a rough ride all throughout the book since people on the streets are oftentimes mean and aggressive towards James and Bob, but the cuteness factor and the sense of triumph is there nonetheless. It would probably be worth it to fly all the way out to England on an airplane just to meet the little orange sweetie pie and his wonderful caretaker. But since air travel is a pain in the rear-end (as James Bowen will attest to in the latter half of the book), you can always follow this victorious pair on Twitter and Face Book. They’d love to hear from you!
AUTHOR: James Bowen
YEAR: 2012
GENRE: Nonfiction
SUBGENRE: Cat Memoir
GRADE: Pass
James Bowen has been down on his luck in London, England for a whole decade. He was estranged from his family in Australia and used heroin to cope with his raw emotions. He lived on the streets in cardboard boxes until he was finally able to qualify for public housing. Ever since making an effort to get clean, he became a street musician begging for handouts, which came few and for between and often came with aggressive attitudes toward the poor.
Mr. Bowen’s luck started to change when he found a ginger tomcat he named Bob curled up in his apartment building. He nursed the kitty back to health with the intention of sending the little guy back on the streets. When Bob started following him to work, however, Mr. Bowen attracted more money and more friendly attention. It was a long process, but with a cute cuddly feline in his life, James slowly began to put his life back together.
The biggest upsides to this book are the tale of redemption and the cuteness of Bob that goes along with it. It’s amazing what a simple thing like love can do for a person’s life. James Bowen is an animal lover by nature, so taking the little orange sweetheart into his life was easy. It’s what these two did for each other afterwards that makes their relationship special to the reader. I found myself wanting James Bowen to get clean and have a stable income despite all of the nasty things he’d done with his life prior to this point. If nothing else, this book teaches a valuable lesson in being too quick to judge a person by his past. Bob isn’t judgmental in the least bit. Animal cuties rarely are.
The writing style is exactly what I’d expect from someone who’s writing his first memoir: fast-paced, simple, and clean. It’s a no-nonsense style that gets the reader from place to place while still allowing the reader to peer into James Bowen’s innermost thoughts. Those thoughts can be anything from the fear of losing Bob to the flashbacks of withdrawing from heroin, all of which can be emotionally heart wrenching. I have to admit, though, there were parts where I zoned out as I was reading it. Maybe it’s not the flashiest book ever written, but it’s one I can get through and enjoy the journey along the way.
I’ve often heard the phrase that a story doesn’t end at the final page, but at where the author chooses to stop. The story does stop at a happy place in James and Bob’s lives, but I’m not telling you how it happens; you’ll have to buy the book and read for yourself. I will say this, though: the ending feels a little open-ended, meaning I still fear for the author and his cat’s safety while they’re out on the street doing their thing. In hindsight, the fear is probably a good thing since that makes the two main characters sympathetic and heroic to the reader.
If you like stories about redemption, cute and cuddly animals, and the power of altruistic love, be sure to pick up a copy of “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. It’s a rough ride all throughout the book since people on the streets are oftentimes mean and aggressive towards James and Bob, but the cuteness factor and the sense of triumph is there nonetheless. It would probably be worth it to fly all the way out to England on an airplane just to meet the little orange sweetie pie and his wonderful caretaker. But since air travel is a pain in the rear-end (as James Bowen will attest to in the latter half of the book), you can always follow this victorious pair on Twitter and Face Book. They’d love to hear from you!
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Exploiting Death
***EXPLOITING DEATH***
Even though I wrote a blog months ago about marketing my wrestling novella to the right people, I just now thought of another example when it comes to wrestling vs. real life. Only in wrestling would it make sense to do horrible things for the sake of ratings. In other words, the Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award only goes to wrestling and mixed-martial arts organizations, no where else, although the NFL had their fair share with the deflated balls scandal.
The year 2015 is almost over and in the WWE there was recently a late entry for the MDPT award. I don’t know just yet if it’s going to end up winning since the Wrestling Observer Newsletter awards don’t come out until late January, but it’s a strong contender. I’m talking of course about an ending segment on an episode of Monday Night Raw.
Charlotte and Paige were signing a contract in the middle of the ring so that their Divas Championship match can take place at Survivor Series. Charlotte is the daughter of Hall of Fame wrestler Ric Flair and the sister of deceased wrestler Reid Flair. When Charlotte spoke tearfully about her family’s fighting spirit, Paige said, “I guess your baby brother doesn’t have much fight left in him now, does he!” Charlotte went berserk and beat the shit out of Paige while backstage, Ric Flair was crying his eyes out.
That’s right, folks: for the third time in a whole decade, WWE has exploited the death of a fellow wrestler or personality, the first two times being Eddie Guerrero (2006) and Bill Moody aka Paul Bearer (2013). The thing that has a lot of people upset is that nobody asked Ric Flair if it was okay to do this segment. The creative team just went ahead with it, showing that being assholes was the only way the divas division would earn attention.
Going back to my Occupy Wrestling argument, only in pro-wrestling does exploiting death make any sense. It’s wrong as hell, but it makes sense nonetheless. It wouldn’t fly anywhere else. People are already pissed off at the Westboro Baptist Church for all of their “God Hates Fags” protests. Ronda Rousey has had it up to here with Twitter users talking shit about her dead father. Don’t get me started on the NYPD wearing shirts that say, “Breathe easy: don’t break the law” in light of the murder of Eric Garner, and yes, it was murder despite what any cop apologist says.
Exploiting death also leaves a sour taste when it comes to fictional TV shows, movies, and books. Want some examples? Here they are. Let’s do a Star Wars example.
DARTH VADER: Luke, you keep looking at the heavens for Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’s not in heaven. He’s down there…in HELL!!
How about NCIS?
HARPER DEARING: Gibbs, you have just as much chance of catching me as Caitlin Todd does of coming back to life.
Ouch! But it gets worse. How about Final Fantasy VII?
SEPHIROTH: Well, Cloud, I guess Aerith doesn’t have much fight left in her anymore, now does she!
Luke Skywalker, Leroy Gibbs, and Cloud Strife would either cry their eyes out, scream in rage, or beat the shit out of whoever said those things. Not only that, but the audience would have a sour taste in their mouths and would hit the power button at the drop of a hat. And yet, we continue to watch wrestling because there are other segments that are fun to watch.
With wrestling, it makes sense to watch it for things other than the worst parts. You don’t have that luxury with a movie like North Country, which is swarming with sexual harassment scenes. Another example would be a movie I have no desire to see, but know about anyways: Iron-Jawed Angels, where women in the 1920’s were jailed, beaten, force-fed, and raped in their struggle for the right to vote.
The Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award serves the same purpose for wrestling and MMA that one and two-star reviews do for authors like me: they enforce accountability. However, they don’t always enforce humility, which is much different by comparison. At least when it happens to an author, there’s a slight chance he or she will go back and fix his mistakes, which is something I did with American Darkness and will do with Occupy Wrestling as both books hold a 2.75 star rating on Good Reads and Amazon. The WWE, on the other hand, has exploited death over the past ten years three different times.
I’ll be a wrestling fan no matter what horrible shit happens between the ropes. But if you’re an author with your own brand, you can’t always rely on people always being a fan of you if you exploit death. Sure, it will make your villains the ultimate assholes, but if they keep doing it over and over again like it’s their whole gimmick, then it’ll just frustrate the reader to where he or she won’t want to read anything by you again.
The one thing you can take away from this journal, if nothing else, is that villains were made to be hated, but it’s also okay if they’re liked every once and a while as well. And what do you know? The WWE has villainous wrestlers who are cheered (Kevin Owens) and heroic wrestlers who are booed (Roman Reigns). I just hope Kevin Owens doesn’t find out where The Ultimate Warrior is buried and piss on his grave. That would be bad for business. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***POISON TONGUE TALES***
Would you believe it if I told you I only have three more short stories to write for Poison Tongue Tales before I meet my quota? I didn’t believe it at first either. I knew I had a lot of stories, but not 47. Number 48 will be one called “Wasteland” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Faye Blood, Human Monk
Marco Torres, Human Thug
Rook Maxwell, Human Dark Paladin
PROMPT CONFORMITY: N/A
SYNOPSIS: Faye has been wandering the desert wasteland for days and is exhausted from dehydration. Her monk teachings don’t allow her to attack other travelers to steal their water, but at this point, Faye has no other choice. When she sees Marco and Rook making out in their tent and wasting water by pouring it over each other for added effect, Faye figures that she’s justified in stealing their water. Her martial arts training will get her through almost any battle. Will it get her through this one if she’s caught?
***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***
Since NXT wrestlers Zack Ryder and Mojo Rawley like to call themselves The Hype Bros, then they probably won’t mind calling their tag team finishing move The Bro Job. Then Byron Saxton can make an awkward joke on commentary about how Zack and Mojo have an “in-your-face” style of wrestling.
Even though I wrote a blog months ago about marketing my wrestling novella to the right people, I just now thought of another example when it comes to wrestling vs. real life. Only in wrestling would it make sense to do horrible things for the sake of ratings. In other words, the Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award only goes to wrestling and mixed-martial arts organizations, no where else, although the NFL had their fair share with the deflated balls scandal.
The year 2015 is almost over and in the WWE there was recently a late entry for the MDPT award. I don’t know just yet if it’s going to end up winning since the Wrestling Observer Newsletter awards don’t come out until late January, but it’s a strong contender. I’m talking of course about an ending segment on an episode of Monday Night Raw.
Charlotte and Paige were signing a contract in the middle of the ring so that their Divas Championship match can take place at Survivor Series. Charlotte is the daughter of Hall of Fame wrestler Ric Flair and the sister of deceased wrestler Reid Flair. When Charlotte spoke tearfully about her family’s fighting spirit, Paige said, “I guess your baby brother doesn’t have much fight left in him now, does he!” Charlotte went berserk and beat the shit out of Paige while backstage, Ric Flair was crying his eyes out.
That’s right, folks: for the third time in a whole decade, WWE has exploited the death of a fellow wrestler or personality, the first two times being Eddie Guerrero (2006) and Bill Moody aka Paul Bearer (2013). The thing that has a lot of people upset is that nobody asked Ric Flair if it was okay to do this segment. The creative team just went ahead with it, showing that being assholes was the only way the divas division would earn attention.
Going back to my Occupy Wrestling argument, only in pro-wrestling does exploiting death make any sense. It’s wrong as hell, but it makes sense nonetheless. It wouldn’t fly anywhere else. People are already pissed off at the Westboro Baptist Church for all of their “God Hates Fags” protests. Ronda Rousey has had it up to here with Twitter users talking shit about her dead father. Don’t get me started on the NYPD wearing shirts that say, “Breathe easy: don’t break the law” in light of the murder of Eric Garner, and yes, it was murder despite what any cop apologist says.
Exploiting death also leaves a sour taste when it comes to fictional TV shows, movies, and books. Want some examples? Here they are. Let’s do a Star Wars example.
DARTH VADER: Luke, you keep looking at the heavens for Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’s not in heaven. He’s down there…in HELL!!
How about NCIS?
HARPER DEARING: Gibbs, you have just as much chance of catching me as Caitlin Todd does of coming back to life.
Ouch! But it gets worse. How about Final Fantasy VII?
SEPHIROTH: Well, Cloud, I guess Aerith doesn’t have much fight left in her anymore, now does she!
Luke Skywalker, Leroy Gibbs, and Cloud Strife would either cry their eyes out, scream in rage, or beat the shit out of whoever said those things. Not only that, but the audience would have a sour taste in their mouths and would hit the power button at the drop of a hat. And yet, we continue to watch wrestling because there are other segments that are fun to watch.
With wrestling, it makes sense to watch it for things other than the worst parts. You don’t have that luxury with a movie like North Country, which is swarming with sexual harassment scenes. Another example would be a movie I have no desire to see, but know about anyways: Iron-Jawed Angels, where women in the 1920’s were jailed, beaten, force-fed, and raped in their struggle for the right to vote.
The Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award serves the same purpose for wrestling and MMA that one and two-star reviews do for authors like me: they enforce accountability. However, they don’t always enforce humility, which is much different by comparison. At least when it happens to an author, there’s a slight chance he or she will go back and fix his mistakes, which is something I did with American Darkness and will do with Occupy Wrestling as both books hold a 2.75 star rating on Good Reads and Amazon. The WWE, on the other hand, has exploited death over the past ten years three different times.
I’ll be a wrestling fan no matter what horrible shit happens between the ropes. But if you’re an author with your own brand, you can’t always rely on people always being a fan of you if you exploit death. Sure, it will make your villains the ultimate assholes, but if they keep doing it over and over again like it’s their whole gimmick, then it’ll just frustrate the reader to where he or she won’t want to read anything by you again.
The one thing you can take away from this journal, if nothing else, is that villains were made to be hated, but it’s also okay if they’re liked every once and a while as well. And what do you know? The WWE has villainous wrestlers who are cheered (Kevin Owens) and heroic wrestlers who are booed (Roman Reigns). I just hope Kevin Owens doesn’t find out where The Ultimate Warrior is buried and piss on his grave. That would be bad for business. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***POISON TONGUE TALES***
Would you believe it if I told you I only have three more short stories to write for Poison Tongue Tales before I meet my quota? I didn’t believe it at first either. I knew I had a lot of stories, but not 47. Number 48 will be one called “Wasteland” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Faye Blood, Human Monk
Marco Torres, Human Thug
Rook Maxwell, Human Dark Paladin
PROMPT CONFORMITY: N/A
SYNOPSIS: Faye has been wandering the desert wasteland for days and is exhausted from dehydration. Her monk teachings don’t allow her to attack other travelers to steal their water, but at this point, Faye has no other choice. When she sees Marco and Rook making out in their tent and wasting water by pouring it over each other for added effect, Faye figures that she’s justified in stealing their water. Her martial arts training will get her through almost any battle. Will it get her through this one if she’s caught?
***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***
Since NXT wrestlers Zack Ryder and Mojo Rawley like to call themselves The Hype Bros, then they probably won’t mind calling their tag team finishing move The Bro Job. Then Byron Saxton can make an awkward joke on commentary about how Zack and Mojo have an “in-your-face” style of wrestling.
Monday, November 23, 2015
WWE Survivor Series: Roman Reigns vs. Dean Ambrose
MATCH: Roman Reigns vs. Dean Ambrose for the vacated WWE World Heavyweight Championship
PROMOTION: World Wrestling Entertainment
EVENT: Survivor Series
YEAR: 2015
RATING: TV-PG for violence
GRADE: Pass
When Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose burst onto the scene in WWE, they were aligned with Seth Rollins as part of the most dominant trio the promotion has ever seen, The Shield. As members of this powerful alliance, Reigns and Rollins went on to become Tag Team of the Year and WWE Tag Team Champions while Dean Ambrose became the United States Champion. Every three-man team assembled to go against The Shield was destroyed and defeated with no absence of malice from The Wyatt Family to Team Hell No & Randy Orton to Evolution.
Just when The Shield was on top of the world, Seth Rollins got greedy and laid out Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns with chair shots as a way of accepting Triple H’s offer to join The Authority. Ever since stabbing his brothers in the back, Seth went on to become Mr. Money in the Bank and would eventually cash in the contract at Wrestlemania 31 to become WWE World Heavyweight Champion for the first time in his career. He also defeated John Cena at Summer Slam to become United States Champion in addition to being World Champion.
