Monday, October 28, 2019

Take My Demons Away


VERSE 1
Just reach inside my head, pull them out one-by-one
You don’t have to tie the noose or fire the loaded gun
You make it sound so easy to forget the fucking past
Your argument is worthless and it’ll never even last

CHORUS
Take the bone saw and open up my head
Disconnect the memories until they’re dead
If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day
Then by all means, take my demons away!
Take my demons away!

VERSE 2
It’s a simple magic trick that anybody can do
Both of us already know that isn’t fucking true
A wave of a wand or some Fantasia fireworks
Are you my new savior or just a fucking jerk?

CHORUS
Take the bone saw and open up my head
Disconnect the memories until they’re dead
If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day
Then by all means, take my demons away!
Take my demons away!

BRIDGE
Your magic potions smell like bleach
A clear mind is something you can’t teach
Your expectations are too far out of reach
Indoctrination is something you can’t preach!
Take my demons away!
Take my demons away!

CHORUS
Take the bone saw and open up my head
Disconnect the memories until they’re dead
If it’s really so easy it could be done in a day
Then by all means, take my demons away!
Take my demons away!

Saturday, October 26, 2019

Assuming Everyone Is a Villain


***ASSUMING EVERYONE IS A VILLAIN***

My childhood was far from perfect (high school be damned), but one thing I’ll always cherish about my young past is doing Final Fantasy-style role-plays with my California friend Lance. We used Lego mini-figures to act out these scenes because they were just as tiny as the sprites in Final Fantasy IV and VI for the Super Nintendo. We battled indestructible giants together. We blew up entire space fortresses. We had adventures that would solidify and enhance our creativity well into adulthood. Anytime I get the chance to exercise my creativity, I’m one happy motherfucker, which is why I’m writing this blog entry right now.

As fun as those times in my life were, there was always something about our role-plays that confused me just a little bit (no, this isn’t me putting the boots to Lance, so settle down, everyone). More often than not, one of Lance’s heroic characters would attack ordinary strangers because he didn’t know what alignment they were. In other words, he assumed they were evil long before he had the chance to get to know them. Not very heroic behavior, in my opinion. But it is worth examining, because even now as an adult with a Bachelor’s in creative writing with a minor in theater arts, this idea could still hold weight in today’s world.

One way in which prejudging could work for the protagonist is if he’s paranoid. Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean the world isn’t out to get you. That’s how delusional thinking works. I know this because during my earliest bouts of schizophrenia in 2002, I too assumed everyone was a villain, whether they were friends, family, strangers, or natural enemies. I had this delusion that the whole world was conspiring to conform me into someone I’m not. Any small sign of obedience on my part meant that my “conspirators” had a permanent victory. My behavior was erratic and I made a few enemies along the way because of it.

But schizophrenic delusions aren’t the only way in which a paranoid person could assume everyone is a villain. The protagonist could instead have PTSD, where the flight or fight mechanism in the brain is working overtime to make the sufferer hyper-vigilant. PTSD can happen for any stressful reason whether it’s bullying, sexual harassment, rape, war, or whatever. People with extreme cases of PTSD have a hard time letting others into their bubble. Who could blame them? They don’t want to be triggered by someone’s distrustful ways. And when I say triggered, I’m not using the alt-right definition of it where they completely wipe their ass with the word.

Not all paranoid protagonists have to have mental illnesses, though. Sometimes they’re not paranoid, but simply distrustful. They won’t beat the shit out of people with unknown alignments, but they could distance themselves from those strangers. They could be fiercely independent in their work life. They could be a Single Pringle. They could isolate themselves from the world around them, though if they did that, it could lead to depression or other mental illnesses. Distrustful protagonists have been around since forever and with the proliferation of violent literature, why wouldn’t they be? It’s a kill or be killed world out there.

As children, Lance and I had confusing plot holes in our role-plays, I’ll admit. Why would a fifty foot giant need a temple to keep him indestructible? Why would the heroes live in an island cellar with nothing to do but lay in bed? Why would a space fortress need to regenerate itself if it’s already a powerful and elaborate structure? As silly as some of these predicaments were, they did help us develop our storytelling skills to where they are today. Yes, I was confused by the constant attacks on strangers with unknown alignments, but I have a better understanding of it today.

Writers and storytellers have a tendency to look at their past works and cringe in self-judgment. While some of that cringing is justified in our advanced age, some parts of our past are worth analyzing if for no other reason than to exercise our skills. We see our mistakes of the past and we now have a better understanding as to why they’re mistakes. We can’t take everything from our past and transpose it into our adult careers, but without that past, we have no future. Whoever said, “The one thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history” was referring strictly to world politics and not creative journeys.

Lance and I lead very separate lives in today’s world. Our belief systems are different. I live in Washington while he lives in California. He’s got his own projects while I’ve got mine. But we still have our creative pasts in common and for that I will forever cherish our friendship no matter how far into the future we are. Thank you, Lance, for helping me become the writer and storyteller I am today. Every artistic journey starts somewhere and it was an honor to start it with you. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!


***CURRENT PLANS***

I’ve got a lot going on in my creative schedule, so let me bring you all up to speed. I finally put together the manuscript for Beautiful Monster’s third draft and it’s well on its way to being critiqued by the fine folks at Hollow Hills. All they need from me now is my payment and some time to work on it. As far as short stories go, my next one will be called Butterscotch and it’s yet another tribute to a former animal of mine. Butterscotch was a tiny kitten when he leapt out at me and my brother in the middle of a nighttime walk in 2003. I still miss him to this day, just like all of my former animals. I’m sure you guys have also noticed I’m posting reviews again, my most recent ones being of “In the Presence of Knowing” by Valarie Savage Kinney and the Quentin Tarantino movie “Jackie Brown”. If I can figure out how to fix the fucking TV’s sound quality, my next review will be of another Tarantino classic, “Inglorious Basterds”. If not, I’ll just stick to reading my next book, “Souls of the Reaper” by Markie Madden, which is the second in her Undead Unit series. I don’t have anything else to report, so wish me luck!


***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

ALPHONSE: If I ever find the person who’s doing this to me, I’m going to make him beg for mercy.

VICTOR: I don’t think he’s going to beg for mercy.

ALPHONSE: He wouldn’t get it anyways.

-Dead Man Down-

Friday, October 25, 2019

Jackie Brown


MOVIE TITLE: Jackie Brown
DIRECTOR: Quentin Tarantino
YEAR: 1997
GENRE: Crime Drama
RATING: R for violence, nudity, and language
GRADE: Pass

LAX flight attendant Jackie Brown is busted by the police for smuggling cocaine and money across the Mexican border. Facing up to five years in prison, the only way out of doing hard time is by ratting out the gun dealer whom the money was supposed to go to, Ordell Robbie. As a sting operation is set up to smuggle the rest of the money out of Mexico, it isn’t always clear who’s double-crossing who. Will Jackie take off with the money herself? Will she stay true to the police or to Ordell? She has the know-how and seductive nature to pull off any deal she wants. Can she do it without getting shot or sent to jail permanently?

