The Devil

Are you The Devil’s Advocate or just The Devil?

Couldn’t even wait for the flames to settle

Got your trident aimed at my throat

Tips are on fire, let’s see a little smoke

You’re not the fun kind of devil like in heavy metal

You’re Adam Cole’s kind: an underwhelming level

Couldn’t scream your way out of a wet paper bag

The only words you know are “whore” and “fag”

 

Tell me about every grievance you’ve got

Don’t bother with the tissues for your tears and snot

Yell me down until your throat goes raw

Because nothing you say is against the law

Neither is carrying a pair of 45’s

Use them on poor people in order to “survive”

Tuck them in your pockets when a CEO

Comes around the corner, says “Cheerio!”

 

I guess being The Devil is a pretty sweet gig

Got enough privilege to own all the libs

Own every politician in a thousand mile radius

Still a mystery when you ask, “Why they hating us?”

Self-awareness is not one of your strong suits

Self-reflection isn’t deep enough to get at the root

Live life on easy mode, low-hanging fruit

You got the real-life version of block and mute

 

You get life advice from a fantasy novel

Two millenniums ago, Jesus was the role model

Just imagine if it was a whole different book

That Moms of Liberty didn’t already cook

Dragons and elves on all of the shelves

Orcs and ogres until the final page is over

Kingdoms modeled after communism

Personal stories about kids with autism

 

But why should we take those at face value

When they can be an excuse to disembowel you

When they can be a reason to take the Red Pill

When they can be weapons, not pulp at the paper mill

The Devil’s Advocate can steal all the stories

Turn a gay bar into a bloodbath so gory

Put the powerful in power and call them Tories

Pose in front of the flag that we call Old Glory

 

What a day to be alive in 2025

Where human rights come with fistfights

Where hospital bills break all of our wills

“Let’s have a conversation across the whole nation”

Orpheus Rinehart

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THE BASICS

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Name: Orpheus Rinehart

Nicknames: Commander, White Snake

Gender: Cisgender Male

Age: 50

Birth Date: 450 AM

Birth Place: Morgan Town

Currently Living In: Shadow Asylum Headquarters

Species: Human

Ethnicity / Race: White

Citizenship: Morgan Town

Religion / Beliefs: Far Right Capitalist

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FAMILY

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Father: Miller Rinehart

Age: Dead

Relationship: Abusive

Mother: Quinn Rinehart

Age: Dead

Relationship: Protective

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PHYSICAL FEATURES:

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Height: 6’5”

Weight: 350 lbs.

Frame / Build: Chunky

Hair length: Horseshoe with a Long Dreadlocked Beard

Hair color: Brown

Eye shape: Wide

Eye color: Hazel

Complexion: Dirty

Face size (broad, narrow, etc.): Round

Voice type: Angry

Foot size: 17 Men’s

Tattoo(s): “Death Before Dishonor” on his arm

Scar(s): Burn marks from childhood

Other notable accessories: None

Any other identifying mark(s): None

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SOCIO / ECONOMIC / POLITICAL

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Political Affiliation: Far Right

Economic Class: Upper-Middle Class

Social Class: CEO

Occupation: Mercenary

Income: High

Residence: Shadow Asylum Headquarters

Transportation: Horse

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INTERESTS

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Favorite Food(s): Steak

Favorite Sport(s): Football and Wrestling

Favorite Book(s): Murder Mysteries

Favorite Show(s): TV isn’t a thing yet

Favorite Music: People screaming in pain

Favorite Color(s): Red and Black

Clothing Style / Preferences: Red tunic, red pants, metal boots, and black trench coat

Hobbies: Hunting, taxidermy, smoking cigars, drinking beer, playing pool

Role Model(s): His abusive father

Likes: Toxic masculinity, violence, bigotry, money, and torture

Dislikes: “Pussies”, elves, women (except ones who will have sex with him), poor people

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PERSONALITY

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Good Qualities / Trait(s): Leadership skills, hard-power authority, intimidation