Despite having Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose (who were still best friends despite the end of The Shield) breathing down his neck, Seth Rollins would have gone on to hold the WWE World Heavyweight Championship forever if he hadn’t been for a debilitating knee injury he suffered during a live show in Ireland. Rollins would be forced to vacate the championship, undergo surgery, and rehabilitate for six to nine months.
In order to determine a new WWE Champion, Triple H put together a 16-man tournament which would culminate at the 2015 Survivor Series pay-per-view. In order to get to the finals, Dean Ambrose had to defeat NXT upstart Tyler Breeze, former World Champion Dolph Ziggler, and reigning Intercontinental Champion Kevin Owens. Roman Reigns’ road to the finals wasn’t any less challenging since he had to beat “The World’s Largest Athlete” The Big Show, “The Swiss Superman” Cesaro, and the reigning United States Champion Alberto Del Rio.
Up until Survivor Series, Ambrose and Reigns had each other’s backs throughout their various rivalries. When that opening bell rung, friendship and brotherhood went out the window. The two ring warriors went through too many screw jobs and too many beatings to just let each other have the WWE World Title handed to them. They were going to fight and they were going to brutalize each other in the process.
The instant the bell rang, Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose rushed to the center of the ring and started throwing rapid-fire punches to the face to dictate the match’s pace as being gunshot-fast. Dean Ambrose would perform multiple dives through the ropes and sacrifice his own health just to flatten Reigns. Reigns threw many Superman Punches and jacked the jaw of his best friend. They threw each other against the ring apron, audience barricade, and announce tables. They clotheslined, body slammed, suplexed, and even hit each other with their respective finishing moves, Roman Reigns using the Spear Tackle and Dean Ambrose using Dirty Deeds (double arm underhook DDT).
These two fighters beat each other so badly that they could do nothing but sit next to each other in frustration in order to figure out their next moves. They sat there pie-facing each other. Then they punched each other in the face. They got up and punched each other some more. Then they kicked each other. And then more hard-hitting haymakers and clotheslines were in the works. And then they were bouncing each other’s bodies off the canvass like hand grenades ready to explode from mind-blowing pain. Somewhere in this shuffle of fast-paced brawling, Roman Reigns found himself leaning against the turnbuckles with Dean Ambrose charging for him like a raging lunatic bull.
How did Roman Reigns respond? With a second (or third) Spear Tackle and a 1-2-3 pinning combination. The leader of the Roman Empire had finally done it after three years of WWE’s most hard-hitting challenges. Hernia surgeries, bruises, blood drops, broken bones, mind games, and fan hatred all tried to keep him down at the bottom of the grave. And then he rose to the surface and conquered the mountain for the first time in his career. Roman Reigns was so exhausted from his match with Dean Ambrose that he had the equilibrium of a drunkard.
This celebration was going to last forever in time: confetti, cheers, boos, and shaking hands with Dean Ambrose, that was what the top of the WWE mountain felt like for Roman Reigns. And then once Ambrose left, Sheamus appeared with his Money in the Bank briefcase and played the role of spoiler. A Money in the Bank contract guarantees the holder a WWE Championship match ANY time he wants one, even after a grueling match with The Lunatic Fringe himself. Two bicycle kicks later, Sheamus wins his less-than-a-minute match with Roman Reigns and becomes the new champion, much to the delight of Authority leader Triple H. The only thing left on Roman’s body to break and bruise was his heart and now it’s in a million pieces.
The buildup to this match was months in the making, Rollins’ injury aside. The eagerness tensed up within the fans to see this kick-ass match and it finally happened. The match itself was exciting, fast-paced, hard-hitting, and between two badass wrestlers who personify toughness and brutality. The fans adore Dean Ambrose and hate Roman Reigns, the latter of which I can’t understand since he’s an awesome performer despite his lack of experience. There were no losers in this deadly brawl. There were no winners either, only survivors and shattered soldiers.
The one aspect of this match I could have done without was Sheamus’ cowardly cash-in. Yes, I know cashing in Money in the Bank is something even my favorite wrestlers like Daniel Bryan, CM Punk, and Seth Rollins have done, but even so, this pay-per-view victory was supposed to be Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose’s moment to shine. It was supposed to shatter the glass ceiling and make it snow all over the Phillips Arena in Atlanta, Georgia. Sheamus, who held multiple World Titles in the past already, shit all over our hopes and dreams much like Randy Orton did in 2013 when he cashed in on a vulnerable Daniel Bryan. If it wasn’t for the fight being so damned entertaining and the buildup being so exciting, this match would have a received a mixed grade at best. But let the record books show that despite only holding it for a few minutes, Roman Reigns is a one-time WWE World Heavyweight Champion, a title he earned through three years of boots, blood, and barbarism.
PROMOTION: World Wrestling Entertainment
EVENT: Survivor Series
YEAR: 2015
RATING: TV-PG for violence
GRADE: Pass
When Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose burst onto the scene in WWE, they were aligned with Seth Rollins as part of the most dominant trio the promotion has ever seen, The Shield. As members of this powerful alliance, Reigns and Rollins went on to become Tag Team of the Year and WWE Tag Team Champions while Dean Ambrose became the United States Champion. Every three-man team assembled to go against The Shield was destroyed and defeated with no absence of malice from The Wyatt Family to Team Hell No & Randy Orton to Evolution.
Just when The Shield was on top of the world, Seth Rollins got greedy and laid out Dean Ambrose and Roman Reigns with chair shots as a way of accepting Triple H’s offer to join The Authority. Ever since stabbing his brothers in the back, Seth went on to become Mr. Money in the Bank and would eventually cash in the contract at Wrestlemania 31 to become WWE World Heavyweight Champion for the first time in his career. He also defeated John Cena at Summer Slam to become United States Champion in addition to being World Champion.
Despite having Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose (who were still best friends despite the end of The Shield) breathing down his neck, Seth Rollins would have gone on to hold the WWE World Heavyweight Championship forever if he hadn’t been for a debilitating knee injury he suffered during a live show in Ireland. Rollins would be forced to vacate the championship, undergo surgery, and rehabilitate for six to nine months.
In order to determine a new WWE Champion, Triple H put together a 16-man tournament which would culminate at the 2015 Survivor Series pay-per-view. In order to get to the finals, Dean Ambrose had to defeat NXT upstart Tyler Breeze, former World Champion Dolph Ziggler, and reigning Intercontinental Champion Kevin Owens. Roman Reigns’ road to the finals wasn’t any less challenging since he had to beat “The World’s Largest Athlete” The Big Show, “The Swiss Superman” Cesaro, and the reigning United States Champion Alberto Del Rio.
Up until Survivor Series, Ambrose and Reigns had each other’s backs throughout their various rivalries. When that opening bell rung, friendship and brotherhood went out the window. The two ring warriors went through too many screw jobs and too many beatings to just let each other have the WWE World Title handed to them. They were going to fight and they were going to brutalize each other in the process.
The instant the bell rang, Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose rushed to the center of the ring and started throwing rapid-fire punches to the face to dictate the match’s pace as being gunshot-fast. Dean Ambrose would perform multiple dives through the ropes and sacrifice his own health just to flatten Reigns. Reigns threw many Superman Punches and jacked the jaw of his best friend. They threw each other against the ring apron, audience barricade, and announce tables. They clotheslined, body slammed, suplexed, and even hit each other with their respective finishing moves, Roman Reigns using the Spear Tackle and Dean Ambrose using Dirty Deeds (double arm underhook DDT).
These two fighters beat each other so badly that they could do nothing but sit next to each other in frustration in order to figure out their next moves. They sat there pie-facing each other. Then they punched each other in the face. They got up and punched each other some more. Then they kicked each other. And then more hard-hitting haymakers and clotheslines were in the works. And then they were bouncing each other’s bodies off the canvass like hand grenades ready to explode from mind-blowing pain. Somewhere in this shuffle of fast-paced brawling, Roman Reigns found himself leaning against the turnbuckles with Dean Ambrose charging for him like a raging lunatic bull.
How did Roman Reigns respond? With a second (or third) Spear Tackle and a 1-2-3 pinning combination. The leader of the Roman Empire had finally done it after three years of WWE’s most hard-hitting challenges. Hernia surgeries, bruises, blood drops, broken bones, mind games, and fan hatred all tried to keep him down at the bottom of the grave. And then he rose to the surface and conquered the mountain for the first time in his career. Roman Reigns was so exhausted from his match with Dean Ambrose that he had the equilibrium of a drunkard.
This celebration was going to last forever in time: confetti, cheers, boos, and shaking hands with Dean Ambrose, that was what the top of the WWE mountain felt like for Roman Reigns. And then once Ambrose left, Sheamus appeared with his Money in the Bank briefcase and played the role of spoiler. A Money in the Bank contract guarantees the holder a WWE Championship match ANY time he wants one, even after a grueling match with The Lunatic Fringe himself. Two bicycle kicks later, Sheamus wins his less-than-a-minute match with Roman Reigns and becomes the new champion, much to the delight of Authority leader Triple H. The only thing left on Roman’s body to break and bruise was his heart and now it’s in a million pieces.
The buildup to this match was months in the making, Rollins’ injury aside. The eagerness tensed up within the fans to see this kick-ass match and it finally happened. The match itself was exciting, fast-paced, hard-hitting, and between two badass wrestlers who personify toughness and brutality. The fans adore Dean Ambrose and hate Roman Reigns, the latter of which I can’t understand since he’s an awesome performer despite his lack of experience. There were no losers in this deadly brawl. There were no winners either, only survivors and shattered soldiers.
The one aspect of this match I could have done without was Sheamus’ cowardly cash-in. Yes, I know cashing in Money in the Bank is something even my favorite wrestlers like Daniel Bryan, CM Punk, and Seth Rollins have done, but even so, this pay-per-view victory was supposed to be Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose’s moment to shine. It was supposed to shatter the glass ceiling and make it snow all over the Phillips Arena in Atlanta, Georgia. Sheamus, who held multiple World Titles in the past already, shit all over our hopes and dreams much like Randy Orton did in 2013 when he cashed in on a vulnerable Daniel Bryan. If it wasn’t for the fight being so damned entertaining and the buildup being so exciting, this match would have a received a mixed grade at best. But let the record books show that despite only holding it for a few minutes, Roman Reigns is a one-time WWE World Heavyweight Champion, a title he earned through three years of boots, blood, and barbarism.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Battleground
Charles McLean was a lucky man, either because of his Irish heritage or the fact that he could very well have a golden horseshoe up his ass. Only someone of his luck could say he was allowed to train at Battleground MMA Gym despite constantly knocking out and injuring his sparring partners. Did he even know the proper rules for sparring? Was he even dimly aware that knockouts and injuries weren’t supposed to happen? Did he already lose sight of the fact that it was all supposed to be practice and not an actual fight?
Ignorance wasn’t much of an excuse these days, because the only way the light heavyweight cage warrior could ever have access to the gym was after it was closed, which meant a screwed up sleep schedule and nobody would be there to return the favor of knocking him out. Believe it or not, this was the head coaches’ idea of being charitable to someone who deserved no charity at all.
It was ten o’clock at night and the red Mohawked Irish-American entered the gym in preparation for a light heavyweight championship match he had coming up. With nobody there to help him train or to coach him, he was all on his own. Charles seemed to be taking isolation a little better than most would. He went around to the various treadmills, stair steppers, and Jacob’s Ladder machines and beefed up his cardio like the super athlete he was. In a five-round championship match, cardio was the key to success.
Charles had spent two hours in the gym just working on his strength and conditioning. By the time he ran his final few steps on the treadmill, he was a sweaty mess. His bare chest was covered in perspiration, his black MMA shorts were damp, and his shoes and socks smelled like a bus station bathroom. Despite all of the hard work he put in, he stood proudly with his hands on his hips as opposed to huffing and puffing on the floor ready to pass out.
But there’s a reason why the sport was called mixed-martial arts and not cardiovascular arts: because beating the shit out of your opponent was the only way to win. Without a sparring partner, Charles thought he was going to have to clock out early. And then he noticed the boxing ring in the center of the gym had a black body bag mounted against one of the turnbuckles.
“Is this supposed to be funny?” yelled Charles to no one in particular. “What, am I supposed to fight with a dead body now? Cute, guys! Really fucking cute!” He stomped his way to the ring and stepped between the ropes to investigate this special package. Charles even gave the bag a sniff to make sure it was really a corpse. The odor was horrendous, but then he realized it was his own swampy armpits. He was definitely getting in the showers after this was over.
With mild trepidation, Charles McLean unzipped the body bag from head to toe and found something that put a whacked out smile on his face. “No way. No fucking way. Are you guys serious?” The object in the body bag was a 6’11” tall robot dressed in black gothic attire from his trench coat to his boots. Even the spiky black hair and black and white makeup was enough to give away the chilling appearance. Charles wasn’t chilled. He was thrilled.
He pulled the robot out of the bag and tossed the bag aside with excitement, for this was like opening presents at Christmastime. He looked the warrior up and down with wide-eyed excitement and heart-beating amazement. The name “Floyd” was written across the robot’s black tank top in the creepiest font imaginable.
“Alright then, Floyd. Let’s see what you’ve got!” said Charles as he looked for the on switch to this robot, which ended up being on its asshole. “That’s right, guys, laugh it up! Because this motherfucker is going to the scrap yard!” The light heavyweight brawler flicked the switch and sparks shot out of its crevices, sending the hulking brute backwards several feet.
Once Floyd the training robot stopped showering sparks, he began to look around the arena like this was all new to him. The mechanical nightmare looked across the ring at a bewildered Charles McLean with disdain and disgust. Once both combatants put their dukes up and got in their fighting stances, it was time to go to war.
Charles was the early aggressor in this sparring session as he rushed up to Floyd and threw haymaker after haymaker, each punch easily bobbed and weaved by the mechanical drone. Floyd threw one quick and stiff jab and caught Charles on the jaw, back him up a little, but doing not too much damage.
“You want to screw around with me, Floyd? Heh. Floyd. What kind of name is that for a badass robot?!” taunted Charles, an action which almost got him knocked out with a barely dodged head kick. Floyd started throwing other kicks to the hamstring, shin, and ribcage. Being made of metal allowed the pissed off robot to inflict sharp amounts of pain to the normally rough and tough Charles McLean, who was stacked from head to toe with muscles and tone.
Charles threw a few kicks and punches of his own, but Floyd kept him at bay with his height advantage, quick jabs, and leg kicks. After a while of being smacked around with metal parts, Charles was beginning to bruise up. He had a mouse under his right eye, a slash on his left thigh, and a lump on his ribcage.
But if Floyd thought for a minute that Charles was learning his lesson about treating his sparring partners better, he was dead wrong. Out of frustration, the MMA contender threw a blatant kick between Floyd’s legs and brought the mighty giant to his knees. Charles followed it up with an illegal knee to the skull that landed Floyd on his back, seemingly unconscious.
“Yeah! Who’s the man now, bitch?! I’m the goddamn man around here! Woo!” cheered Charles McLean as he danced around the ring holding his fists up in victory. His ego was inflated to the size of a hot air balloon.
And then Floyd nipped up in an attempt to deflate that ego forever. Charles turned around and immediately stopped celebrating his ill-gotten “victory” when he saw the mighty robot staring down at him with even more venom than before. Sparks were flying from his crevices like they were before, but in even greater volume and with even more rage.