First and foremost, the show-stealer of this movie was Samuel L. Jackson as he portrayed Ordell Robbie. His dialogue was delivered naturally and believably. His swearing wasn’t forced at all. He carried himself like the crime lord he was supposed to be. The audience will either be intimidated or thoroughly entertained by Mr. Jackson’s antics (why not both?). However, one of the biggest criticisms this movie got was how frequently the N-word was used by him. To those critics, I say chill out. Quentin Tarantino didn’t write it in the script so many times because he wanted to push a racist agenda. In the criminal underworld, it sounds completely natural, especially coming out of Samuel L. Jackson’s mouth at a hundred miles per hour. This is one instance in cinema history where it’s cool to root for the villain.

Speaking of dialogue, that happens to be one of Quentin Tarantino’s strong suits as a filmmaker and it shows in this movie. While Samuel L. Jackson stole the show, every other cast member could be credited with bringing a believable story to life with their dialogue alone. It could be Pam Grier talking about getting old and starting over again. It could be Bridget Fonda having a casual chitchat with Robert De Niro. It could be Robert Forster talking about how much he hates his job (while still delivering his dialogue like a true professional bondsman). Whether it’s mundane conversation or it actually advances the story, you’ll want to keep your ears open the whole way throughout this movie. It certainly makes up for the oftentimes slow action sequences in between.

If I have one criticism for this movie, it’s that the storyline mechanics were hard to piece together at times. I’m not talking about the audience constantly guessing who Jackie Brown is going to double-cross, that part I’m okay with. I’m talking about keeping up with how the final transaction of Mexican money is supposed to go down. I’m talking about all the ways it went wrong. I’m talking about the climax of the movie and why it couldn’t have happened sooner. I understand that Quentin Tarantino loves his complex storylines, but too much complexity can take the audience out of the viewing experience, especially if things don’t click together by the end credits. But this is a minor criticism at best, so don’t let it discourage you from watching this movie.

I’ve always known that Quentin Tarantino was a master storyteller the minute I watched Pulp Fiction. Watching his other movies, this one included, proves his mantle over and over again. Jackie Brown didn’t feel formulaic. It felt fresh and new despite the fact that it was released in 1997. I hope to one day watch Mr. Tarantino’s entire collection of movies and give them all high praise. But for tonight, Jackie Brown gets a solid four out of five stars.

Thursday, October 24, 2019

Dangerous Authors


***DANGEROUS AUTHORS***

It’s not often that I express an unpopular opinion (unpopular among who?). If anybody wants to challenge the opinion I’m about to express in this blog entry, please remember to keep it civil. Turning it up to eleven will do neither of us any good; we’ve got enough of that shit as it is. Today I want to talk about “dangerous” authors. Specifically, I’d like to discuss what makes an author dangerous and why the label shouldn’t be tossed around so haphazardly. Let’s begin…

To my way of thinking, if you’re an author and your writing is so offensive that it causes violence or other kinds of mistreatment, congratulations, you’re dangerous as fuck. This seems to be the accepted definition among Book Tubers and the literature community in general. Having said that, there are degrees of this behavior and only the highest among them deserves true recognition as dangerous.

If you incite violence with your nonfiction hate speech and someone actually commits murder on your behalf, you’re partly to blame for that and congratulations, you’re dangerous. But if you’re a fiction writer who puts together a bad romantic storyline with mediocre characters and questionable morals, congratulations, you’re a shitty writer, but you’re not dangerous. Nobody died because of your shitty characters because the audience was too busy questioning why your book was popular to begin with.

It’s not enough just to read the stories and consume them. You also have to question them. Adults like to give teenagers a hard time for not questioning what they consume and sometimes they’re right, but not all the time. You can teach a kid to think critically. You can teach them to analyze characterization, plot points, and themes. And when they pick up on these lessons, they’ll look at Fifty Shades of Grey and shrug their shoulders in a “meh” kind of way. That’s right, folks. E.L. James, as terrible as she is, does not qualify as a dangerous author, because most readers can see right through her.

But what about those who don’t analyze someone like E.L. James? It’s not just limited to teenagers, either. There are adults who swear by Fifty Shades of Grey. Adults! But is it really all the fault of a crappy author who probably didn’t know what the fuck she was doing? Sure, accidents do happen and sometimes they’re catastrophic. But is she dangerous? Far from it.

This could be compared to the idea that videogames make teenagers violent. Spoiler alert: they don’t. Kids don’t shoot up schools because they saw it happen in Halo. If they really were being influenced by it, they’d teabag all of their kills and yell, “Ownage!” So if videogames can’t turn kids into monsters, why would a book be able to? What makes a fictional book more dangerous than a videogame if both can be easily questioned? Is it because authors are geniuses and videogame developers are dumb-asses? Artists in general are held in low regard by the public (cough, STEM lords, cough), so let’s put that shit to bed once and for all.

Personally, I believe a real world politician or televangelist is more dangerous to the public than a crappy author who writes mediocre love stories. As we’ve seen with the 2016 US presidential elections, abrasive nonfiction language plays a huge rule in influencing violent behavior. Nazis marching in the streets hold more power over the fearful than pre-teens who bite each other on the neck because they read Twilight. Stephanie Meyer is yet another author who probably didn’t know what the fuck she was doing.

But if you’re really worried about dangerous fictional romances permeating the marketplace, well, that’s what we have beta readers, sensitivity readers, and editors for. As long as these secondary readers don’t judge the author too harshly for unintentional offensiveness, this can truly be a productive conversation. And when productive conversations happen between authors and their betas, then more enjoyable books will be pumped out into the world. If it takes you multiple drafts to get it right (including the sensitive details), then you’ve pretty much described the life of an author. Once a book is published, however, the author is fresh out of excuses. But is he dangerous? Nope. Not in the least.

Again, these are just my opinions and you’re allowed to have a different one if you want. You probably think I’m a scumbag for giving authors like E.L. James and Stephanie Meyer a free pass and that’s okay. Maybe I’m expressing my unpopular opinion because I empathize with authors who have been piled on by the internet crowds. It’s happened to me a few times and I know how awful that makes me feel, so I try to be gentler on crappy fictional authors. If someone thought my novella Occupy Wrestling was too toxic because of the tumultuous relationship between Mitch and Debra, I’d want someone to be gentle with me as well.

But I digress. I turn the floor over to you guys now. What’s your definition of a dangerous author? Do you agree or disagree with the points I’ve made and why? Remember, winning debates isn’t about being the most outlandish. It’s about knowing why you feel the way you do and expressing your reasons in a productive way. Let’s not cancel each other over this hot topic. Let’s come together for a warm cup of tea on this cold autumn evening. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!


***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Muskrat, muskrat. Candlelight. Doing the town and doing it right. In the evening, it’s pretty pleasing. Muskrat Susie, Muskrat Sam do the jitterbug out in muskrat land. And they shimmy. And Sammy’s so skinny. And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed. Singing and jingling the jango. Floating like the heavens above. It looks like muskrat love. Nibbling on bacon, chewing on cheese. Sammy says to Susie, “Honey would you please be my missus?” And she says yes with her kisses. Now he’s tickling her fancy, rubbing her toes. Muzzle to muzzle, now anything goes. As they wiggle, Sue starts to giggle.”

-America singing “Muskrat Love”-


***POST-SCRIPT***

Hey, if you’re sick of mediocre romances, try listening to the song listed above for a healthy and relatable one!

"In the Presence of Knowing" by Valarie Savage Kinney


BOOK TITLE: In the Presence of Knowing
AUTHOR: Valarie Savage Kinney
YEAR: 2017
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Urban Fantasy
GRADE: Extra Credit

When her alcoholic ex-boyfriend Vince beats her while she’s pregnant, Keisha runs away from home and into the safety of her best friend Layla. Layla helps her get a job at the Windy Springs renaissance faire, a seasonal home for trolls, faeries, gnomes, witches, and other magical creatures that oftentimes blur the lines between fantasy and reality. During one of her treks into the forest, Keisha meets a troll named Gibble (real name Rogan O’Connor) and the two of them form a protective and healthy friendship with each other, something Keisha needed in her life ever since splitting from Vince. Speak of the devil, he’s still out there somewhere and could show up any minute to finish the beating he started at the beginning of the story.

One of the main reasons why I decided to give this book a full five stars was because of how much I loved the relationship between Keisha and Rogan. Their friendship development moves along too fast for some people’s comfort, but none of it feels forced or hokey. These two are perfect for each other. They use their demons to become better people instead of bitter and angry like Vince. Whenever they do get into an argument or two, it makes them stronger and better able to face adversity. They share secrets with each other not out of obligation, but because it’s what they genuinely want. If two people are this good for each other, who cares how fast everything moves? If anything, the readers will want them to get together sooner. While Keisha doesn’t have the martial arts know-how that Rogan does, I still consider these two to be equals in other areas of their relationship. Those are the best kinds of couples, the ones whose love you can believe in.

While Keisha can fend off her demons long enough to be in a healthy relationship with Rogan, she still has those demons in the first place and it shows in her thought processes. Her self-punishment is incredibly realistic of someone who’s been in a previously abusive relationship. Her anxiety and possible PTSD are written in a way that makes me believe the author had some kind of experience with these mental illnesses. Her constant worry over her child is nerve-wracking to read about at times, but it goes to show how much of a loving mother she’ll eventually become when the baby is born. Keisha is a top example of a flawed character whose weaknesses don’t ruin the character development or make them unlikable. Other authors could learn something from this. I know I did.

And then we have the renaissance faire, which aside from the evil witch Cordelia sounds like a fun place to spend a day or even work at. Whether it’s the comedic and lighthearted aura of the trolls and gnomes, the eccentricity of the pirates, the class and elegance of the faeries, or anything else that has to do with the fantasy genre, I’m giving my due props to the author for her undying creativity and passion for putting together this world. People come to medieval conventions to get away from the harsh realities of real life. They can be anything they want and be welcomed with open arms. The sense of community among the workers along with their hatred for mediocre conformity makes this tale of escaping abuse that much easier to digest. These people aren’t just coworkers or friends to Keisha. They’re family. They protect each other physically and creatively. That’s a healthy family dynamic everyone deserves to have.

This was a short and easy piece of reading made easier by Valarie Savage Kinney’s undying creativity and passion for what she writes about. She preaches anti-conformity online quite often and practices it to the fullest extent. We all deserve a chance to expand our imaginations beyond the ordinary and Valarie makes us feel safe enough to do that through her writing and online presence. An extra credit grade goes to this wonderful book, the first in a series and boy, what a beginning it was! She’ll no doubt carry this momentum into the rest of the Windy Springs novels.

Blood Rain


One shot would be all it took. A flying diamond-tipped arrow to Shatter Man’s life core would earn Ino Kara the respect she deserved from her mercenary cohorts. No more jokes about her equine features. No more jokes about being ridden like a cowboy. They could forget about trying to feed her hay. They could spare her the horse dick references and anything else that had to do with bestiality. “You fuckers will put respect on my name,” she said in a low voice to nobody in particular.

Shatter Man was ripe for the snipe. Surrounded by a cluster fuck of dead bodies lying on the dirt and bone-covered ground, the necromantic machine sat cross-legged while his exhaust pipe belched red filth into the gray skies above. Ino could smell the ashen cloud it all the way from her sniper’s nest in the treetops. She had to be careful not to hack up a lung if she wanted to stay hidden.

With a bandana tied around her muzzle and stillness taking over her body, Ino pulled one of her diamond-tipped arrows out of her quiver and took aim with her golden edge bow. A shot to the head would have been her preference for any sniping mission, but Shatter Man’s mechanical dome wouldn’t allow it. She had to pierce through his chest at the exact spot and splatter his life core all over the ground. A filthy death indeed, but no more filthy than speeding up climate change with this necromantic smoke. Ino had to find her exact shot and make it quick.

She breathed deeply not only to calm her nerves, but steady her aim. Just when she was ready to release her arrow, a crow flew from out of nowhere and began pecking at Ino’s mask. “Shoo! Go away! Beat it!” she angrily whispered while swatting the bird away. She didn’t want to whack the poor guy too hard due to her respect for animals, but this wasn’t he best time to horse around. There was another mercenary joke that needed to be eradicated forever: horsing around.

Ino steadied her breathing once more and made a second attempt at aiming for the life core. “Easy…easy does it…you’ve got this…now take a shot!” she whispered to herself. The damn crow served as a distraction yet again, but this time perched its claws right over Shatter Man’s life core. The robot didn’t move an inch, just kept spewing garbage into the cloudy skies. “You asked for it, you stupid bird.” Respect would only go so far as Ino Kara finally took her shot.

Shatter Man looked so still and unaware this entire time, not unlike the zombies he was trying to wake up with his putrid smoke. Ino gasped when the mechanical nightmare grabbed the arrow just before it could pierce his life core. He crushed the arrow into dust, including the diamond tip, before ejecting bird seed from his hand as a reward for the crow.

“That little bastard,” whispered Ino, clutching her edge bow so tightly that a little crack formed.

Shatter Man spun his head towards Ino’s sniping nest. His visor flashed an eerie shade of red, making Ino’s heart race no matter how much she tried to suppress her fear. He pointed a drill bit finger at her and puffed even more pollutants into the sky. “My sacred ritual is not your payday!” he said in a monotone, demonic voice. “Arise, my children of the dead!”

A sprinkle of water landed on Ino’s furry head. And another. And another. When she wiped them away, her teeth and legs vibrated at the crimson color. The tiny droplets became heavier and denser until a full-on bloody rainstorm drenched Ino from head to hooves. Her purple battle dress and blue thigh high boots clung to her body like a frightened child wanting his mother’s undying love.

Ino’s own blood grew ice cold and a knot welled up in her stomach when the bloody rain caused the army of dead bodies to twitch. Limbs and heads awkwardly twisted around. Rotting flesh peeled and rolled. Bulging eyeballs retracted back into their owners’ skulls. Slowly and creepily, the shit-smelling dead bodies rose to their wobbly feet until Shatter Man and his crow informant had their own necromantic army.

The horse woman swallowed a golf ball sized lump while clutching her chest, hoping she wouldn’t die of a heart attack before this battle had a chance to begin. “Fuck it,” she said, tossing all caution to the wind. Even as crimson rain pelted her clothing and soaked her fur, Ino tossed aside her growing fear and ran into the fray.