Charles looked on at this angry display with paralyzing fear. If one of the sparks touched him, he would need to be rushed to a burn ward. With nobody here to call 9-1-1, it was a deathtrap in the making. Just when the final spark was about to touch the frightened combatant’s foot, the showers stopped instantly and were replaced with a good old fashioned blitz.
Floyd bolted up to Charles with superhuman speed and clutched him around the throat with one powerful hand before hoisting him to the sky and putting a spiked blade to his throat. Not even the mighty number one contender could deal with this kind of punishment and started kicking and squealing in pain to prove it.
The gothic robot put his face in Charles’ reddening face and said, “Please exit the MMA business, punk!” With one arm, Floyd tossed the 205 lb. Charles over the ropes and watched him crash land through one of the metal benches. The normally cocky fighter was rolling around on the ground clutching his back and screaming like a girl.
Such a pathetic display got no sympathy from the cold and calculating Floyd, who proceeded to slowly step outside the ring and kneel down to where Charles was writhing and squealing. With one fist held high, Floyd said in his demonic voice, “This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me!” All it took was one stiff punch to the jaw and Charles was out like a light. No more writing, no more growling, only silence and sleep remained.
By the time Charles woke up, which wouldn’t be until the very next morning, his head and body were pulsating with dull pain and he didn’t want to make any effort to move his body. He thought he was in the afterlife after taking a beating like that, but he was right back where he was when he was knocked out: on the floor of Battleground MMA Gym. The only difference was that there were people there who were happy to see him broken and bruised.
One of the head coaches of the gym looked over Charles’ glassy and wet eyes and said, “You have a 13-0 MMA record, which means you don’t know what it’s like to be knocked unconscious or submitted. And then you ran into Floyd and hopefully he did more damage to your ego than he did to your body.”
“Wha…wha…what about my match? What about my championship match?” said Charles with an aching jaw.
“Your match has been cancelled due to your injured state,” explained the coach. “But it’s probably for the best anyways. I hope you learned something from all of this, Charles. Be nice to your sparring partners and they’ll be nice to you. You’re probably too out of it right now to digest all of that, so maybe you’ll learn it eventually when I make you spar with Floyd again.”
The coach patted Charles on his painful shoulder and allowed the EMT’s t take him away. There was only one thing the Irish-American could say to having his ego deflated and his body broken at the same time: “Fuck!”
Ignorance wasn’t much of an excuse these days, because the only way the light heavyweight cage warrior could ever have access to the gym was after it was closed, which meant a screwed up sleep schedule and nobody would be there to return the favor of knocking him out. Believe it or not, this was the head coaches’ idea of being charitable to someone who deserved no charity at all.
It was ten o’clock at night and the red Mohawked Irish-American entered the gym in preparation for a light heavyweight championship match he had coming up. With nobody there to help him train or to coach him, he was all on his own. Charles seemed to be taking isolation a little better than most would. He went around to the various treadmills, stair steppers, and Jacob’s Ladder machines and beefed up his cardio like the super athlete he was. In a five-round championship match, cardio was the key to success.
Charles had spent two hours in the gym just working on his strength and conditioning. By the time he ran his final few steps on the treadmill, he was a sweaty mess. His bare chest was covered in perspiration, his black MMA shorts were damp, and his shoes and socks smelled like a bus station bathroom. Despite all of the hard work he put in, he stood proudly with his hands on his hips as opposed to huffing and puffing on the floor ready to pass out.
But there’s a reason why the sport was called mixed-martial arts and not cardiovascular arts: because beating the shit out of your opponent was the only way to win. Without a sparring partner, Charles thought he was going to have to clock out early. And then he noticed the boxing ring in the center of the gym had a black body bag mounted against one of the turnbuckles.
“Is this supposed to be funny?” yelled Charles to no one in particular. “What, am I supposed to fight with a dead body now? Cute, guys! Really fucking cute!” He stomped his way to the ring and stepped between the ropes to investigate this special package. Charles even gave the bag a sniff to make sure it was really a corpse. The odor was horrendous, but then he realized it was his own swampy armpits. He was definitely getting in the showers after this was over.
With mild trepidation, Charles McLean unzipped the body bag from head to toe and found something that put a whacked out smile on his face. “No way. No fucking way. Are you guys serious?” The object in the body bag was a 6’11” tall robot dressed in black gothic attire from his trench coat to his boots. Even the spiky black hair and black and white makeup was enough to give away the chilling appearance. Charles wasn’t chilled. He was thrilled.
He pulled the robot out of the bag and tossed the bag aside with excitement, for this was like opening presents at Christmastime. He looked the warrior up and down with wide-eyed excitement and heart-beating amazement. The name “Floyd” was written across the robot’s black tank top in the creepiest font imaginable.
“Alright then, Floyd. Let’s see what you’ve got!” said Charles as he looked for the on switch to this robot, which ended up being on its asshole. “That’s right, guys, laugh it up! Because this motherfucker is going to the scrap yard!” The light heavyweight brawler flicked the switch and sparks shot out of its crevices, sending the hulking brute backwards several feet.
Once Floyd the training robot stopped showering sparks, he began to look around the arena like this was all new to him. The mechanical nightmare looked across the ring at a bewildered Charles McLean with disdain and disgust. Once both combatants put their dukes up and got in their fighting stances, it was time to go to war.
Charles was the early aggressor in this sparring session as he rushed up to Floyd and threw haymaker after haymaker, each punch easily bobbed and weaved by the mechanical drone. Floyd threw one quick and stiff jab and caught Charles on the jaw, back him up a little, but doing not too much damage.
“You want to screw around with me, Floyd? Heh. Floyd. What kind of name is that for a badass robot?!” taunted Charles, an action which almost got him knocked out with a barely dodged head kick. Floyd started throwing other kicks to the hamstring, shin, and ribcage. Being made of metal allowed the pissed off robot to inflict sharp amounts of pain to the normally rough and tough Charles McLean, who was stacked from head to toe with muscles and tone.
Charles threw a few kicks and punches of his own, but Floyd kept him at bay with his height advantage, quick jabs, and leg kicks. After a while of being smacked around with metal parts, Charles was beginning to bruise up. He had a mouse under his right eye, a slash on his left thigh, and a lump on his ribcage.
But if Floyd thought for a minute that Charles was learning his lesson about treating his sparring partners better, he was dead wrong. Out of frustration, the MMA contender threw a blatant kick between Floyd’s legs and brought the mighty giant to his knees. Charles followed it up with an illegal knee to the skull that landed Floyd on his back, seemingly unconscious.
“Yeah! Who’s the man now, bitch?! I’m the goddamn man around here! Woo!” cheered Charles McLean as he danced around the ring holding his fists up in victory. His ego was inflated to the size of a hot air balloon.
And then Floyd nipped up in an attempt to deflate that ego forever. Charles turned around and immediately stopped celebrating his ill-gotten “victory” when he saw the mighty robot staring down at him with even more venom than before. Sparks were flying from his crevices like they were before, but in even greater volume and with even more rage.
Charles looked on at this angry display with paralyzing fear. If one of the sparks touched him, he would need to be rushed to a burn ward. With nobody here to call 9-1-1, it was a deathtrap in the making. Just when the final spark was about to touch the frightened combatant’s foot, the showers stopped instantly and were replaced with a good old fashioned blitz.
Floyd bolted up to Charles with superhuman speed and clutched him around the throat with one powerful hand before hoisting him to the sky and putting a spiked blade to his throat. Not even the mighty number one contender could deal with this kind of punishment and started kicking and squealing in pain to prove it.
The gothic robot put his face in Charles’ reddening face and said, “Please exit the MMA business, punk!” With one arm, Floyd tossed the 205 lb. Charles over the ropes and watched him crash land through one of the metal benches. The normally cocky fighter was rolling around on the ground clutching his back and screaming like a girl.
Such a pathetic display got no sympathy from the cold and calculating Floyd, who proceeded to slowly step outside the ring and kneel down to where Charles was writhing and squealing. With one fist held high, Floyd said in his demonic voice, “This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me!” All it took was one stiff punch to the jaw and Charles was out like a light. No more writing, no more growling, only silence and sleep remained.
By the time Charles woke up, which wouldn’t be until the very next morning, his head and body were pulsating with dull pain and he didn’t want to make any effort to move his body. He thought he was in the afterlife after taking a beating like that, but he was right back where he was when he was knocked out: on the floor of Battleground MMA Gym. The only difference was that there were people there who were happy to see him broken and bruised.
One of the head coaches of the gym looked over Charles’ glassy and wet eyes and said, “You have a 13-0 MMA record, which means you don’t know what it’s like to be knocked unconscious or submitted. And then you ran into Floyd and hopefully he did more damage to your ego than he did to your body.”
“Wha…wha…what about my match? What about my championship match?” said Charles with an aching jaw.
“Your match has been cancelled due to your injured state,” explained the coach. “But it’s probably for the best anyways. I hope you learned something from all of this, Charles. Be nice to your sparring partners and they’ll be nice to you. You’re probably too out of it right now to digest all of that, so maybe you’ll learn it eventually when I make you spar with Floyd again.”
The coach patted Charles on his painful shoulder and allowed the EMT’s t take him away. There was only one thing the Irish-American could say to having his ego deflated and his body broken at the same time: “Fuck!”
Economic Status
CHORUS
Why are you so interested in my economic status? X4
VERSE 1
I’ve never been a member of the top one-percent
And it’s something I should never have to defend
It’s none of your business what I do for a living
It’s none of your business if I’m taking or giving
Bury your face back in your Wall Street Journal
We already know that your wealth is eternal
Please excuse me while I pig out at McDonald’s
While you enjoy caviar with Mitch McConnell
CHORUS
Why are you so interested in my economic status? X4
VERSE 2
Filling out applications gets old really fast
My tenure of employment doesn’t even last
Curse words and hellfire come out in a blast
I’ve long since given up, this is all in the past
Why are you interested in my problem solving skills?
Just hire my ass so I can pay my fucking bills
The more things change, the more they stay the same
The corporate ladder is like the Monopoly board game
MODIFIED CHORUS
Why are you so interested in my economic status?
Why does my bank account make you the maddest?
Why do my ambitions give you the worst nightmares?
Is being different really one of the boldest dares?
HOOK
If I’m writing a story or writing a song
Then my path to happiness can’t be wrong
If I’m drawing pictures or taking photos
Then I can’t always be a stereotypical hobo
CHORUS
Why are you so interested in my economic status? X4
Why are you so interested in my economic status? X4
VERSE 1
I’ve never been a member of the top one-percent
And it’s something I should never have to defend
It’s none of your business what I do for a living
It’s none of your business if I’m taking or giving
Bury your face back in your Wall Street Journal
We already know that your wealth is eternal
Please excuse me while I pig out at McDonald’s
While you enjoy caviar with Mitch McConnell
CHORUS
Why are you so interested in my economic status? X4
VERSE 2
Filling out applications gets old really fast
My tenure of employment doesn’t even last
Curse words and hellfire come out in a blast
I’ve long since given up, this is all in the past
Why are you interested in my problem solving skills?
Just hire my ass so I can pay my fucking bills
The more things change, the more they stay the same
The corporate ladder is like the Monopoly board game
MODIFIED CHORUS
Why are you so interested in my economic status?
Why does my bank account make you the maddest?
Why do my ambitions give you the worst nightmares?
Is being different really one of the boldest dares?
HOOK
If I’m writing a story or writing a song
Then my path to happiness can’t be wrong
If I’m drawing pictures or taking photos
Then I can’t always be a stereotypical hobo
CHORUS
Why are you so interested in my economic status? X4
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Zombie
“Read me the summary on this one,” said Gail Reinhold, a red trench coat donning paladin with a sword slung over her back and a good reason to use it most of the time. In this holy church of Paladine with oak-smelling pews and beautifully-lit stained glass windows, it was just her and Deacon Simms, the latter of which held the clipboard with all of the information Gail needed.
Simms flipped through the pages and read out loud, “The subject’s name is Mattie Dent. She’s a 25-year-old space mercenary with a rap sheet that includes murder, aggravated mayhem, drug trafficking, and manslaughter. She was taken to the basement of our church because she overdosed on combat drugs and has become violent with our fellow priests.”
The dark-skinned, black afro-haired deacon flipped back to the front page and shook his head no before saying, “I have to be honest with you, Gail. This woman seems like a lost cause. The basement is supposed to be a place where drug addicts can get clean. Miss Dent is so far gone that she doesn’t know what she wants anymore, except to beat up more of our priests.”
“Is she safely secured?” asked Gail.
“Indeed she is. She’s strapped to one of the beds right now with everything that’s capable of holding somebody down. We’ve got chains, leather belts, handcuffs, nylon wrappings, the works. She’s going to have to be bound down until all of the drugs are out of her system. Even then, she could still be dangerous given her criminal history.”
Gail placed a comforting hand on Simms’ shoulder and said, “You should know me better than that by now. This is my church and as long as it is, I will not give up on anyone who comes here. This Mattie Dent may be somewhat of a project for me, but I’ve had tough clients come here before with worse problems.”
“Are you sure about that?” asked Deacon Simms.
The paladin hung her head in contemplation for a moment and said, “Trust me on this one, Simms. I don’t give up and I don’t lose. She’ll come around eventually. If she’s a deadly warrior like you say she is, then there might be a possibility of her joining our ranks as a paladin.”
“I hope up and down to God above that you’re right about this one, Gail. If not, we’ve got a lot of problems on our hands.”
The two church officials crossed themselves before Gail proceeded to make her way to the basement. She was walking much slower than usual as if she allowed the gory details of Mattie Dent’s file get in her head. Then again, the other thing currently occupying space in her head was the mantra of not giving up and never losing. Cautious though she may be, Gail was deemed ready for whatever was waiting downstairs.
The entry to the basement was hidden behind a bookcase full of old religious texts. Descending those stony stairs gave most people chills up and down their spines, darkness aside. Climbing into the unknown wasn’t nearly as scary as passing through the thick wooden door. Calling the basement a dungeon wasn’t appropriate given the church’s good intentions, but that didn’t make things any less frightening.
In a dimly lit room full of empty beds, crucifixes, refrigerators, and bookshelves, the one bed that stood out the most was the one containing the zombie-like Mattie Dent, who was covered in every wrapping known to man as Deacon Simms pointed out. The thick-skulled, ratty-haired warrior stared into the ceiling with neon green eyes and a series of low growling hums to herself. She truly did look like she was brought back from the dead.
Gail Reinhold tiptoed over to the drugged out mercenary and spoke to her in a gentle whisper. “Good morning, Miss Dent. I’m Gail and I’ll be your counselor for the day.”
Even a hardened warrior like Gail was jumpy when Mattie let out a monstrous roar accompanied by wolf-like chomps from her powerful jaw. The groans were getting more intense with the holy fighter’s presence before Mattie yelled, “Get these fucking straps off of me, you disgusting street whore! I don’t belong here! I have a paycheck to collect and asses to beat! You can either unhook me from this goddamn bed or I’ll break free myself and snap your ass in half!”
The whirlwind of growling curse words caused Gail’s heart to race and her head to lighten. She had seen a lot of crazy things in her day, but this was the first time she met someone with such an overwhelming amount of aggression. Gail was a fighter by nature, so that was saying something.
And because she was a fighter, she had no choice but to steel her spine and stare Mattie down with deadly eyes herself. “Listen, Miss Dent. I want to help you in whatever way I can. But if you continue to sweat at me and make threats, I’ll have to keep you in your binds indefinitely. You caught me off guard for a little while, but if you think I’m going to run away from someone like you, you’re dead wrong. Now tell me, Mattie, how many combat drugs did you take at once?”