“I want some goddamn respect!” she shouted, knowing assassinating Shatter Man was the only way she’d get it from her fellow mercenaries. As hordes of zombies trudged towards her with their rotten arms extended and their bloody mouths wide open, she fired multiple arrows at once and each one hit their marks. Chests exploded. Throats splattered on the ground. Guts spilled all over the dirt like a gory mudslide. When Ino ran out of arrows, she continued her assault by swinging her edge bow and smashing the skulls of anybody who dared take a bite out of her horse meat.

Shatter Man’s arms folded while the crow sat perched on his shoulder laughing his ass off at the equine warrior. “You little bastard!” shouted Ino as she trampled fallen zombies on her way to snatch the bird, wanting so desperately to rip his feathers out and snap his beak. The zombies wouldn’t stay down for long. As the blood rain continued to pour, they stood back up even with their detached heads and exploded bones. They grabbed at Ino’s shoulders with broken fingers, but she beat them down with her edge bow until they were little more than rivers of blood and organs.

Despite the aching in her own ribcage and limbs, Ino wouldn’t allow her waning energy to get in the way of her quest for respect, coin, and ultimately her life. She smashed more skulls, stomped on fallen bodies, ripped out spinal cords, but the zombies kept getting back up for more. Even the crow got in on the action when he pecked behind Ino’s ears. She swung at the bird, but he kept dodging and laughing the whole time, turning Ino’s ice cold blood into boiling magma. Even as more zombies grabbed her, she ripped her flesh away from their sharp grips and chased after the bird.

When Ino finally latched onto the crow’s tail feathers and seethed with bloodlust as she imagined ripping the little guy apart, a heavy metal punch to the gut doubled her over and caused her to dry heave on the ground. The zombies were called off as Ino touched her damp wound. She knew it was her own blood and not that of the crimson weather. She could feel her naked ribcage because there was no skin to protect it. That punch came from Shatter Man himself, who stood over her with his red visor glowing and blinding her with every flash.

“Go ahead…finish me off…what are you waiting for?!” begged Ino, spitting out blood in between words.

“You exhausted your body, battled my minions, and put your life at risk for a little bit of respect?” said Shatter Man. Ino tucked her head in shame as she laid in the fetal position waiting to die. “Everybody who tried to claim my life has the same story: a minority mercenary looking for acceptance from their peers. Killing me will suddenly net them the happiness they believe they’re entitled to. Truth is, young lady…you could cure cancer and end worldwide hunger all in the same day. You’re still going to be laughed at. You’re still going to be hated by society. Why? Because ignorance and fear are easier to accept than progressive values.”

Tears welled up in Ino’s eyes as this truth bomb hit her harder than Shatter Man’s punch to her guts. “I don’t want to be a horse anymore,” she sobbed. “If being a normal human will get them to leave me alone, then I’ll take it. I never got racial pride anyways.”

“It doesn’t get more ordinary and boring than laying six feet deep in the ground, no matter what race you identify as. But it doesn’t have to be that way. You don’t have to please others to get the respect you deserve. You don’t have to conform to tradition. If you want respect, you’ve got to beat it out of those who deny it to you. You think I chose to be a robot? You think I was born with the name Shatter Man? I didn’t win any popularity contests with my background. Why do you think I have a price on my head? It would have only been a matter of time until you had a price on yours.”

Ino spit up more blood and wiped away her tears with her dress sleeve. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? I’m already on my way to hell. At least in hell, they’re honest about what kind of torture they’re going to give me. Here on earth, they just disguise it as making whatever country they live in ‘great again’.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” said Shatter Man, waving his arm in the sky to show off his bloody rain. “You can have a second chance at life just like my minions. As zombies, they don’t have the highest social ranking. But they take full advantage of their second chance. They hunger for revenge against a society that never wanted them when they were alive. They were and still are weirder than any horse woman they’ve ever seen. Let the blood rain flow into you. Join my army. Don’t wait for respect. Take it from them with both hands.”

The bloody rain poured through Ino Kara’s wounds as she laid on her back waiting for sweet necromancy to overtake her. A warming sensation spread throughout and she didn’t feel like shivering anymore, whether it was because of fear or cold weather. Her eyes rolled back in her head like she was in an orgasmic trance. Her tired body blazed with energy and happiness she hadn’t felt in a long time. Her pain numbed out and was replaced with a massaging sensation throughout her chest, legs, and head.

Slowly and shakily, she rose from the ground. Her stomach pounded with hunger, but not for food and certainly not for hay. She hungered for flesh. She thirsted for blood. Her tormentors would turn into victims. Her cannibalistic meals would taste juicier than a steak dinner. She licked her blood-covered lips and groaned with lust.

Shatter Man placed a hand on her shoulder. “Welcome to my army. You can stay for as long as you desire. They say the taste of vengeance is bittersweet, but you’ll find it to your liking. You will be loved and respected…or else!”

Ino Kara had no words for her seductive master, only groans. Then again, she wouldn’t have to debate the harmful effects of racism with the world ever again. Either her victims took yes for an answer…or they would get chewed up and spit out with no remorse. Ino smiled at that idea. Her newly rotten teeth would make her face look even more horrifying to the racists she would eventually devour. She was strangely okay with that. Fuck beauty. Fuck love. Fuck everybody in this butt ugly world!

Sunday, October 20, 2019

Objectified


The only chicks you like are working at strip bars
The only dudes you like are driving all the fast cars
The only kids you like are trapped inside the cages
The only grandmas you like are all so fucking ageist
The only fat guys like you like are six feet underground
The only fit chicks you like weigh less than sixty pounds
The only crazies you like are Manic Pixie Dream Girls
The only sickos you like are the ones who don’t hurl
The only celebrities you like are ones you masturbate to
The only politicians you like are ones who shit on Me Too
The only workers you like are the ones who lick your boots
The only laborers you like are the ones who pick your fruit
The only athletes you like are the ones who’re undefeated
The only students you like are the ones who have succeeded
The only teachers you like are picking quotes from the bible
The only cops you like are so good at committing libel
The only judges you like are the ones who say the N-word
The only gunners you like are the ones who collect dead birds
The only soldiers you like are the ones in Arnold movies
The only SJW’s you like are the ones who are worth suing
Objectified, electrified, open your asshole wide
As long as they tickle your fancy, you’re always on their side
But one day when you need your very best friends the most
They’ll leave you to die and haunt this world as a wayward ghost

Friday, October 18, 2019

Superhuman


I want to be superhuman, fucking invincible
Drive a car without getting smashed into kibble
Write like my life depends on it, because it does
Read a gazillion books per motherfucking month
Make so many friends and know how to keep them
Make my crushes known instead of just a secret
Go back to school and earn a shit ton of A-pluses
Donate my time to fur babies in need of cuddles
Start my very own channel and earn a lot of likes
Sell my books until there’re none left in sight
Travel the world to visit my very best friends
America, South Africa, and Britain around the bend
I want to be superhuman, make my dreams come true
Make the world a better place for guys like me and you
Leave behind a legacy, not a carbon footprint
This is the game of life, I want to fucking win
Future generations can only look up to me
If I’m superhuman even when I hurt and bleed
I want to be fucking tough, I want to like it rough
Unlimited energy is somehow never just enough
The world is mine if I want to take the damn thing
When I get off my ass, they’ll start calling me king

Thursday, October 17, 2019

Boots and Tongues


VERSE 1
Lick all the ass cheeks, lick all the dicks
Lick all the pussies until you get sick
Drink all the juices, every last ounce
Then tell the world to compare bank accounts

PRE-CHORUS 1
You won’t rinse with mouthwash
Lick it! Lick it! Lick it all!
You won’t use dental floss

CHORUS 1
Boots and tongues! Collect your pay!
Boots and tongues! The corporate way!
Boots and tongues! It tastes okay!
Boots and tongues! Lick it!

VERSE 2
Lick all the bare feet and savor the treat
Toe jam and toenails are the new lunch meat
Lick all the nut sacks and kiss all the rings
Kiss all the asses and lick everything

PRE-CHORUS 2
You won’t brush with toothpaste
Lick it! Lick it! Lick it all!
Dental insurance is such a waste

CHORUS 2
Boots and tongues! Collect your cash!
Boots and tongues! Marry into trash!
Boots and tongues! Hide your stash!
Boots and tongues! Lick it!

CHORUS 3
Boots and tongues! Collect your coin!
Boots and tongues! Stroke your groin!
Boots and tongues! The club to join!
Boots and tongues! Lick it!

Tuesday, October 15, 2019

Paying Your Dues


VERSE 1
All your horror stories will come with a price
All your greatest fears will come back to life
You got your ass cancelled for no good reason
All of your fans have been accused of treason
This is what it means when you pay your dues
Screaming heavy metal, yet singing the blues
Your interest rate is up to a hundred percent
Many more lonely nights is what you’ll spend

CHORUS 1
Paying your dues is what your critics choose
Paying your dues means you sometimes lose
Paying your dues will tax your ass raw
Steel your spine and tighten your jaw

VERSE 2
Nobody said that this would be easy
Nobody said that this would be pleasing
It’s all a part of life if you like it or not
Always somebody to steal your spot

CHORUS 1
Paying your dues is what your critics choose
Paying your dues means you sometimes lose
Paying your dues will tax your ass raw
Steel your spine and tighten your jaw

VERSE 3
Everybody gets what they paid for in the end
Even if it costs them every one of their friends
Even if it costs them their own damn health
Guarantees them a place in their own hell
Despite all the pain, you could fail again
Back to square one, far away from the end
Everyone knows this ain’t a meritocracy
But they cover it up with their own hypocrisy

CHORUS 2
Paying your dues ain’t no ocean cruise
Paying your dues comes with an ego bruise
Paying your dues will break you in half
When you scale to the top, it’s okay to laugh
This is Mount Everest reaching to the stars
This will show the world how tough you are
I hope you get everything you’ve wanted
You and the elite have much in common

Social Justice Warrior


The November breeze stung Pete Winger’s face while neon signs were burning his eyeballs. The sound of boots marching on concrete streets was the coup de grace in slowly waking him up from his head-pounding slumber. His first instinct was to roll out of bed and get in his trench coat and hat. Except where he laid was significantly less comfortable than a coil spring mattress. He couldn’t roll off of it either since his wrists and ankles were held in place with steel cables. Struggling for freedom didn’t get him an inch off of the steel surface that made his spine ache.

Pete finally opened his eyes, but not enough to take in the glow of the neon motel signs. Rundown buildings with American flags barely hanging on the doors (if the buildings even had doors). Concrete streets with potholes the size of dinner plates. Windows shattered. Graffiti smeared all over the brick walls. Minorities in ragged clothing out on their porches wondering just what the hell was going on.

Pete had the answer they were looking for. White hooded minions carried him on a steel crucifix while a cowgirl with an AK-47 strapped to her back led the charge. Her annoying voice seemed all too familiar to Pete when she ordered her hooded cohorts to stop. It was her alright. Long brown hair in a ponytail. Curvy hips. A leather biker gang jacket. A cowgirl hat with a feather in it. She was unmistakable. She was none other than Tifa Cody, America’s loudest voice.

Pete struggled some more in his bindings while Miss Cody goose-stepped into the middle of the street to address the impoverished citizens of this ghetto. “Alright, now listen up, y’all!” she belted in her signature southern accent. “It’s November and you know what that means for America: new politicians, same old crap. And in the interest of fairness, I’m here to make sure none of y’all are going to vote illegally in our fine democracy. Voter fraud is as real as it gets. If I catch one of y’all stuffing the ballot boxes this Tuesday, you’re getting an assload of lead!”

As Tifa unhooked her AK-47, Pete groggily said, “Hey there! You think you can get me off of this cross? I mean…Blue Lives Matter, right? Isn’t that what you’re always saying on the radio?”

Tifa pointed her gun at Pete. “Listen, Detective, and I use that word loosely, the operative phrase there is Blue Lives Matter, not Blue States Matter. I respect the authority of real cops who do their damn jobs, not Dick Tracy knockoffs like you who protect snowflakes like these!”

“Miss Cody…do you not see the irony of what you just said?”

Tifa cocked her gun. “What irony, Mr. Pete ‘Left’ Winger?”

“Well…um…You’re getting mad over the fact that poor black people are allowed to vote and yet they’re the snowflakes. Tell me how that adds up.”

Tifa fired a series of warning shots past Pete’s ear and had the minorities ducking for cover, their children screaming and crying. “This ain’t about skin color, you Snowflake Justice Warrior! This is about protecting our democracy from cheaters and thieves! You libtards don’t have a leg to stand on in the facts department, so you try to vote multiple times. And for the record, my stepfather is black, so don’t even try to play the race card with me!”

Pete chuckled nervously. “Okay, so we know you have a stepfather. But do you have any nieces and nephews? And when you visit them on their birthdays in Bumfuck, Alabama, do they refer to you as…Aunt Tifa?” That zinger got a chorus of “oo’s” from the ghetto dwellers.

“Lay him down, guys,” she ordered her robed minions. After they complied, she butt-stroked Pete in the stomach and earned a series of smoker-like coughs. He also spit up a wad of blood-laced saliva. “Your jokes are about as funny as the so-called woke comedians on late night TV. All that PC propaganda is turning your brain into mush. You don’t know how to tell a decent joke anymore because you’re too scared of getting thrown in Twitter jail.”

“Come on, you had to admit that was punderful.”

“I don’t have to admit a goddamn thing. As a matter of fact, boys, stand him up. I’m about to go all Auschwitz on his funny ass!”

As the hooded minions stood up the steel cross, Pete let out a string of, “No’s!” as if they would actually reconsider burning him alive. While he struggled once more to get free, Tifa pulled out a book of matches and struck them all on the collapsing pavement.

Her back turned to the residents, she said, “Are y’all seeing this? This is what happens when you try to fuck with my country! Ain’t no cops coming out to save him because he’s a damn traitor to real Americans, not the handout takers and ballot stuffers! Cops don’t like that shit! That’s why y’all keep getting shot all the damn time!” Tifa turned around momentarily. “Are you shitting me right now?! Are you filming this on your damn phone?!”

Tifa aimed her AK-47 at a shivering black teenager with his smart phone recording her. “This ain’t no comedy bit for your Tik Tok app or whatever the hell you young fuckers love to do! You drop that damn phone or I’m shooting it out of your damn hands!”

The teen refused to obey but continued to shiver. Pete knew it was now or never if he was going to save more lives than his own. He wiggled around on the cross some more. He struggled even harder. And harder. The steel bindings cut into his flesh and formed purple scars on his wrists and ankles. But the cross moved just a little bit at a time, so much so that the hooded minions had a hard time keeping it erect. They tried to call Tifa’s name, but she was in the middle of a tirade and had none of it.