The drug zombie chomped and roared once more as she struggled with her bindings. Her answer in no uncertain terms was, “I took a whole shit-load of drugs! I love drugs! I love sex! And I love rock and roll! Not necessarily in that order!”
“Shut up!” snapped Gail, which seemed to hold Mattie’s silent attention for a while. “The more you fight the system, the harder the system is going to fight back. I don’t care who you are or what kind of life you lead. Physical combat will only take you so far. But if you think you’re going to battle with the world and you’re going to win, then you’ve got some serious waking up to do, little girl. You’re in my care now, sister. I don’t take excuses and I don’t give handouts. If you fail this drug program, I will not hesitate to turn you over to the authorities. Do you understand me?”
“Shove it up your ass, bitch!” growled Mattie as she thrashed and slashed some more. Gail folded her arms and watched this pathetic attempt at freedom unfold before her. The paladin could just stand there and stare daggers all day long while the mercenary roared and thrashed about. And then the miracle of all miracles happened: Mattie relaxed into her bed and started crying her eyes out, her tears goopy and thick.
“It’s okay to cry, Mattie,” said Gail, who still maintained a stoic presence. “You’re not the first one to do it and you won’t be the last. Given everything you’ve been through in your life, I’d be worried about you if you weren’t crying. But know this: your tears are not a Get Out of Jail Free card. While I am not without sympathy, I am without weakness. I don’t give up on my clients now matter how erratic they become. If you want to get out of this mess, then I expect you to show the same courage. Agreed?”
After a few more sobs, Mattie said, “You church people are all the same. You think you can change the world just by preaching lines from a stupid book. Your god may be real to you, but for me, the only thing that’s real is the paycheck I get from stomping heads in the ground.”
“Well,” said Gail. “That’s going to have to change if you want to…”
“You’re damn right I did those drugs!” shouted Mattie as she struggled some more. “I did those drugs because I want to win! I want to kick ass! I want to burn the world to the ground! But more importantly than that…I want to burn this whole goddamn church to the ground with it!”
The psychotic drug zombie gave one more trash and snapped her bindings like the bones of her many victims. She was free and started to sit up, while Gail backed up slowly in horror. The paladin drew her sword and activated a magical lightning current around the blade. She’d been put into situations where she had fight viciously, but never had Gail killed one of her patients before. She was determined not to start at that moment.
Mattie leapt from the bed only to be met with a stream of lightning shooting into her chest. With any luck, her heart rate would slow down and she’d fall asleep. The only effect Gail’s magic had, however, was slowing down the drug zombie’s walking speed. The holy warrior threw a more powerful stream of lightning. And another. And another.
Her bolts became progressively stronger, but it didn’t matter to Mattie, who backhanded Gail’s sword away and lunged for the paladin with huge monster hands. The paladin scrambled on the floor in an attempt to retrieve her sword, but she was kicked in the ass and sent flying over one of the beds.
Mattie was feeling so powerful in her green, muscular, drugged-out body that she beat her chest repeatedly with iron fists before letting out another terrifying growl at Gail. The paladin rolled over on her ass and crab-walked backwards out of fear for being eaten alive by this lunatic. With no sword, it appeared as though Gail was done for.
The mercenary leaped toward her prey like a tiger and was ready to devour her. Mattie then had a thick blanket thrown in her face and she was struggling to get it off her head. Gail’s newfound courage allowed her to stand up again and go around the beds throwing blankets and comforters over Mattie’s head. The angry mercenary was so enraged that her intensity built up as she tried to unwrap the blinding laundry from her screaming head.
Mattie then grabbed the sheets all at once and ripped them in half like a pro-wrestler with his shirt, growls and rage included. She looked around and saw that Gail was running toward her fallen blade once again. In this heated race for the steel weapon, Mattie had her monstrous hands held high and was ready to wrap them around her counselor’s throat. Just one squeeze and Gail would burst like a pimple.
But there was no squeeze, only a hard impalement through Mattie’s stomach from a lightning enchanted sword. Gail held onto the hilt of the blade and pumped more electricity through Mattie’s body, causing huge explosions of yellow puss and blue blood everywhere. The basement was beginning to look more dungeon-like with every burst. And then the drug zombie melted into a puddle of multi-colored bile and flooded the floors with her biological slop. She died in the most disgusting way possible.
Gail never had to kill one of her own patients before and knowing she did just that caused her eyes to bulge, her skin to sweat, her breathing to hasten, and her legs to weaken. She took a seat on one of the beds as tears poured from her eyes. She may have defeated her toughest opponent to date, but this was no victory for her.
The sounds of light footsteps came down the stairs and Deacon Simms sheepishly poked his head through the doorway. “Is everything alright down here?”
Through a sobbing voice, Gail answered, “No!”
“Why not?”
“I…I failed her, Simms. I thought I could change her. I’ve never given up hope on anyone before. She gave me no choice and I had to kill her. I can’t be a member of this church anymore, it’s impossible.”
Simms tiptoed his way around the flood of bodily fluids and digested combat drugs in order to sit next to Gail. He allowed her to rest her head in his lap while he stroked her long raven hair. “Some people don’t want to change, Gail. The only way you can ever help someone is if they want to help themselves. Mattie Dent clearly never wanted help. She wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.”
“But…I’ve never lost before, Simms. I’ve always stayed with the people who came here.”
Deacon Simms patted Gail Reinhold on the head and said, “Anybody can lose just one time, Gail. Nobody goes through life undefeated. Sometimes, you can’t reform people who don’t want to be reformed. Sometimes…you just have to kill them. God gave you that sword for a reason, Gail: because one of these days, you’re going to have to use it again. And again. And again.”
Simms flipped through the pages and read out loud, “The subject’s name is Mattie Dent. She’s a 25-year-old space mercenary with a rap sheet that includes murder, aggravated mayhem, drug trafficking, and manslaughter. She was taken to the basement of our church because she overdosed on combat drugs and has become violent with our fellow priests.”
The dark-skinned, black afro-haired deacon flipped back to the front page and shook his head no before saying, “I have to be honest with you, Gail. This woman seems like a lost cause. The basement is supposed to be a place where drug addicts can get clean. Miss Dent is so far gone that she doesn’t know what she wants anymore, except to beat up more of our priests.”
“Is she safely secured?” asked Gail.
“Indeed she is. She’s strapped to one of the beds right now with everything that’s capable of holding somebody down. We’ve got chains, leather belts, handcuffs, nylon wrappings, the works. She’s going to have to be bound down until all of the drugs are out of her system. Even then, she could still be dangerous given her criminal history.”
Gail placed a comforting hand on Simms’ shoulder and said, “You should know me better than that by now. This is my church and as long as it is, I will not give up on anyone who comes here. This Mattie Dent may be somewhat of a project for me, but I’ve had tough clients come here before with worse problems.”
“Are you sure about that?” asked Deacon Simms.
The paladin hung her head in contemplation for a moment and said, “Trust me on this one, Simms. I don’t give up and I don’t lose. She’ll come around eventually. If she’s a deadly warrior like you say she is, then there might be a possibility of her joining our ranks as a paladin.”
“I hope up and down to God above that you’re right about this one, Gail. If not, we’ve got a lot of problems on our hands.”
The two church officials crossed themselves before Gail proceeded to make her way to the basement. She was walking much slower than usual as if she allowed the gory details of Mattie Dent’s file get in her head. Then again, the other thing currently occupying space in her head was the mantra of not giving up and never losing. Cautious though she may be, Gail was deemed ready for whatever was waiting downstairs.
The entry to the basement was hidden behind a bookcase full of old religious texts. Descending those stony stairs gave most people chills up and down their spines, darkness aside. Climbing into the unknown wasn’t nearly as scary as passing through the thick wooden door. Calling the basement a dungeon wasn’t appropriate given the church’s good intentions, but that didn’t make things any less frightening.
In a dimly lit room full of empty beds, crucifixes, refrigerators, and bookshelves, the one bed that stood out the most was the one containing the zombie-like Mattie Dent, who was covered in every wrapping known to man as Deacon Simms pointed out. The thick-skulled, ratty-haired warrior stared into the ceiling with neon green eyes and a series of low growling hums to herself. She truly did look like she was brought back from the dead.
Gail Reinhold tiptoed over to the drugged out mercenary and spoke to her in a gentle whisper. “Good morning, Miss Dent. I’m Gail and I’ll be your counselor for the day.”
Even a hardened warrior like Gail was jumpy when Mattie let out a monstrous roar accompanied by wolf-like chomps from her powerful jaw. The groans were getting more intense with the holy fighter’s presence before Mattie yelled, “Get these fucking straps off of me, you disgusting street whore! I don’t belong here! I have a paycheck to collect and asses to beat! You can either unhook me from this goddamn bed or I’ll break free myself and snap your ass in half!”
The whirlwind of growling curse words caused Gail’s heart to race and her head to lighten. She had seen a lot of crazy things in her day, but this was the first time she met someone with such an overwhelming amount of aggression. Gail was a fighter by nature, so that was saying something.
And because she was a fighter, she had no choice but to steel her spine and stare Mattie down with deadly eyes herself. “Listen, Miss Dent. I want to help you in whatever way I can. But if you continue to sweat at me and make threats, I’ll have to keep you in your binds indefinitely. You caught me off guard for a little while, but if you think I’m going to run away from someone like you, you’re dead wrong. Now tell me, Mattie, how many combat drugs did you take at once?”
The drug zombie chomped and roared once more as she struggled with her bindings. Her answer in no uncertain terms was, “I took a whole shit-load of drugs! I love drugs! I love sex! And I love rock and roll! Not necessarily in that order!”
“Shut up!” snapped Gail, which seemed to hold Mattie’s silent attention for a while. “The more you fight the system, the harder the system is going to fight back. I don’t care who you are or what kind of life you lead. Physical combat will only take you so far. But if you think you’re going to battle with the world and you’re going to win, then you’ve got some serious waking up to do, little girl. You’re in my care now, sister. I don’t take excuses and I don’t give handouts. If you fail this drug program, I will not hesitate to turn you over to the authorities. Do you understand me?”
“Shove it up your ass, bitch!” growled Mattie as she thrashed and slashed some more. Gail folded her arms and watched this pathetic attempt at freedom unfold before her. The paladin could just stand there and stare daggers all day long while the mercenary roared and thrashed about. And then the miracle of all miracles happened: Mattie relaxed into her bed and started crying her eyes out, her tears goopy and thick.
“It’s okay to cry, Mattie,” said Gail, who still maintained a stoic presence. “You’re not the first one to do it and you won’t be the last. Given everything you’ve been through in your life, I’d be worried about you if you weren’t crying. But know this: your tears are not a Get Out of Jail Free card. While I am not without sympathy, I am without weakness. I don’t give up on my clients now matter how erratic they become. If you want to get out of this mess, then I expect you to show the same courage. Agreed?”
After a few more sobs, Mattie said, “You church people are all the same. You think you can change the world just by preaching lines from a stupid book. Your god may be real to you, but for me, the only thing that’s real is the paycheck I get from stomping heads in the ground.”
“Well,” said Gail. “That’s going to have to change if you want to…”
“You’re damn right I did those drugs!” shouted Mattie as she struggled some more. “I did those drugs because I want to win! I want to kick ass! I want to burn the world to the ground! But more importantly than that…I want to burn this whole goddamn church to the ground with it!”
The psychotic drug zombie gave one more trash and snapped her bindings like the bones of her many victims. She was free and started to sit up, while Gail backed up slowly in horror. The paladin drew her sword and activated a magical lightning current around the blade. She’d been put into situations where she had fight viciously, but never had Gail killed one of her patients before. She was determined not to start at that moment.
Mattie leapt from the bed only to be met with a stream of lightning shooting into her chest. With any luck, her heart rate would slow down and she’d fall asleep. The only effect Gail’s magic had, however, was slowing down the drug zombie’s walking speed. The holy warrior threw a more powerful stream of lightning. And another. And another.
Her bolts became progressively stronger, but it didn’t matter to Mattie, who backhanded Gail’s sword away and lunged for the paladin with huge monster hands. The paladin scrambled on the floor in an attempt to retrieve her sword, but she was kicked in the ass and sent flying over one of the beds.
Mattie was feeling so powerful in her green, muscular, drugged-out body that she beat her chest repeatedly with iron fists before letting out another terrifying growl at Gail. The paladin rolled over on her ass and crab-walked backwards out of fear for being eaten alive by this lunatic. With no sword, it appeared as though Gail was done for.
The mercenary leaped toward her prey like a tiger and was ready to devour her. Mattie then had a thick blanket thrown in her face and she was struggling to get it off her head. Gail’s newfound courage allowed her to stand up again and go around the beds throwing blankets and comforters over Mattie’s head. The angry mercenary was so enraged that her intensity built up as she tried to unwrap the blinding laundry from her screaming head.
Mattie then grabbed the sheets all at once and ripped them in half like a pro-wrestler with his shirt, growls and rage included. She looked around and saw that Gail was running toward her fallen blade once again. In this heated race for the steel weapon, Mattie had her monstrous hands held high and was ready to wrap them around her counselor’s throat. Just one squeeze and Gail would burst like a pimple.
But there was no squeeze, only a hard impalement through Mattie’s stomach from a lightning enchanted sword. Gail held onto the hilt of the blade and pumped more electricity through Mattie’s body, causing huge explosions of yellow puss and blue blood everywhere. The basement was beginning to look more dungeon-like with every burst. And then the drug zombie melted into a puddle of multi-colored bile and flooded the floors with her biological slop. She died in the most disgusting way possible.
Gail never had to kill one of her own patients before and knowing she did just that caused her eyes to bulge, her skin to sweat, her breathing to hasten, and her legs to weaken. She took a seat on one of the beds as tears poured from her eyes. She may have defeated her toughest opponent to date, but this was no victory for her.
The sounds of light footsteps came down the stairs and Deacon Simms sheepishly poked his head through the doorway. “Is everything alright down here?”
Through a sobbing voice, Gail answered, “No!”
“Why not?”
“I…I failed her, Simms. I thought I could change her. I’ve never given up hope on anyone before. She gave me no choice and I had to kill her. I can’t be a member of this church anymore, it’s impossible.”
Simms tiptoed his way around the flood of bodily fluids and digested combat drugs in order to sit next to Gail. He allowed her to rest her head in his lap while he stroked her long raven hair. “Some people don’t want to change, Gail. The only way you can ever help someone is if they want to help themselves. Mattie Dent clearly never wanted help. She wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.”
“But…I’ve never lost before, Simms. I’ve always stayed with the people who came here.”
Deacon Simms patted Gail Reinhold on the head and said, “Anybody can lose just one time, Gail. Nobody goes through life undefeated. Sometimes, you can’t reform people who don’t want to be reformed. Sometimes…you just have to kill them. God gave you that sword for a reason, Gail: because one of these days, you’re going to have to use it again. And again. And again.”
Thursday, November 19, 2015
High Winds of Death
***HIGH WINDS OF DEATH***
If you’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to the past two days, I can guarantee you that I didn’t go off the grid on purpose. I’m not like that father from the Little Caesar’s commercial who wants to live in the woods because ordering pizza online is “too frustrating”. All that heartache over a goddamn pizza. God, I hate commercialism.
The real reason I’ve been away from the internet is because in my home state of Washington, there were 25 MPH winds blowing southward. Trees were knocked over, houses have been destroyed, streets have been flooded, and many homes and businesses were without electricity, mine included. I went without electricity for a little over 24 hours. All I had to keep me entertained was my MP3 player and conversing with my 11-year-old niece Reina. I wanted to read my book, but without electricity, there’s no light to shine on the pages.
I probably shouldn’t be bitching and complaining too much, because my electricity eventually returned and I’m a happy man once more. I’m more worried about the people who no longer have stable homes and are trapped by the floods. It got so bad that Governor Jay Inslee declared a State of Emergency, which means National Guard members are going to assist those who’ve been displaced by this harsh weather. I can withstand 24 hours of boredom, but those less fortunate deserve your thoughts and love more than I do.
I’ve lived in Washington State from 1991-1993 and again from 1996 to the present day. The Pacific Northwest has always been known for its bipolar weather. It’s insufferably hot in the summertime and damned near devastating in the wintertime. Don’t get me wrong, Washington is still a beautiful place to live. But for all the times that Mother Nature gets even with us, it becomes more and more important to have a plan in case the electricity goes out, you’re stranded at home, or you don’t even have a home.
Even more than that, it’s important not to lose our humanity towards the less fortunate. If a family has been displaced by this kind of weather and is currently living on the streets, don’t shout at them for “taking handouts” and “not getting a job”. Show them your love. Give them hope. Even something as simple as a twenty dollar bill can make a difference in that family’s life. And one more thing: if you were displaced by bad weather, you’d want “handouts” too despite all of the pride you keep within you. If you had a choice between living in a low-cost apartment and having some disposable income along with food stamps over living on the streets and being closer to death, you’d choose the former every time. Admit it.
The weather already looks like it’s improving. I just went for a walk to the convenience store with the sun shining down on me. It was a little bit chilly, but there was sunshine nonetheless. But if I should go offline again, you now know why. No matter how many times Mother Nature strikes, I will always find a way to tell you guys I’m alive and well, even if it means going to a library or a hotel to use their computers. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***CREATIVE PROJECTS***
Being offline has caused a little bit of a setback in my creative work, but that’s okay, because catching up is as easy as 1-2-3. I’ve declared today “reading day”, which means I’ll catch up on short stories submitted to the WSS and I’ll do another 30 pages of “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. Tomorrow is Friday and will be declared “TV day”, where I’ll catch up on NCIS, NCIS: Los Angeles, NCIS: New Orleans, and WWE NXT. Wow, that’s a lot of initials. As far as “Zombie” goes, I’ll probably write it this coming Saturday since all of my catching up will be done by then. And then there’s the Dark Fantasy Warriors drawings. Next on deck is Danielle Reigns, the benevolent necromancer from the short story that used to be called “Conform”, but is now called “Dead Man Walking”. Wish me luck on catching up! There’s not a storm on earth that can stop the power of creativity!
***SKYPE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
ME: I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that the acronym for Occupy Wrestling is OW, which is what people say when they feel pain.
MARIE: Haha! If I catch a wrestler saying, “Ow!”, I’ll slap him across the face and say, “Man up!”
ME: Yeah, wrestlers mostly just scream in agonizing pain or say, “Shit!” After all, nobody gets wrapped up in the Walls of Jericho and says, “Please stop that, good sir.”
MARIE: Hahahaha! That’s true.
If you’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to the past two days, I can guarantee you that I didn’t go off the grid on purpose. I’m not like that father from the Little Caesar’s commercial who wants to live in the woods because ordering pizza online is “too frustrating”. All that heartache over a goddamn pizza. God, I hate commercialism.
The real reason I’ve been away from the internet is because in my home state of Washington, there were 25 MPH winds blowing southward. Trees were knocked over, houses have been destroyed, streets have been flooded, and many homes and businesses were without electricity, mine included. I went without electricity for a little over 24 hours. All I had to keep me entertained was my MP3 player and conversing with my 11-year-old niece Reina. I wanted to read my book, but without electricity, there’s no light to shine on the pages.
I probably shouldn’t be bitching and complaining too much, because my electricity eventually returned and I’m a happy man once more. I’m more worried about the people who no longer have stable homes and are trapped by the floods. It got so bad that Governor Jay Inslee declared a State of Emergency, which means National Guard members are going to assist those who’ve been displaced by this harsh weather. I can withstand 24 hours of boredom, but those less fortunate deserve your thoughts and love more than I do.
I’ve lived in Washington State from 1991-1993 and again from 1996 to the present day. The Pacific Northwest has always been known for its bipolar weather. It’s insufferably hot in the summertime and damned near devastating in the wintertime. Don’t get me wrong, Washington is still a beautiful place to live. But for all the times that Mother Nature gets even with us, it becomes more and more important to have a plan in case the electricity goes out, you’re stranded at home, or you don’t even have a home.
Even more than that, it’s important not to lose our humanity towards the less fortunate. If a family has been displaced by this kind of weather and is currently living on the streets, don’t shout at them for “taking handouts” and “not getting a job”. Show them your love. Give them hope. Even something as simple as a twenty dollar bill can make a difference in that family’s life. And one more thing: if you were displaced by bad weather, you’d want “handouts” too despite all of the pride you keep within you. If you had a choice between living in a low-cost apartment and having some disposable income along with food stamps over living on the streets and being closer to death, you’d choose the former every time. Admit it.
The weather already looks like it’s improving. I just went for a walk to the convenience store with the sun shining down on me. It was a little bit chilly, but there was sunshine nonetheless. But if I should go offline again, you now know why. No matter how many times Mother Nature strikes, I will always find a way to tell you guys I’m alive and well, even if it means going to a library or a hotel to use their computers. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***CREATIVE PROJECTS***
Being offline has caused a little bit of a setback in my creative work, but that’s okay, because catching up is as easy as 1-2-3. I’ve declared today “reading day”, which means I’ll catch up on short stories submitted to the WSS and I’ll do another 30 pages of “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. Tomorrow is Friday and will be declared “TV day”, where I’ll catch up on NCIS, NCIS: Los Angeles, NCIS: New Orleans, and WWE NXT. Wow, that’s a lot of initials. As far as “Zombie” goes, I’ll probably write it this coming Saturday since all of my catching up will be done by then. And then there’s the Dark Fantasy Warriors drawings. Next on deck is Danielle Reigns, the benevolent necromancer from the short story that used to be called “Conform”, but is now called “Dead Man Walking”. Wish me luck on catching up! There’s not a storm on earth that can stop the power of creativity!
***SKYPE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
ME: I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that the acronym for Occupy Wrestling is OW, which is what people say when they feel pain.
MARIE: Haha! If I catch a wrestler saying, “Ow!”, I’ll slap him across the face and say, “Man up!”
ME: Yeah, wrestlers mostly just scream in agonizing pain or say, “Shit!” After all, nobody gets wrapped up in the Walls of Jericho and says, “Please stop that, good sir.”
MARIE: Hahahaha! That’s true.
Monday, November 16, 2015
Oswald the Giant
Zack Moraga didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be found guilty for a murder he didn’t commit. He didn’t deserve to be locked up in the smelliest god-awful dungeon for five years. He also didn’t deserve to have his only chance at freedom come at the price of hunting a giant with little more than a jagged dagger and a measly crossbow. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t lay a giant even if he had a fiery catapult and two battering ram teams. He was all alone out there in the Dread Wight forest with two crappy weapons and a death sentence disguised as a window of opportunity.
The poor prisoner didn’t even try to track down this “Oswald the Giant”. He just sat on a tree stump in the middle of this foggy forest and sulked with his spiky-haired head in his hand. What did he really do to deserve all of this? Why was he wearing leather blue prison armor instead of a decent outfit? Didn’t anybody even remotely entertain the idea that Zack Moraga might be an innocent man? All he was at that point was a statistic. An outcast. A walking corpse. These negative thoughts caused a sigh to slip from his chapped mouth.
Finally after a few hours of moping on that tree stump with nothing but his thoughts, the ground began to shake. At first it was a gentle rumble. But then as the beast got closer, the tremors knocked Zack off of his stump and sent him into a mad dash for safety. He was barely one step ahead of the giant as it put its foot down for another violent quake. And another step. And another step. While this would be considered moseying for a giant, it was an exhausting sprint for Zack, who fell off the dirt trail and into a ditch.
The would be giant slayer laid on his back after so much exercise and breathed heavily. His ribs were sore from the cardio and his feet felt like he was walking on swords barefoot. He was done for. This is what a corrupt justice system in medieval times amounted to. For god’s sake, if the giant wanted to kill Zack, why didn’t he do it already? Get it over with! Quit letting the anxiety build up!
And then the giant laid down beside Zack on the dirt trail and rolled on his back. He let out an animalistic yawn and then a longwinded…purr? Wait a minute. Giants don’t purr. Sure enough, Zack opened his sore eyes for a few seconds and saw that the “great” and “fierce” Oswald the Giant was an oversized tiger-striped cat who purred and played like any other domestic animal would. But for now, he was sleeping.
A cat? The high courts wanted Zack Moraga to kill a giant cat? What for, exactly? Was his heavy stepping really that much of a threat to the royal kingdom? Was there a sudden shortage of fur? How about meat? Were people that starved for a good meal? Whatever the case was, the imprisoned warrior shook his head and achingly pulled himself to his feet. There wouldn’t be a better time to slay the giant than right fucking now.
Even though his body was sore, Zack managed to find the strength within his tired bones to climb up on Oswald’s belly using his fur coat. The big gut rose and fell slowly and evenly. The purrs were mixed in with the snores. This cat was definitely unconscious. But sneaking across the moving belly without disturbing him proved to be difficult work for Zack.
He tried to maintain his acrobatic equilibrium whilst tiptoeing across the beast’s stomach. Thinking this kill was already his, the hunter pulled out his crappy dagger and raised it in the air, hoping to get a good stab to the throat. He was almost there. He could feel the sweet taste of freedom. And then Zack stumbled on his ass and awakened the kitty giant, the rusty blade dropping to the ground below.
Oswald looked at the strange creature on his belly and lifted his head to try and lick him off like a flea. “Oh, dear god! Why?! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” screamed Zack as he was getting bathed in feline saliva. The goopy fluids caused the jailbird to stick to Oswald’s tongue and be flung high in the air after the cat spit him out.
While in the air, the cat giant batted him around like a common toy with all four of his fuzzy paws. Zack Moraga continued to curse and scream since the harsh motion (along with the spittle) was making him sick to his stomach. A final wave of Oswald’s paw sent the fighter off to the side of the dirt trail into the ditch once again.
Zack hit the ground hard enough to finally trigger a storm of vomit from his already filthy mouth. After about half a minute of puking, it was pretty much just dry heaves, which went to show how poorly prisoners were fed under this justice system. How badly they were defeated was also evident when Zack laid in a puddle of his own (and Oswald’s) oral filth and didn’t care about life anymore. It was over.
“Who am I kidding?” he said to himself. “This was a setup from the start. I don’t know how to slay a giant, much less a goddamn cat. Fuck this. I’m…going…back…to sleep.” He let out an acidic yawn and started to pass out when Oswald was nudging him with his wet nose.
“Stop it, leave me alone!” said Zack weakly. “Just kill me already! It’s over! My life is over! Why are you taking so long?!” Oswald was licking him again and the saliva didn’t smell any better than it did before. “Why?! Why must you do this to me?!”
After a while of licking, Zack was clean of his vomit, but not of cat spittle, so it was a minor victory at best. Oswald then grabbed Zack by his shirt collar with his teeth and tucked him into his belly before snuggling around the suicidal warrior. Along the way, Zack heard his crossbow drop on the ground as well, but he wasn’t going to lift a pinky in order to pick it up. To be honest, Oswald’s furry cuddle was more comfortable than any straw bed in that crappy dungeon. It didn’t take long for Zack to fall asleep in the cat giant’s loving hold.
The entire night had passed over the Dread Wight Forest and still Zack’s handlers didn’t see any progress made. The two seven-foot tall knights clad in steel armor and carrying war hammers were trudging through the forest in search of their ill gotten prisoner. “I told you we couldn’t rely on that pathetic weasel to get the job done!”
“What did you expect? He’s one guy with the most basic weapons we can come up with. Do you really think he stood a chance? Besides, there really was no hope for him after all. This had death sentence written all over it.”
“So the whole thing was just one sick joke from the start?”
“Pretty much. Now where is the little bastard? I’m hungry and I don’t want to stay in this wretched forest any longer.”
The ground shook and knocked the two towering knights on their asses, yet they kept steady grips on their war hammers. Before them stood Oswald the Giant, with his teeth showing, his drool flowing, and his hisses and growls coming at intimidating paces. Even so, the two knights weren’t the least bit scared. They laughed at the kitty giant before getting up and dusting themselves off.
“Come on, you giant turd! Let’s see what you’ve got!” shouted one of the knights before that same knight felt a sharp pain going up the crack of his ass. He danced around bleeding and screaming like a little girl until he eventually lost his footing and spun out into the ditch below to die.
The other knight noticed that the source of the anal pain was a crossbow bolt, one issued only to prisoners of this “death sentence”. The steel-clad warrior looked around and saw Zack Moraga leaning against a tree with his arms folded and the smoking gun (or cocked crossbow) in his hand.
“You sick bastard!” screamed the remaining knight as he stampeded toward the unflinching Zack with his war hammer ready to strike. The seven-foot warrior felt a hard smack against his back and flew into another oak tree with explosive force. The pain was horrendous, so much so that turning his head to see who smashed him was a chore itself. It was Oswald and his giant paw, no doubt.
As soon as the knight peeled himself out of the tree, he fell over in a weakened state and was ripe for the picking. Zack waddled over to him and lifted his head before saying, “Justice is finally served!” That was the last thing the knight heard before he felt the jagged edge rip his throat to pieces, bleeding him out and suffocating him at the same time. He died instantly.
After the two handlers were disposed of, Zack threw aside his weapons and looked up at Oswald with a big smile on his face. He hadn’t smiled in such a long time and it felt good to do so. The now ex-prisoner climbed up on Oswald’s back and said, “Take me home, kitty-pie. I have a baby girl who’s dying to meet you!”
The jolly gray giant meowed and purred as he trotted across the forest, fully intending to take Zack home where he belongs.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Bury the Past
***BURY THE PAST***
In my college days, I used to talk candidly about my past like it was no big deal. I would write little essays of my most negative and emotionally draining experiences and post them online as if I was hotter shit than Tobias Wolff or Alison Bechdel, both authors masters of the memoir style. I even had aspirations of writing my own autobiography and talking about high school in Chehalis, living with my former step-dad Art, and being depressed at Western Washington University. Every negative experience I had in my life would bring me gold and silver, I thought to myself.
But then people would see these nonfiction postings and would want to know more. So they prodded me with questions like “What did he say?” and “What happened?” and anything else that would be considered nosy and detective-like. Talking about these experiences doesn’t bring me peace of any kind. It brings me sadness and heartache, so I try to avoid these conversations as much as possible. But then the nosy people would ask me why I posted my memoirs online whilst refusing to talk about it afterwards. I could never argue with that logic. I knew in my heart it was wrong, but I couldn’t disprove it. So please, if I don’t want to talk about the past, don’t make me. I keep those memories buried beneath the dirt forever, never to surface again.