Pete wiggled again. And again. His muscles ached and his limbs seemed as though they would fall off. And then…the steel cross lurched forward. “Look out!” shouted one of the minions as the cross landed on top of Tifa, bringing her and Pete into chest-to-chest contact. Her gun was knocked out of her hand, but the book of matches still burned and that tiny spark was enough to weaken the straps on Pete’s right wrist.

“Get off of me, goddamn it! Who do you think you are, Bill Clinton?” Tifa struggled while her hooded thugs ran away from not only the fallen cross, but also the minority residents who began throwing bottles and bricks at them. Some of them got away with no bruises other than their egos. Some of their heads splattered on the pavement. One hooded punk got his back cut up by pieces of glass.

As Tifa squirmed and wiggled to slowly pull herself out from under Pete and the cross, the detective tugged harder on the burning straps. His wrist singed with red hot pain. His skin grew crispy and black. The purple bruises opened up to leak pus and blood. But get his hand free he did. While Tifa crawled towards her AK-47, Pete began to unlatch his other wrist before hunching down and undoing his ankles.

Both Tifa and Pete slithered like snails across the ground while the hooded thugs were still being chased away by the impoverished residents. Tifa was fingertips away from her gun when Pete grabbed hold of her ankles and bear-hugged them. She rained knuckles on Pete’s scalp until she was able to crawl close enough to the AK-47 to grab it. But Pete ignored his head, wrist, and stomach trauma long enough to squirm over to her and get in a tug of war over the weapon.

Tifa elbowed and kneed Pete in the ribs and stomach, but he refused to let go of the automatic rifle. He spit a wad of blood in her eyes and snatched the rifle out of her hands, sharp pain in his chest aside. Despite being temporarily blinded, she slowly pulled herself to her feet and staggered towards one of the abandoned buildings. Which one, Pete couldn’t see because he was too busy curling up in a ball on the ground. Some neighborhood kids pulled him to his feet and supported him. When he asked where Tifa was, they didn’t know.

“Damn it, I can’t believe I’m letting that bitch get away!” Pete’s rib and chest pain sharpened like he was being closed in an iron maiden. He doubled over and spit up more blood, dazed at his surroundings. “Do me a favor, kid. Get me that American flag over there. I got an idea. Just do it!”

The teen retrieved the ratty-looking American flag off of a neighbor’s front porch and handed it to Pete. The detective waved his helpers away for a moment and he was able to stand up on his own two feet, beaten, but not dead.

“Tifa Cody! Get your ass out here and face me, you militia nitwit!” Screaming that caused even more sharp pain to bend him over. Still he waved off the neighborhood kids, who all gathered around with their smart phones to record the action now that Tifa and her stooges were a non-threat.

“So Tifa…you like to call people who don’t agree with you snowflakes, right? You like to call them SJW’s whenever they rightfully complain about being disenfranchised? Well…now it’s your turn to cry, sweetheart! I’m going to raise this flag…and everyone around me…will take a knee. Go on, do it!” The neighborhood residents did just that: get on one knee.

“Oh, that’s not enough to piss you off, Tifa? Sure pissed off the rest of your political flunkies. Wait a minute…I’ve got a better idea. Tifa Cody…if you don’t get your ass out here and surrender…I’m going to do something to this flag that’ll make your precious eyeballs leak like faucets. But what will I do to it? Will I wipe my ass with it? Will I blow my nose on it? Will I cough up blood on it? No…I think I’ll just fill it full of holes with your own assault rifle! And yes, it is an assault rifle no matter how much you say otherwise! I’m counting to three and this flag is going up in smoke! One…two…three!”

On cue, Tifa bolted out of a nearby building and shrieked, “NO!” before tossing a brick at Pete. It didn’t have the chance to smash his face in. It disintegrated into dust the minute Pete pulled the trigger and filled Tifa full of holes. Her bloody carcass dripped and splattered all over the building steps before rolling into the gutter. Everyone in the neighborhood, Pete included, took a moment to breathe heavily, either out of relief or heart-pounding adrenaline.

Pete slowly turned around and faced the cell phone cameras. “You see that?” He spit out blood and kneeled down in pain. “Crime doesn’t pay…no matter…who you vote for…For all of you…who say…All Lives Matter…clearly Tifa Cody’s didn’t…Don’t believe me?...Just ask her…She…drew…first…blood…” Pete’s vision blackened as he stumbled over face-first onto the ground, bleeding out of the mouth and any other wound her had. The neighbors gathered around to try and help him, but he was a lost cause.

The last thing Pete Winger heard before passing into the afterlife was police sirens off in the distance. This left him with an anxious feeling in his gut. Would these cops do the right thing? Whose side would they take: his or Tifa’s? Would these impoverished voters surrounding Pete become easy casualties? Pete Winger never got an answer to any of these questions. But hopefully whoever was watching the live videos being taken would question everything all at once, including their government. That’s all Detective Pete Winger could ask of them in his weakened state. His duty as a blue life that mattered was complete.

Friday, October 11, 2019

Saying Dumb Shit to Writers


***SAYING DUMB SHIT TO WRITERS***

Art in general is frowned upon in a society where we love to be entertained. Let that statement sink in for a few minutes. Because we’re not as exalted as the STEM lords, artists get a lot of dumb questions and a lot of dumb statements. It never gets easier with time. In fact, when people ask me what I do for a living, I just tell them I’m unemployed rather than brag about my author career to someone who clearly doesn’t care. I’ve had my fair share of dumb statements from small talking extroverts, grannies, and a combination of both. These are the six worst things said to me during my career as a writer:


“We need some good stories out there, not blood and guts.”


I was so pissed at this statement that I came close to creating a bloody story in real life with the woman who said this to me. I never let my anger show; I just silently seethed on the inside. An R-rating doesn’t make for an automatically bad movie or novel. Saying otherwise shows off a level of ignorance like a beacon in the night. Okay, so maybe you don’t like violent stories. Fine. Don’t read them. Don’t watch bloody movies. Don’t force your narrow-minded opinion on another writer. That’s not helpful advice. That’s conformity. Writers don’t conform very well and if they did, they wouldn’t have careers. The woman later asked me if I was interested in joining a college group for Catholics.


“Are you going to be a teacher?”


When someone asked me what I majored in while going to college (it was English), this was the most common follow-up question. Let me tell you right now that you wouldn’t want me as your teacher. I don’t command a great deal of authority without screaming when I reach my breaking point. And when I explode like a car bomb, I go from being the victim to the villain. I directed a play in high school that was an adaptation of Pulp Fiction. None of the students listened to my orders; they were only in it for the easy A. The only way I could have gained their respect was through raw physicality, which isn’t allowed in high school. Story of my life: my only problem solving skill is using violence and violence is illegal. A true Catch-22 scenario if I’ve ever heard one.


“You know what I’d like you to write? A book about World War II.”