I say these things not just as a warning to anybody digging into my past, but to anybody who wants to write memoirs themselves. If you publish something, people will be nosy about it and ask you about traumatic memories until the end of time. A prime example of a memoir gone bad is “My Fight/Your Fight” by UFC fighter Ronda Rousey. I haven’t read it yet, but I do know about it through Rousey’s Wikipedia profile. In the memoir, she talks about a time when she beat the shit out of her ex-boyfriend because he wanted to post revenge porn (nude photographs) of her online. Ever since then, domestic violence groups dropped the hammer down on Rousey while completely ignoring the cyber abuse her ex-boyfriend tried to commit, which is just as bad in my opinion as any physical beating.
Rousey has her own reasons why she wrote the memoir and none of her public backlash is her fault. But after hearing about that part in her book, it makes me want to read it more. Make no mistake about it, though: if there comes a time when the two of us talk online, neither of our pasts will be on the menu. Same thing goes for authors like Jaycee Dugard, Randy Blythe, and Amanda Knox: if I want to know their life stories, I’ll read their books and make no further comments other than to leave an online review.
Privacy is always a fuzzy gray area with the internet being as abundant as it is today. People love to share their lives online, but when the sharing becomes too much, their followers still want more. I personally enjoy my offline privacy. I keep my past buried beneath the earth, I refuse to write memoirs, and the only pieces of my life that I do share are clean photographs and occasional updates of events that might affect my artistic performance. Being an introvert and being a private person go hand in hand. When privacy is violated, the introvert becomes bitter at whoever violated it and rightfully so. So please, don’t force anybody to talk about something they don’t want to. Talking doesn’t bring peace for everyone, mostly just traumatic flashbacks and chilled blood.
***CREATIVE WORK***
A new week at the WSS is on the horizon, so expect another Poison Tongue Tale to come from that prompt as well as my independently written short story “Zombie”. The biggest update I have so far is for the Dark Fantasy Warrior drawings I’ve been doing. Up next is Rosie Moonbender, the antelope wizard from Unleash the Animal. She is the epitome of the “colorful, over-the-top violence” Edward Davies at the WSS likes to talk about when commenting on my short stories. Unleash the Animal was a bizarre story to say the least, which is what will make this picture of Rosie Moonbender all the more special.
***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***
Q: What does Stone Cold Steve Austin say every time he changes a baby’s diaper?
A: Austin 3:16 says I just wiped your ass!
In my college days, I used to talk candidly about my past like it was no big deal. I would write little essays of my most negative and emotionally draining experiences and post them online as if I was hotter shit than Tobias Wolff or Alison Bechdel, both authors masters of the memoir style. I even had aspirations of writing my own autobiography and talking about high school in Chehalis, living with my former step-dad Art, and being depressed at Western Washington University. Every negative experience I had in my life would bring me gold and silver, I thought to myself.
But then people would see these nonfiction postings and would want to know more. So they prodded me with questions like “What did he say?” and “What happened?” and anything else that would be considered nosy and detective-like. Talking about these experiences doesn’t bring me peace of any kind. It brings me sadness and heartache, so I try to avoid these conversations as much as possible. But then the nosy people would ask me why I posted my memoirs online whilst refusing to talk about it afterwards. I could never argue with that logic. I knew in my heart it was wrong, but I couldn’t disprove it. So please, if I don’t want to talk about the past, don’t make me. I keep those memories buried beneath the dirt forever, never to surface again.
I say these things not just as a warning to anybody digging into my past, but to anybody who wants to write memoirs themselves. If you publish something, people will be nosy about it and ask you about traumatic memories until the end of time. A prime example of a memoir gone bad is “My Fight/Your Fight” by UFC fighter Ronda Rousey. I haven’t read it yet, but I do know about it through Rousey’s Wikipedia profile. In the memoir, she talks about a time when she beat the shit out of her ex-boyfriend because he wanted to post revenge porn (nude photographs) of her online. Ever since then, domestic violence groups dropped the hammer down on Rousey while completely ignoring the cyber abuse her ex-boyfriend tried to commit, which is just as bad in my opinion as any physical beating.
Rousey has her own reasons why she wrote the memoir and none of her public backlash is her fault. But after hearing about that part in her book, it makes me want to read it more. Make no mistake about it, though: if there comes a time when the two of us talk online, neither of our pasts will be on the menu. Same thing goes for authors like Jaycee Dugard, Randy Blythe, and Amanda Knox: if I want to know their life stories, I’ll read their books and make no further comments other than to leave an online review.
Privacy is always a fuzzy gray area with the internet being as abundant as it is today. People love to share their lives online, but when the sharing becomes too much, their followers still want more. I personally enjoy my offline privacy. I keep my past buried beneath the earth, I refuse to write memoirs, and the only pieces of my life that I do share are clean photographs and occasional updates of events that might affect my artistic performance. Being an introvert and being a private person go hand in hand. When privacy is violated, the introvert becomes bitter at whoever violated it and rightfully so. So please, don’t force anybody to talk about something they don’t want to. Talking doesn’t bring peace for everyone, mostly just traumatic flashbacks and chilled blood.
***CREATIVE WORK***
A new week at the WSS is on the horizon, so expect another Poison Tongue Tale to come from that prompt as well as my independently written short story “Zombie”. The biggest update I have so far is for the Dark Fantasy Warrior drawings I’ve been doing. Up next is Rosie Moonbender, the antelope wizard from Unleash the Animal. She is the epitome of the “colorful, over-the-top violence” Edward Davies at the WSS likes to talk about when commenting on my short stories. Unleash the Animal was a bizarre story to say the least, which is what will make this picture of Rosie Moonbender all the more special.
***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***
Q: What does Stone Cold Steve Austin say every time he changes a baby’s diaper?
A: Austin 3:16 says I just wiped your ass!
Saturday, November 14, 2015
"Box of Chocolates" by Marie Krepps
BOOK TITLE: Box of Chocolates
AUTHOR: Marie Krepps
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Fictional Short Stories
SUBGENRE: Sci-Fi, Fantasy, and Horror
GRADE: Pass
In the immortal words of Forrest Gump, “Life is like a box of chocolates: you never know what you’re going to get.” In the case of Marie Krepps’ short story collection, you won’t know until the end of each chapter if the chocolates are nutty, creamy, glazed over, bittersweet, or just plain delicious. There might be a few chocolates in this box that are laced with LSD, the stories are so crazy and colorful. Once you’ve finished your chocolaty snack, you will feel delightfully full and pleasantly satisfied. Try getting all of this with just a Hershey’s bar.
The thing about this collection of stories is that your opinions and emotions will vary wildly as you blow through the book. Sometimes you’ll feel like crying your eyes out. Sometimes you’ll feel giddy with delight. And then there are those times when you’re scratching your head. In other words, if someone were to ask you what your favorite stories from this book are, you wouldn’t have to think very hard in order to come up with a decent answer.
For me personally, I had several favorites from this book. I enjoyed the playful antics of Ben (the wolf) and Paca (the panther) from “The Refugees”, because they remind me in some ways of my own crazy animal family. I did a little victory lap after watching Angela get revenge against her bitchy older sister in “Sister Princess”. “Waiting for the Darkness”, however, is one that really hit close to home for me since I too was depressed and angry during my college days, so I know Enid’s struggles very well.
And then you have some stories which appear too short on the surface until you get that nice little twist ending. “Date Night” and “The Meeting” are both of examples of what I’ve just said. Deep down inside, I wish they were longer and more developed. It’s because of incomplete-feeling stories like these that I almost considered giving this book a mixed grade. But then I remembered that flash fiction is an acquired taste and as the reader gets further into the book, the taste will become familiar and delicious, just like a box of chocolates should be. I wrote flash fiction when I was younger and often struggled with it, so I can empathize with Marie on this one.
An actual box of chocolates would be good for any occasion whether it’s lovey-dovey Valentine’s Day, spooky-kooky Halloween, or jolly old Christmastime. The short story collection Marie Krepps wrote takes all three of those atmospheres and turns them into high quality flash fiction that will leave an impression on the reader for a long, long time. Death by chocolate is often the best way to go. Go on, take a bite. It’ll be delicious and orgasmic!
AUTHOR: Marie Krepps
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Fictional Short Stories
SUBGENRE: Sci-Fi, Fantasy, and Horror
GRADE: Pass
In the immortal words of Forrest Gump, “Life is like a box of chocolates: you never know what you’re going to get.” In the case of Marie Krepps’ short story collection, you won’t know until the end of each chapter if the chocolates are nutty, creamy, glazed over, bittersweet, or just plain delicious. There might be a few chocolates in this box that are laced with LSD, the stories are so crazy and colorful. Once you’ve finished your chocolaty snack, you will feel delightfully full and pleasantly satisfied. Try getting all of this with just a Hershey’s bar.
The thing about this collection of stories is that your opinions and emotions will vary wildly as you blow through the book. Sometimes you’ll feel like crying your eyes out. Sometimes you’ll feel giddy with delight. And then there are those times when you’re scratching your head. In other words, if someone were to ask you what your favorite stories from this book are, you wouldn’t have to think very hard in order to come up with a decent answer.
For me personally, I had several favorites from this book. I enjoyed the playful antics of Ben (the wolf) and Paca (the panther) from “The Refugees”, because they remind me in some ways of my own crazy animal family. I did a little victory lap after watching Angela get revenge against her bitchy older sister in “Sister Princess”. “Waiting for the Darkness”, however, is one that really hit close to home for me since I too was depressed and angry during my college days, so I know Enid’s struggles very well.
And then you have some stories which appear too short on the surface until you get that nice little twist ending. “Date Night” and “The Meeting” are both of examples of what I’ve just said. Deep down inside, I wish they were longer and more developed. It’s because of incomplete-feeling stories like these that I almost considered giving this book a mixed grade. But then I remembered that flash fiction is an acquired taste and as the reader gets further into the book, the taste will become familiar and delicious, just like a box of chocolates should be. I wrote flash fiction when I was younger and often struggled with it, so I can empathize with Marie on this one.
An actual box of chocolates would be good for any occasion whether it’s lovey-dovey Valentine’s Day, spooky-kooky Halloween, or jolly old Christmastime. The short story collection Marie Krepps wrote takes all three of those atmospheres and turns them into high quality flash fiction that will leave an impression on the reader for a long, long time. Death by chocolate is often the best way to go. Go on, take a bite. It’ll be delicious and orgasmic!
Friday, November 13, 2015
"Spunky and the Wizard's Chair" by Ashley and Kyra Uzzell
BOOK TITLE: Spunky and the Wizard’s Chair
AUTHORS: Ashley Uzzell and Kyra Uzzell
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Children’s Animal Fantasy
GRADE: Pass
Spunky is an ordinary house cat who enjoys the love and attention that his wizard master brings him. One fateful day, the wizard brings home a splintered wooden chair that is believed to have magical powers. Spunky is ordered to stay away from it, but he defies the wizard and the chair takes the little fluff-pumpkin to a strange new world ruled by other cats. Spunky is scared of his new surroundings and wants to go home. But when the beautiful princess of this kitty world is abducted by dogs, little Spunky isn’t going to let it slide that easily!
One of the many things that makes this book special is the fact that it was written by a mother and her eight-year-old daughter. Alone, their imaginations are wild and colorful. Together, they can put out a polished, cute, cuddly story about magic and purr-babies. Ashley and Kyra working together as a team to make this wonderful kid’s book brings them closer together as a family. No matter what obstacles life puts in front of them, they will always have this special book to look back upon and love every minute of. Family bonding is always important to living a healthy and happy life; never underestimate the power of love.
And then there’s the obvious elephant in the room (or rather the puppies and kitties), the book’s cuteness factor. If you’re writing a book about house pets, you’d better make it as cute and sweet as humanly possible. Ashley and Kyra did just that with their descriptions of each animal character from their bushy tails to their candy-colored fur to (my personal favorite) the princess’s “bell-like voice”. I could learn a lot from this style of writing, because it’s charming without being overly sappy. Whenever I write an animal story, I use a lot of lovey-dovey language and I can see how that would be a turn-off to my readers. So thank you, Ashley and Kyra, for teaching me a valuable lesson in writing animal fantasy fiction!
This book is the very definition of what a kid’s story should have: colorful visuals, a steady reading pace, a loving plot, and not a single ounce of mature content. I enjoyed this book so much that I plan on giving it to one of my nieces as a Christmas present this year. The book is a fun read for all ages, so if I was to give it to my eleven year old niece Reina, she probably wouldn’t feel insulted by it. I have another niece named Jayla who is five years old and she would probably love this book to pieces. So many nieces, so many choices. No matter who I choose, it will be a worthy use of my money since it’s such a lovable read. I’m purring just thinking about it!
Ashley Uzzell is already an established writer under another penname and has produced some of my favorite e-books ever written. Her future is no doubt a bright one no matter how many obstacles she has to go through in life. Kyra especially has a bright future ahead of her because she’s only eight years old and has already shown that she’s capable of putting together an awesome story. If the amount of potential this writing family had could be harnessed into green energy, the world could leave its lights on until the end of time. I give this story a passing grade and I give both authors a digital hug!
AUTHORS: Ashley Uzzell and Kyra Uzzell
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Children’s Animal Fantasy
GRADE: Pass
Spunky is an ordinary house cat who enjoys the love and attention that his wizard master brings him. One fateful day, the wizard brings home a splintered wooden chair that is believed to have magical powers. Spunky is ordered to stay away from it, but he defies the wizard and the chair takes the little fluff-pumpkin to a strange new world ruled by other cats. Spunky is scared of his new surroundings and wants to go home. But when the beautiful princess of this kitty world is abducted by dogs, little Spunky isn’t going to let it slide that easily!
One of the many things that makes this book special is the fact that it was written by a mother and her eight-year-old daughter. Alone, their imaginations are wild and colorful. Together, they can put out a polished, cute, cuddly story about magic and purr-babies. Ashley and Kyra working together as a team to make this wonderful kid’s book brings them closer together as a family. No matter what obstacles life puts in front of them, they will always have this special book to look back upon and love every minute of. Family bonding is always important to living a healthy and happy life; never underestimate the power of love.
And then there’s the obvious elephant in the room (or rather the puppies and kitties), the book’s cuteness factor. If you’re writing a book about house pets, you’d better make it as cute and sweet as humanly possible. Ashley and Kyra did just that with their descriptions of each animal character from their bushy tails to their candy-colored fur to (my personal favorite) the princess’s “bell-like voice”. I could learn a lot from this style of writing, because it’s charming without being overly sappy. Whenever I write an animal story, I use a lot of lovey-dovey language and I can see how that would be a turn-off to my readers. So thank you, Ashley and Kyra, for teaching me a valuable lesson in writing animal fantasy fiction!
This book is the very definition of what a kid’s story should have: colorful visuals, a steady reading pace, a loving plot, and not a single ounce of mature content. I enjoyed this book so much that I plan on giving it to one of my nieces as a Christmas present this year. The book is a fun read for all ages, so if I was to give it to my eleven year old niece Reina, she probably wouldn’t feel insulted by it. I have another niece named Jayla who is five years old and she would probably love this book to pieces. So many nieces, so many choices. No matter who I choose, it will be a worthy use of my money since it’s such a lovable read. I’m purring just thinking about it!