You couldn’t pay me enough money to write a book about World War II. It doesn’t pique my interest in the same way that a fantasy or sci-fi story would. If you want someone to write your WW2 novel, pay them handsomely and don’t expect them to do it for the exposure. Writers don’t work for exposure. That’s a myth and it’s about damn time someone debunked it. Even if I did take a mild interest in World War II, I don’t know enough about history to be 100% accurate with my tropes. Social studies wasn’t a favorite topic of mine when I went to school. I got the good grades I wanted, but it still wasn’t a fascinating topic to me. Then again, I never did like school no matter what grade I was in. I got my good grades, kept my mouth shut, and soldiered on despite it all. And now I’m an English major (not a teacher).


“We don’t need more sequels to movies.”


This one was ranted about by a group of old ladies who clearly had a bias against superhero movies. Maybe they too should commission an author to write a World War II book since that’s all they can seem to remember. Just like with the blood and guts example, it’s not right to force your interests and views on a budding author. We are all different. We have different needs. We see the world through different lenses. Respect that and be on your merry way to a game of cribbage.


“You should write a story about the relationship between a seal and a little boy.”


Again, not a topic I give two shits about. Seals are cute and cuddly, don’t get me wrong, but blood-soaked fantasy battles take higher priority. Maybe the seal can one day don spiked metal armor and charge into the battlefield with a jousting lance. Maybe the seal can wear a sparkling wizard’s hat and cast magic spells until the end of time. Maybe the seal was made to be a seal because of a witch’s curse. Those scenarios sound a lot more appealing to me than dicking around with a little boy. This ain’t Free Willy, motherfucker.


“Don’t go to Hollywood to write movie scripts. There are drugs and prostitutes there.”


As opposed to the place I live now which is squeaky clean? Get out of here with that shit. Every city has its own demons whether you live in Hollywood, Seattle, Tehran, London, or good old fashioned Chehalis. Besides, if you really wanted to deter me from going to Hollywood, you would have played the Harvey Weinstein card. That’ll scare the shit out of anybody! Or if you need something creepier, try to keep budding screenwriters away from Nickelodeon, especially in the wake of Dan Schneider being a potential pedophile with a foot fetish. Come to think of it, that alone would make good enough creative fuel for a horror movie script. Then you can sell it to Hollywood while getting cozy on Harvey Weinstein’s leather couch. Ugh…


If there’s one lesson you can take away from this blog entry, it’s that micro-aggressions against writers aren’t just minor incidents. Writers hear this shit all the time and it boils them alive with rage, so much so that they’ll probably use you as murder fodder in their stories if you push them too hard. It’s the closest we’ll ever come to committing violent acts without getting thrown in prison. You have no idea how satisfying that is to us. If you don’t know what to say to an author, that’s okay, because as introverted professionals, we appreciate a good moment of silence here and there. Not all conversations need to be had.

And when the conversation does go south, it’ll be because you forced your values on the author without giving them room for their own individuality. Whether you’re a STEM guy, a hairdresser, an old lady, or someone who automatically assumes all English majors become teachers, a little silence can go a long way. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight! And yes, the sign off phrase I use comes from a TV show about blood and guts. Deal with it.


***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

(RE: Categorizing books in the prison library.)

HAYWOOD: Treasure Island by Robert Louis…

ANDY: Stevenson. Fiction: Adventure. What’s next?

RED: I have here Auto Repair and Soap Carving.

ANDY: Trades, Skills, and Hobbies. It goes under Educational, the stack behind you.

HAYWOOD: The Count of Monte Crisco.

PRISONER: That’s Cristo, you dumb shit.

HAYWOOD: By Alexandree…Dumass…Dumbass?

RED: Hahahahahaha!

ANDY: “Doo-MAH”. You know what that one’s about? You’ll like it; it’s about a prison break.

RED: Well, we ought to file that under Educational too.

-The Shawshank Redemption-


***POST-SCRIPT***

Well, what do you know? Another R-rated classic! With blood, but not guts! Suck it, random Catholic lady!

Beach Ball Z


“Ladies and gentiles! The summer season is here and you know what that means: beautiful sunshine, beautiful women, and beautiful ass-beatings! If you’re ready to watch Zoku and Jeeta beat the living hell out of each other, let me hear you scream!” The bombastic announcer got just what he wanted from the crowd at Takanori Beach: loud, energetic, beastly cheers from a pumped up audience.

While Zoku stood in one corner of the ring egging on the crowd with waves of his arms and a shit-eating grin, Jeeta stood in the opposite corner with his arms folded and a gorgon death stare locked on his opponent. I will end you once and for all, Karrottop. Jeeta refused to call Zoku by his government name. It was a matter of pride in the Sojo race, which both Zoku and Jeeta belonged to. That was all they had in common that day, spiky hair and monkey tails be damned.

Jeeta’s jaw tightened in annoyance not only with Zoku’s pandering to the crowd, but also the fact that the announcer in an obnoxious yellow suit refused to shut the hell up as he named off various sponsors for this fight. One of the products was for a pesticide spray that targeted cockroaches, which seemed appropriate considering Jeeta’s thoughts on the announcer. Another product was for Marlboro Cigarettes, though Jeeta considered the announcer’s voice to be more toxic than anything a tobacco company could produce. And the other one was…

“Shut the fuck up and get on with it!” shouted Jeeta, firing a laser beam from his fingertip at the microphone and shattering it into pieces. The audience gasped in horror while the announcer nearly wet himself as he wiggled his hand in pain.

Only then did Zoku get serious about this fight. He unleashed a mile long stare straight into Jeeta’s soul, though the latter responded with a sadistic smile rather than quaking in his boots. As soon as the announcer high-tailed it out of there, the two warriors met in the center of the stone ring and continued staring daggers into each other’s eyes. Zoku cracked his neck on both sides while Jeeta popped his knuckles and wrists even louder.

The audience remained stunned in silence after the microphone was destroyed, but instantly picked back up into high gear once the battle music played over the surround-sound speakers: a heavy metal tune called “X” by HELLYEAH.

That was the warriors’ cue to get in their fighting stances and surround themselves in glowing gold aura. Zoku’s spiked purple hair and green martial arts gi flapped and fluttered in the energy-induced wind while Jeeta’s green spiky hair did the same. Jeeta’s purple Sojo armor clung tightly to him as it was his last line of defense against this suddenly serious-looking fighter standing across from him. Now the audience would see who the real badass was.

When HELLYEAH’s lead singer Chad Gray burst into a fit of heavy metal screams, that served as a cue for Zoku and Jeeta to stop powering up and commence the ass-beatings. Before the first punch was thrown, an inflatable beach ball bounced off of Zoku’s face and he was back to his goofy smiling self.

Jeeta on the other hand expressed his rage with an ursine growl and a hard stomp of the beach ball, popping it like he wished he could have popped Zoku’s dome right at that instance. As the audience erupted into boos, Jeeta pointed at them and shouted, “If I see one more fucking beach ball in that crowd, someone’s getting my boot jammed in their fart box!” Instead of being intimidated, the crowd and Zoku laughed their asses off. The audience even chanted “Fart Box!” over and over again.

“Come on, Jeeta, these guys are having a good time. They paid good money for this. They can do whatever they want!” said Zoku, trying to suppress his laughter to make a point.

“If they want to play with their balls so badly, they can do it behind closed doors like every other pervert out there!” belted Jeeta, earning another round of laughter from the immature crowd. “What the hell are you sacks of protoplasm laughing at now?!”