Ashley Uzzell is already an established writer under another penname and has produced some of my favorite e-books ever written. Her future is no doubt a bright one no matter how many obstacles she has to go through in life. Kyra especially has a bright future ahead of her because she’s only eight years old and has already shown that she’s capable of putting together an awesome story. If the amount of potential this writing family had could be harnessed into green energy, the world could leave its lights on until the end of time. I give this story a passing grade and I give both authors a digital hug!
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Rookie Revenge
VERSE 1
It isn’t that I’m not coachable
It isn’t that I’m not approachable
But when your anger burns so bright
I will unleash the demon inside
CHORUS
Respect is never a one-way street
Rookies are never pieces of meat
Coaches will have to accept defeat
Rookie revenge is oh so sweet
VERSE 2
It isn’t that I’m not teachable
It isn’t that I’m not reachable
But when you put your hands on me
I will make you burn and bleed
Respect for authority has to be earned
This is the most important lesson to learn
When you treat human beings like animals
We’ll eat you alive like a cannibal
CHORUS
Respect is never a one-way street
Rookies are never pieces of meat
Coaches will have to accept defeat
Rookie revenge is oh so sweet
VERSE 3
Blow your whistle, blow your horn
Throw off the mask of sanity worn
Scream until your throat is bleeding
And I shall unleash a savage beating
EXTENDED CHORUS
Respect is never a one-way street
Rookies are never pieces of meat
Coaches will have to accept defeat
Rookie revenge is oh so sweet
I smell the blood from miles away
I see the scars like the light of day
Are you happy, Mr. Drill Instructor?
I am too, you abusive motherfucker!
It isn’t that I’m not coachable
It isn’t that I’m not approachable
But when your anger burns so bright
I will unleash the demon inside
CHORUS
Respect is never a one-way street
Rookies are never pieces of meat
Coaches will have to accept defeat
Rookie revenge is oh so sweet
VERSE 2
It isn’t that I’m not teachable
It isn’t that I’m not reachable
But when you put your hands on me
I will make you burn and bleed
Respect for authority has to be earned
This is the most important lesson to learn
When you treat human beings like animals
We’ll eat you alive like a cannibal
CHORUS
Respect is never a one-way street
Rookies are never pieces of meat
Coaches will have to accept defeat
Rookie revenge is oh so sweet
VERSE 3
Blow your whistle, blow your horn
Throw off the mask of sanity worn
Scream until your throat is bleeding
And I shall unleash a savage beating
EXTENDED CHORUS
Respect is never a one-way street
Rookies are never pieces of meat
Coaches will have to accept defeat
Rookie revenge is oh so sweet
I smell the blood from miles away
I see the scars like the light of day
Are you happy, Mr. Drill Instructor?
I am too, you abusive motherfucker!
Stone Cold
It was feeding time for the axe-wielding tribal warrior known as Brutus Warpath. He didn’t feed on just any kind of snack. He wanted blood. He wanted souls. He hungered for vengeance against those who murdered his wife. The hunger was driving him insane. On his path to vengeance, Brutus cleaved through every goblin, ogre, and zombie who dared to stand in his way. All that remained of his path of destruction was an ocean of blood and a mountain of corpses.
But none of those victories would be enough to satisfy the bearskin-wearing, dreadlocked barbarian. For his main course (and maybe his dessert), he wanted no more than the two people directly responsible for the death of his wife: the hog sorcerer Zod Ragefist and the kinky human dark paladin Domino Gunn. The image of those two burned so badly in his mind that they left third degree scars. Brutus’ bloodlust was growing with every moment the image of those two fiends murdering the one he loved tormented his mind. And now it was time for payback.
The anger and hatred within Brutus Warpath had months to build up in his system, probably because it took that long to locate Zod and Domino’s lair. He experienced the aches and pains of his pent up stress such as heart palpitations, headaches, and muscle soreness. Like the tough son of a bitch he was, Brutus pushed these “minor” pains to the backburner and put his game face on.
The lair was actually a hollowed out dragon corpse with the scales, bones, and blood stains preserved with Zod’s dark magic. Was any of this supposed to be intimidating to Brutus? Maybe, but the tensed up warrior readied his battleaxe and entered the mouth of the dragon with a stalking pace.
As he crept down the hallway of this dragon corpse, he could see runic symbols carved into the bones, the magic of which glowed bright orange. Were Zod and Domino expecting him? They should have been. In fact, Brutus didn’t want to wait to seek his revenge anymore. He gritted his teeth, gripped his axe handle tightly, and growled like a lion as he ran down the corridor.
Brutus was so blinded by his rage that he failed to notice his legs getting heavier and heavier with each blitz. He thought he could just soldier on and ignore the pain, but then he experienced yet another sharp sensation, this time in his arm. He collapsed to the ground huffing and puffing due to the angry stress he put on himself.
“What’s wrong, Brutus? Don’t tell me you’re getting nervous around a woman like me.” That seductive voice came from none other than Domino Gunn, the female dark paladin whose studded leather armor looked more like a dominatrix’s corset and whose boots looked more suited for someone with a trample fetish. Her weapon of choice, a ball and chain, wasn’t very sexy at all and reminded everyone who screwed with her that they were always in the fight of their lives.
Flanking the lovely, yet dangerous raven haired vixen was someone who could never be accused of loveliness: Zod Ragefist, a humanoid warthog with piercings and runic tattoos everywhere while wearing a red wizard’s robe and carrying a wooden snake staff. Zod and Domino were the last two people Brutus should have been having stress pains around.
As the barbarian was still trying to get his wits about him, Domino leaned down next to him and cuddled him like a small child. “There there, little one. It’ll all be over soon. You can say hi to that bitch wife of yours. But really, why would you want to see her again when you can have all of this? I’ve been watching you, Brutus, and I’ve been studying you. You and I, we both want the same thing. We have the same desires. Now that you’ve finally found us, hehe, I’m going to give you exactly what you want.”
Domino licked Brutus’ dark-complexioned face and that was enough to set him off and for him to ignore his pain once again. The warrior picked up his axe and attempted to chop Domino’s head off, but the crafty dark paladin ducked underneath and threw a shot of her own with her ball and chain, which Brutus also ducked. The two of them threw their hardest shots at each other with such brutal speed and deadly power, yet they both evaded each other’s attacks with acrobatic flips and shimmies.
The single-minded Brutus already forgot that there was another combatant in the room, Zod Ragefist, who was chanting a magic incantation with his throaty pig voice. The warthog pointed his staff and threw a stream of electricity into Brutus’ body, causing him to ball up in pain and scream in dramatic torture. The electricity continued to surge into the barbarian’s body until he collapsed onto the ground and coughed up blood.
Zod and Domino leaned down next to his prone body and the former of the two villains said, “Look at you, barbarian. You’re so blinded by rage that you don’t even know what the hell your swinging at. How can a woman mean that much to you? You walked into a death trap, all by yourself, no less, and somehow you’re okay with this. I knew your wife very well, Brutus. She would never condone this kind of recklessness, even from you.”
Domino added, “You know how in romance novels how the sweet innocent girl tries to fix the coldhearted man? Do you know how often that works? Never! It clearly didn’t work with you. You look like hell, my friend.” Brutus coughed up more blood, but that didn’t stop Domino from snuggling up next to him like they were a couple laying in bed. “But if anybody can change your ways, it just might be me. I’m not going to do it with sweet, diabetes-inducing tactics. My love is tough. My love is hard. And yet, my love…is forever!”
The dominatrix-like dark paladin leaned forward and tongue kissed a vulnerable Brutus, tasting his blood and taking a little bit of his pride along the way. Just like with her previous advances, all this did was anger the barbarian to where he rolled Domino on her back and pinned her arms down with his bloody mouth drooling over her now fearful face.
“Is that why you killed her? So that I would be single again?! You wanted to have me that badly?!” shouted Brutus. “Well, guess what, you crazy bitch. Today is your lucky day. For the first time in a long time, a stud muffin like me…is going to give you head!”
Domino and Zod shared a laugh together before the former said, “Oh, that’s rich. Well, what are you waiting for…stud muffin?”
“Yeah…what am I waiting for. Except I don’t mean THAT kind of head. I had something a little more piggish in mind!” In one fluid motion, Brutus leapt to his feet and threw Domino’s body at Zod, who dropped his staff and caught her in mid-air. With the warthog’s hands too busy to cast spells, Brutus picked up his axe and took the world’s biggest swing. The kind of “head” he was referring to was the one on Zod’s shoulder’s, which fell into Domino’s lap while the evil sorcerer’s body dropped to the ground.
The sight of her master’s head caused Domino to scream like the woman she was and back up against the dragon’s ribs. Brutus looked down on the frightened fighter with his bloody axe ready and his violent expression creepier than ever. Now that he was in a position of power, Brutus felt the need to relax his pose. But as soon as he did, the stress pains hit him again and he was on his knees clutching his aching chest while struggling to breathe.
The sight of her “lover boy” in pain caused Domino to stop screaming and instead adopt an expression full of rage and anger. She crawled on her hands and knees over to Brutus and pulled his head up by the dreadlocks. “Was it worth it?!” she asked. “Did you think getting revenge on me and Zod would bring you peace?! Well, it’s going to give you all the peace you need, because sooner or later, you’re going to die and deserve it! We could have been something together, Brutus! We could have been lovers! But instead you choose to side with that harlot!”
Brutus’ breathing was getting slower while Domino’s was getting angrier. The barbarian smiled a bloody smile and said, “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks. I saved the last dance just for you. We can still be lovers, Domino. In fact…close your eyes and let me give you a kiss!”
The “kiss” ended up being a vampire-like bite into Domino’s throat, which flooded with blood upon breaking the skin. Domino choked while Brutus bathed in bloodlust. This would be a heavenly feeling to take into the afterlife with him. If there was such thing as a heaven, he would be all sexed up for his wife and they would make true love like a couple of wild animals. Only a few more drinks of blood and both warriors were gone, Brutus via heart attack and Domino via suffocation and blood loss. Talk about going down in a blaze of glory.
But none of those victories would be enough to satisfy the bearskin-wearing, dreadlocked barbarian. For his main course (and maybe his dessert), he wanted no more than the two people directly responsible for the death of his wife: the hog sorcerer Zod Ragefist and the kinky human dark paladin Domino Gunn. The image of those two burned so badly in his mind that they left third degree scars. Brutus’ bloodlust was growing with every moment the image of those two fiends murdering the one he loved tormented his mind. And now it was time for payback.
The anger and hatred within Brutus Warpath had months to build up in his system, probably because it took that long to locate Zod and Domino’s lair. He experienced the aches and pains of his pent up stress such as heart palpitations, headaches, and muscle soreness. Like the tough son of a bitch he was, Brutus pushed these “minor” pains to the backburner and put his game face on.
The lair was actually a hollowed out dragon corpse with the scales, bones, and blood stains preserved with Zod’s dark magic. Was any of this supposed to be intimidating to Brutus? Maybe, but the tensed up warrior readied his battleaxe and entered the mouth of the dragon with a stalking pace.
As he crept down the hallway of this dragon corpse, he could see runic symbols carved into the bones, the magic of which glowed bright orange. Were Zod and Domino expecting him? They should have been. In fact, Brutus didn’t want to wait to seek his revenge anymore. He gritted his teeth, gripped his axe handle tightly, and growled like a lion as he ran down the corridor.
Brutus was so blinded by his rage that he failed to notice his legs getting heavier and heavier with each blitz. He thought he could just soldier on and ignore the pain, but then he experienced yet another sharp sensation, this time in his arm. He collapsed to the ground huffing and puffing due to the angry stress he put on himself.
“What’s wrong, Brutus? Don’t tell me you’re getting nervous around a woman like me.” That seductive voice came from none other than Domino Gunn, the female dark paladin whose studded leather armor looked more like a dominatrix’s corset and whose boots looked more suited for someone with a trample fetish. Her weapon of choice, a ball and chain, wasn’t very sexy at all and reminded everyone who screwed with her that they were always in the fight of their lives.
Flanking the lovely, yet dangerous raven haired vixen was someone who could never be accused of loveliness: Zod Ragefist, a humanoid warthog with piercings and runic tattoos everywhere while wearing a red wizard’s robe and carrying a wooden snake staff. Zod and Domino were the last two people Brutus should have been having stress pains around.
As the barbarian was still trying to get his wits about him, Domino leaned down next to him and cuddled him like a small child. “There there, little one. It’ll all be over soon. You can say hi to that bitch wife of yours. But really, why would you want to see her again when you can have all of this? I’ve been watching you, Brutus, and I’ve been studying you. You and I, we both want the same thing. We have the same desires. Now that you’ve finally found us, hehe, I’m going to give you exactly what you want.”
Domino licked Brutus’ dark-complexioned face and that was enough to set him off and for him to ignore his pain once again. The warrior picked up his axe and attempted to chop Domino’s head off, but the crafty dark paladin ducked underneath and threw a shot of her own with her ball and chain, which Brutus also ducked. The two of them threw their hardest shots at each other with such brutal speed and deadly power, yet they both evaded each other’s attacks with acrobatic flips and shimmies.
The single-minded Brutus already forgot that there was another combatant in the room, Zod Ragefist, who was chanting a magic incantation with his throaty pig voice. The warthog pointed his staff and threw a stream of electricity into Brutus’ body, causing him to ball up in pain and scream in dramatic torture. The electricity continued to surge into the barbarian’s body until he collapsed onto the ground and coughed up blood.
Zod and Domino leaned down next to his prone body and the former of the two villains said, “Look at you, barbarian. You’re so blinded by rage that you don’t even know what the hell your swinging at. How can a woman mean that much to you? You walked into a death trap, all by yourself, no less, and somehow you’re okay with this. I knew your wife very well, Brutus. She would never condone this kind of recklessness, even from you.”
Domino added, “You know how in romance novels how the sweet innocent girl tries to fix the coldhearted man? Do you know how often that works? Never! It clearly didn’t work with you. You look like hell, my friend.” Brutus coughed up more blood, but that didn’t stop Domino from snuggling up next to him like they were a couple laying in bed. “But if anybody can change your ways, it just might be me. I’m not going to do it with sweet, diabetes-inducing tactics. My love is tough. My love is hard. And yet, my love…is forever!”
The dominatrix-like dark paladin leaned forward and tongue kissed a vulnerable Brutus, tasting his blood and taking a little bit of his pride along the way. Just like with her previous advances, all this did was anger the barbarian to where he rolled Domino on her back and pinned her arms down with his bloody mouth drooling over her now fearful face.
“Is that why you killed her? So that I would be single again?! You wanted to have me that badly?!” shouted Brutus. “Well, guess what, you crazy bitch. Today is your lucky day. For the first time in a long time, a stud muffin like me…is going to give you head!”
Domino and Zod shared a laugh together before the former said, “Oh, that’s rich. Well, what are you waiting for…stud muffin?”
“Yeah…what am I waiting for. Except I don’t mean THAT kind of head. I had something a little more piggish in mind!” In one fluid motion, Brutus leapt to his feet and threw Domino’s body at Zod, who dropped his staff and caught her in mid-air. With the warthog’s hands too busy to cast spells, Brutus picked up his axe and took the world’s biggest swing. The kind of “head” he was referring to was the one on Zod’s shoulder’s, which fell into Domino’s lap while the evil sorcerer’s body dropped to the ground.
The sight of her master’s head caused Domino to scream like the woman she was and back up against the dragon’s ribs. Brutus looked down on the frightened fighter with his bloody axe ready and his violent expression creepier than ever. Now that he was in a position of power, Brutus felt the need to relax his pose. But as soon as he did, the stress pains hit him again and he was on his knees clutching his aching chest while struggling to breathe.