“Dude, we literally go hunting for Dragon Nuts to make a wish. You don’t get to make testicle jokes.” Zoku couldn’t contain his laughter anymore. He even doubled over and slapped his knees for extra effect. As if Jeeta didn’t have enough reasons to tighten his jaw again, more beach balls were being bounced around within the crowd. “Guys, over here!” Sure enough, one of the audience members bounced a beach ball Zoku’s way and he lightly spiked it back at them.

Jeeta held his head in his hands and attempted to squeeze the headache out like a glob of toothpaste. This sacred fighting tournament had been reduced to childish antics and easy distractions. This was supposed to be the culmination of a heated rivalry between two badass warriors. Instead, they were just “having a good time”. One of the beach balls struck Jeeta in the back of the head and his muscles tightened once more.

“That’s it! I’ve had it with you pieces of shit!” The audience and Zoku watched in awe as Jeeta got into his fighting stance again and weaved golden energy around himself, this time his hair changing colors from green to gold and his spikes standing up straighter. He had gone full Super Sojo and could end this fight with a massive energy blast to his naïve opponent. All of this nonsense could be over in a heartbeat. But then another beach ball bounced off of Jeeta’s head.

Rather than choosing to end this fight, Jeeta flew around the arena and punched the shit out of every beach ball in sight, popping them louder than hand grenades. Children cried. The elderly were on the verge of suffering heart attacks. Mothers and fathers hugged each other and their children for fear Jeeta would commit genocide upon the entire human race. Beach balls exploded left and right until the entire arena was void of distractions. Jeeta had the fearful attention of everyone in sight, including Zoku, who quivered in his green karate trousers.

Slowly Jeeta stalked his opponent, his golden energy glowing brighter and brighter with every angry step taken. Jeeta also formed a monstrous grin as he pantomimed a choke hold with his gloved hands. This would have been sweet comeuppance for a decade-long rivalry. The only way this could have been a more satisfying conclusion was if Zoku shit his pants, which unlike some members of the crowd, he didn’t do…yet. And then…

“I’m sorry, Jeeta,” said the announcer through a new microphone. “The rules clearly state that once you’ve exited the ring, the match is over. This isn’t wrestling and you don’t get a ten count. Therefore, the winner of this match as a result of ring-out: Zoku!”

The crowd erupted into cheers while Zoku pranced and leapt in the air like his disqualification victory was the greatest one he racked up. Jeeta’s jaw went from tensing up to being on the floor. His eyes widened at his own stupidity. All it took for him to lose this match was being distracted by a few beach balls.

As Zoku was being presented with a bronze trophy by some bikini clad ladies, Jeeta once again held everyone’s fearful attention by shouting, “This is bullshit!” He breathed in a raspy voice while tense silence hung over the sandy arena. “This whole thing was a sham from the beginning!” Pointing an accusatory finger at Zoku, Jeeta said, “You put those beach balls there on purpose just so you can get an easy victory! How much did you pay those jackasses, anyways? A hundred? A thousand? A hundred thousand?”

Zoku chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his head. “More like five hundred thousand.” Jeeta’s jaw was on the floor once again. “Yeah, I kind of had to teach you a lesson there, buddy.”

“A lesson?! There’s not a scratch on me! You didn’t do anything! You just sat there and played with your ball…I mean…you just fooled around throughout the whole match!”

“Exactly! And you took the bait, Jeeta,” said Zoku more confidently with his arms folded. “Whenever we go hunting for Dragon Nuts together, you’re always getting distracted by our opponents taunting you. You don’t know how to control your temper, so it costs us every time. We could have wished for anything we wanted if we had those Dragon Nuts. But somebody else took them away because you were too busy choking on your pride. What would you have wished for anyways? Immortality? A higher power level? A cure for your wife’s cancer?”

The crowd gasped while Jeeta’s golden energy dissipated and his head hung low. Even his spiky hair stopped flapping and returned to its normal green color.

“That’s right, Jeeta, you should be ashamed! You let everyone down at your own expense! It’s sad I had to go through all of this just to teach you that. I would rather you learn this on your own, but you’re too thick-headed!”

The crowd chanted Zoku’s name while the lonely Jeeta let out a sigh, his pride and his ego deflated by words that have never been truer. He had to learn his lesson. He had to turn a new leaf. He couldn’t let it go any longer. But no…He powered up yet again and sent the crowd into a terrified hissyfit. “I’m going to kill you anyways, Karrottop!”

That didn’t happen. A beach ball bounced off of Jeeta’s head and he turned around to pop it. But the minute he bent over, Zoku rushed up and kicked him in the ass, sending him flying through the air. Zoku teleported and double axe handled Jeeta in the back, kneed him in the stomach, and punched the shit out of him until Jeeta’s body launched into the sand like a lawn dart, his legs sticking out and kicking frantically.

“Get me out of here!” shouted Jeeta with a mouthful of sand.

“Sorry, Jeeta…I can’t help you anymore. You couldn’t even help yourself. You fell for the same trick over and over again and didn’t learn anything. Now I’m fucking the porn stars and you’re getting the crabs!”

The audience laughed as crabs came up to Jeeta and pinched his legs, causing the prideful Sojo to scream and yelp more painfully than when Zoku was pounding him. The only reason the crabs left Jeeta alone was because the tide came pouring in, adding some gurgles and bubbles to his already muffled dialogue. Jeeta did manage to get one piece of coherent dialogue out before he was declared the ultimate loser: “I FUCKING HATE BEACH BALLS!”

Tuesday, October 1, 2019

Chain Whip (Beautiful Monster Theme Song)


VERSE 1
The seasons change and so does my mood
What good does it do to sit around and brood?
I’ve got a chain whip curled up on my hip
I’ve got enemies who need an afterlife trip
They took my soul and my intelligence
In my mind they took up permanent residence
Took my creativity and everything with it
How many chain lashes must be given?

CHORUS
One! Two! Black and blue!
Three! Four! Let’s go to war!
Five! Six! Suck it, bitch!
Here comes the chain whip!

VERSE 2
Maybe whiplashes aren’t the answer
Strangulation doesn’t seem much faster
Chokehold suplex tickles my fancy
The anticipation makes me feel antsy
I’ve got a psychotic grin on my face
As your blood splatters all over the place
Your skin shredded, your bones broken
Your thick skull has been split wide open

CHORUS
One! Two! Black and blue!
Three! Four! Let’s go to war!
Five! Six! Suck it, bitch!
Here comes the chain whip!

VERSE 3
If war is the answer, what’s the question?
What other solutions are even worth mention?
Should I shake your hand and call it a truce?
Should I suck your dick as even further proof?
Should I give you a hug? Accept your apology?
Or is this another instance of reverse psychology?
An iron head butt for your pretty little head
A hundred lashes even after you’re dead

EXTENDED CHORUS
One! Two! Black and blue!
Three! Four! Let’s go to war!
Five! Six! Suck it, bitch!
Here comes the chain whip!
Seven! Eight! Bring on the hate!
Nine! Ten! Your reign will end!
Eleven! Twelve! See you in hell!
Thirteen! Fourteen! Scarlet dreams!
Keep on counting the lashes!
Dust to dust! Ashes to ashes!

WINDHAM’S DIALOGUE
It’s not that I don’t believe in love. It’s that love doesn’t believe in me. FUCK LOVE!