The sight of her “lover boy” in pain caused Domino to stop screaming and instead adopt an expression full of rage and anger. She crawled on her hands and knees over to Brutus and pulled his head up by the dreadlocks. “Was it worth it?!” she asked. “Did you think getting revenge on me and Zod would bring you peace?! Well, it’s going to give you all the peace you need, because sooner or later, you’re going to die and deserve it! We could have been something together, Brutus! We could have been lovers! But instead you choose to side with that harlot!”
Brutus’ breathing was getting slower while Domino’s was getting angrier. The barbarian smiled a bloody smile and said, “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks. I saved the last dance just for you. We can still be lovers, Domino. In fact…close your eyes and let me give you a kiss!”
The “kiss” ended up being a vampire-like bite into Domino’s throat, which flooded with blood upon breaking the skin. Domino choked while Brutus bathed in bloodlust. This would be a heavenly feeling to take into the afterlife with him. If there was such thing as a heaven, he would be all sexed up for his wife and they would make true love like a couple of wild animals. Only a few more drinks of blood and both warriors were gone, Brutus via heart attack and Domino via suffocation and blood loss. Talk about going down in a blaze of glory.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Adrenaline Dump
***ADRENALINE DUMP***
As of today, I only have seven more stories to write before I hit number 50 for Poison Tongue Tales. This past Saturday I wrote one called “Born to Die” and the day after I wrote “Minnie-Moo”. In between chapters, I’ve been writing jokes for Face Book and drawing pictures for my Dark Fantasy Warriors collection. And then on Monday…I took the world’s longest nap in my parents’ bed with Sitka snuggling beside me…before watching WWE Raw later that night. Monday was considered a lazy day, to say the least. Today, I’m trying to keep the work rate going with this journal and maybe some paperback reading.
In the UFC, there are times during a match when a fighter will unleash an exciting fury of offense for the first round and be completely drained for the next two rounds (or four if it’s a main event or championship fight). Commentators Joe Rogan and Mike Goldberg will refer to that as an “adrenaline dump”, and no, it has nothing to do with taking a powerful shit. After reading my work schedule in the first paragraph of this journal, do you see how that UFC analogy is appropriate? I work on my creative projects throughout the past few days, do a shit ton of work on Sunday, and then pass out with Sitka on Monday.
This is not the first time I’ve experienced an adrenaline dump. Then again, I bet there are some writers out there who go through the same thing. I played the word game TPBM (The Person Below Me) on the WSS Contest and Company’s forum and made a post asking if the next person experiences downpours of adrenaline. The next person indeed said yes. That’s one other person. But as you all know, the reason I post these journals is to pose questions to my audience, this one being obvious by now.
Actually, the real reason I’m writing this journal is to keep with the tradition of NaNoWriMo as an excuse to write every day since yesterday I technically broke that tradition by falling asleep with Sitka. I’m pretty sure most people will answer “yes” to the adrenaline dump question since we’re all human and nobody here is a 24/7 worker. If you were a 24/7 worker, you’d probably be dead from stress.
We all need to take time to relax and be alone. We don’t always get that time, so when you do, take advantage of it and stretch it out for as long as possible. Taking a break every once and a while isn’t a sign of laziness. A battery cannot generate electricity if it’s not fully charged. The human mind and body cannot compose an opera, paint a painting, or write a novel if that’s all they’re doing with their lives.
I make this point all the time because the word “lazy” is thrown around a lot these days, often unnecessarily and always unfairly. We hear that word all the time in political debates, especially since a year from now we’re going to have a new president. Welfare, food stamp, and social security recipients are unfairly categorized as being lazy by people who don’t know nor care about the recipients’ circumstances. Millennials are stereotyped as being lazy because of their love of technology and their desires to chase their dreams instead of being stuck behind a desk all day. Minorities of all kinds are stereotyped as lazy because they have a harder time getting hired by mostly white employers.
As humans, we’re all capable of working hard and engaging the world in doing so. It’s not just limited to certain age, economic, or racial groups. What separates us isn’t our “laziness”, but our desires. We do work hard, but on other projects that are more important to us than others. Some people want to cure AIDS. Some people want to fight terrorists overseas. Some people want to write novels. Some people want to sing to an audience. The moment we criticize each other for our desires is when hatred spreads like the virus it is. Nationalism doesn’t work. Conformity of any kind doesn’t work, because instead of teaching teamwork, it teaches resentment and bitterness.
I’ve never had the chance or the words to make those statements about false laziness before. I keep wanting to say them, but those opportunities come only after I’ve seen a Face Book meme criticizing one group of people for “taking handouts”. I don’t want to speak about this passionate topic when I’m angry at someone’s ignorance. I want to speak about it when I’m calm, cool, and collected and that time couldn’t have come any earlier than tonight.
So thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for listening to me bear my soul under the guise of a blog entry about adrenaline dumps. Let’s keep the L word out of our political debates and only use it when the situation actually warrants it. Learn the circumstances of the one you’re throwing that word against before it comes out of your mouth. The more you get to know someone, the less likely you are to cast judgment. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***READING***
It’s been days since I’ve read and reviewed Marie Krepps’ “Love Me Today, Kill Me Tomorrow” as well as Michael Schofield’s “January First”. How many days, I’ve lost track. It’s time for a new book and that new book is called “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. I browsed Barnes & Noble for anything that looked interesting and found this book. The front cover features an orange-yellow kitty who looks a little bit like Nacho. Naturally, I had to buy that book.
And, uh…I also paid for copies of Marie Krepps’ books “Box of Chocolates” and “Spunky and the Wizard’s Chair” (written as Ashley Uzzell). Marie is probably going to read that last line and curse me for spending that much money on her books. But the truth is, she’s been so good to me in giving me LuNacho advice, encouraging me to participate in NaNoWriMo, and critiquing my Poison Tongue Tales. Putting a little extra money in Marie’s pocket is my way of thanking her for this year of friendship she has given me. I will always look back on 2015 as the year of Marie Krepps aka Ashley Uzzell. And that thought brings a smile to my face and a tear to my eye! ^_^
***POISON TONGUE TALES***
Tomorrow I plan on getting back to my PTT writing schedule. No naps with Sitka, no new age music with Smokey, just straight up hard work. Tomorrow’s short story will be for the WSS while the day after’s short story will be done independently. Here are the synopses for both of them:
***STONE COLD (WSS)***
CHARACTERS:
Brutus Warpath, Human Barbarian
Zod Ragefist, Warthog Sorcerer
Domino Gunn, Human Dark Paladin
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Brutus has been on a “wild goose chase” for Zod and Domino for months on end.
SYNOPSIS: Brutus has spent months searching for Zod and Domino, the two warriors who slew his wife. As more time passes, Brutus gets angrier and angrier and is more likely to do what Zod says he‘ll do: “give into the evil”. Giving into sadistic tendencies will only make Brutus evil enough to be controlled by Zod’s dark magic. When Brutus finally locates Zod and Domino inside their dragon corpse hideout, he has a decision to make: be just as sick and twisted as Zod wants him to be and violently rape Domino or find a way to make peace with the past.
***ZOMBIE (INDEPENDENT)***
CHARACTERS:
Gail Reinhold, Paladin
Mattie Dent, Drugged Out Mercenary
PROMPT CONFORMITY: None.
SYNOPSIS: In this urban fantasy tale, Gail’s church runs a drug rehabilitation facility in their basement, where holy magic and self-belief keep patients from staying there forever. Gail bites off more than she can chew when she takes in Mattie Dent, a space mercenary who overdosed on combat drugs and is now behaving like an enraged zombie. Despite Mattie’s homicidal disposition and lengthy criminal history, Gail, being the stalwart paladin that she is, refuses to give up on her.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Up next on the chopping block is Psymon Nordonus, the vigilante hacker from Poison Tongue Tale “Nail Bomb”. Before writing that short story, I used this character in my videogame idea Final Fantasy Hardcore. He was a hacker in that story too, but he also used a steel chain as a whip when getting into hand-to-hand combat. For reference pictures, I’m going to need a good one of a guy in a hoodie, hopefully one that adds to Psymon’s mysterious ways. I’m sure Google will come through for me like it always has.
***TELEVISION QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Y’all don’t know whether to scratch your watch or wind your ass.”
-Todd from “Chrisley Knows Best”-
As of today, I only have seven more stories to write before I hit number 50 for Poison Tongue Tales. This past Saturday I wrote one called “Born to Die” and the day after I wrote “Minnie-Moo”. In between chapters, I’ve been writing jokes for Face Book and drawing pictures for my Dark Fantasy Warriors collection. And then on Monday…I took the world’s longest nap in my parents’ bed with Sitka snuggling beside me…before watching WWE Raw later that night. Monday was considered a lazy day, to say the least. Today, I’m trying to keep the work rate going with this journal and maybe some paperback reading.
In the UFC, there are times during a match when a fighter will unleash an exciting fury of offense for the first round and be completely drained for the next two rounds (or four if it’s a main event or championship fight). Commentators Joe Rogan and Mike Goldberg will refer to that as an “adrenaline dump”, and no, it has nothing to do with taking a powerful shit. After reading my work schedule in the first paragraph of this journal, do you see how that UFC analogy is appropriate? I work on my creative projects throughout the past few days, do a shit ton of work on Sunday, and then pass out with Sitka on Monday.
This is not the first time I’ve experienced an adrenaline dump. Then again, I bet there are some writers out there who go through the same thing. I played the word game TPBM (The Person Below Me) on the WSS Contest and Company’s forum and made a post asking if the next person experiences downpours of adrenaline. The next person indeed said yes. That’s one other person. But as you all know, the reason I post these journals is to pose questions to my audience, this one being obvious by now.
Actually, the real reason I’m writing this journal is to keep with the tradition of NaNoWriMo as an excuse to write every day since yesterday I technically broke that tradition by falling asleep with Sitka. I’m pretty sure most people will answer “yes” to the adrenaline dump question since we’re all human and nobody here is a 24/7 worker. If you were a 24/7 worker, you’d probably be dead from stress.
We all need to take time to relax and be alone. We don’t always get that time, so when you do, take advantage of it and stretch it out for as long as possible. Taking a break every once and a while isn’t a sign of laziness. A battery cannot generate electricity if it’s not fully charged. The human mind and body cannot compose an opera, paint a painting, or write a novel if that’s all they’re doing with their lives.
I make this point all the time because the word “lazy” is thrown around a lot these days, often unnecessarily and always unfairly. We hear that word all the time in political debates, especially since a year from now we’re going to have a new president. Welfare, food stamp, and social security recipients are unfairly categorized as being lazy by people who don’t know nor care about the recipients’ circumstances. Millennials are stereotyped as being lazy because of their love of technology and their desires to chase their dreams instead of being stuck behind a desk all day. Minorities of all kinds are stereotyped as lazy because they have a harder time getting hired by mostly white employers.
As humans, we’re all capable of working hard and engaging the world in doing so. It’s not just limited to certain age, economic, or racial groups. What separates us isn’t our “laziness”, but our desires. We do work hard, but on other projects that are more important to us than others. Some people want to cure AIDS. Some people want to fight terrorists overseas. Some people want to write novels. Some people want to sing to an audience. The moment we criticize each other for our desires is when hatred spreads like the virus it is. Nationalism doesn’t work. Conformity of any kind doesn’t work, because instead of teaching teamwork, it teaches resentment and bitterness.
I’ve never had the chance or the words to make those statements about false laziness before. I keep wanting to say them, but those opportunities come only after I’ve seen a Face Book meme criticizing one group of people for “taking handouts”. I don’t want to speak about this passionate topic when I’m angry at someone’s ignorance. I want to speak about it when I’m calm, cool, and collected and that time couldn’t have come any earlier than tonight.
So thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for listening to me bear my soul under the guise of a blog entry about adrenaline dumps. Let’s keep the L word out of our political debates and only use it when the situation actually warrants it. Learn the circumstances of the one you’re throwing that word against before it comes out of your mouth. The more you get to know someone, the less likely you are to cast judgment. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***READING***
It’s been days since I’ve read and reviewed Marie Krepps’ “Love Me Today, Kill Me Tomorrow” as well as Michael Schofield’s “January First”. How many days, I’ve lost track. It’s time for a new book and that new book is called “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. I browsed Barnes & Noble for anything that looked interesting and found this book. The front cover features an orange-yellow kitty who looks a little bit like Nacho. Naturally, I had to buy that book.
And, uh…I also paid for copies of Marie Krepps’ books “Box of Chocolates” and “Spunky and the Wizard’s Chair” (written as Ashley Uzzell). Marie is probably going to read that last line and curse me for spending that much money on her books. But the truth is, she’s been so good to me in giving me LuNacho advice, encouraging me to participate in NaNoWriMo, and critiquing my Poison Tongue Tales. Putting a little extra money in Marie’s pocket is my way of thanking her for this year of friendship she has given me. I will always look back on 2015 as the year of Marie Krepps aka Ashley Uzzell. And that thought brings a smile to my face and a tear to my eye! ^_^
***POISON TONGUE TALES***
Tomorrow I plan on getting back to my PTT writing schedule. No naps with Sitka, no new age music with Smokey, just straight up hard work. Tomorrow’s short story will be for the WSS while the day after’s short story will be done independently. Here are the synopses for both of them:
***STONE COLD (WSS)***
CHARACTERS:
Brutus Warpath, Human Barbarian
Zod Ragefist, Warthog Sorcerer
Domino Gunn, Human Dark Paladin
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Brutus has been on a “wild goose chase” for Zod and Domino for months on end.
SYNOPSIS: Brutus has spent months searching for Zod and Domino, the two warriors who slew his wife. As more time passes, Brutus gets angrier and angrier and is more likely to do what Zod says he‘ll do: “give into the evil”. Giving into sadistic tendencies will only make Brutus evil enough to be controlled by Zod’s dark magic. When Brutus finally locates Zod and Domino inside their dragon corpse hideout, he has a decision to make: be just as sick and twisted as Zod wants him to be and violently rape Domino or find a way to make peace with the past.
***ZOMBIE (INDEPENDENT)***
CHARACTERS:
Gail Reinhold, Paladin
Mattie Dent, Drugged Out Mercenary
PROMPT CONFORMITY: None.
SYNOPSIS: In this urban fantasy tale, Gail’s church runs a drug rehabilitation facility in their basement, where holy magic and self-belief keep patients from staying there forever. Gail bites off more than she can chew when she takes in Mattie Dent, a space mercenary who overdosed on combat drugs and is now behaving like an enraged zombie. Despite Mattie’s homicidal disposition and lengthy criminal history, Gail, being the stalwart paladin that she is, refuses to give up on her.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Up next on the chopping block is Psymon Nordonus, the vigilante hacker from Poison Tongue Tale “Nail Bomb”. Before writing that short story, I used this character in my videogame idea Final Fantasy Hardcore. He was a hacker in that story too, but he also used a steel chain as a whip when getting into hand-to-hand combat. For reference pictures, I’m going to need a good one of a guy in a hoodie, hopefully one that adds to Psymon’s mysterious ways. I’m sure Google will come through for me like it always has.
***TELEVISION QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Y’all don’t know whether to scratch your watch or wind your ass.”
-Todd from “Chrisley Knows Best”-
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