Vices / Negative Trait(s): Racism, anger, sexism, unable to break abusive cycles

Strengths: Fighting skills, leadership, ruthlessness, business acumen

Weaknesses: Generational trauma, quick to anger, sadistic, can’t take criticism

Habits / Idiosyncrasies / Quirks: Chain smoking and finger drumming

Phobia / Fears: Gay people, his father’s beatings, disappointing his father, being poor

Select one personality type below that best describes your character:

CREATORS

[X] Persuader (ESTP) – Realists. Enthusiastic people of action who like to explore and use their senses to explore the world. Likes sports and are risk-takers. They live in the (preferably) fast-paced here and now, and thrive on problems and crises. Often fearless and dominates conversations. Blunt and very straightforward. Does not necessarily follow the law if it gets in the way of what they want.

Define your character’s personality based on the following aspects:

a. Physically: Intimidating, loud, beefy

b. Psychologically: Quick to anger, quick to judge, and will lash out at whoever he wants to

c. Spiritually: openly mocks the Magetan religion every chance he gets

d. Emotionally: Extreme mental toughness, expects the same from his employees

e. Socially: Despite being afraid of him, people believe he’s good at his mercenary job and will pay his exorbitant prices if it means procuring his services

Others things to know:

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HISTORY

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1. Describe the character’s childhood. Despite pleading from his mother, Orpheus’s father abused him constantly with beatings and insults, instilling toxic masculinity in him at an early age. Orpheus started the Shadow Asylum mercenary guild as a way to avoid his father’s wrath while also putting his fighting skills to good use.

2. Name the good incidents that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped his personality? The only joy from Orpheus’s childhood were the many hunting trips his father took him on, but that only added to his sadism.

3. Name bad experiences that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped his personality? Aside from his father’s abusive ways, his father also killed his mother during a petty argument. That was how Orpheus learned to solve his problems with violence.

4. What is the character doing when first introduced? What are his goals at this point? Negotiating a deal with King Lars Stonewall to take down the Atwood Queendom. This is just another job to Orpheus, which means more money to spend on drugs and alcohol.

4a. Do these goals change at any point in the story? I can’t tell you due to spoilers.

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STORY DEVELOPMENT:

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CHARACTER ARCHETYPE: (Put an X on all applicable boxes)

[X] Addict (Conspicuous Consumer, Glutton, Workaholic–see also Gambler)

[] Advocate (Attorney, Defender, Legislator, Lobbyist, Environmentalist)

[] Alchemist (Wizard, Magician, Scientist, Inventor–see also Visionary)

[] Angel (Fairy Godmother/Godfather)

[X] Antagonist (Opposing View, not necessarily the Evil Bad — see also Villain)

[] Anti-Hero

[] Artist (Artisan, Craftsperson, Sculptor, Weaver)

[X] Athlete (Olympian)

[] Avenger (Avenging Angel, Savior, Messiah)

[] Beggar (Homeless person/ Indigent)

[X] Bully (Coward)

[] Catalyst

[] Child (Orphan, Wounded, Magical/Innocent, Nature, Divine, Puer/Puella Eternis, or Eternal Boy/Girl)

[] Clown (Court Jester, Fool, Dummling)

[] Companion (Friend, Sidekick, Right Arm, Consort)

[] Damsel (Princess)

[X] Destroyer (Attila, Mad Scientist, Serial Killer, Spoiler)

[] Detective (Spy, Double Agent, Sleuth, Snoop, Sherlock Holmes, Private Investigator, Profiler–see also Warrior/Crime Fighter)

[] Dilettante (Amateur)

[] Don Juan (Casanova, Gigolo, Seducer, Sex Addict)

[] Engineer (Architect, Builder, Schemer)

[] Exorcist (Shaman)

[] Father (Patriarch, Progenitor)

[] Femme Fatale (Black Widow, Flirt, Siren, Circe, Seductress, Enchantress)

[] Gambler

[] God (Adonis, see also Hero)

[] Gossip (see also Networker)

[] Guide (Guru, Sage, Crone, Wise Woman, Spiritual Master, Evangelist, Preacher)

[] Healer (Wounded Healer, Intuitive Healer, Caregiver, Nurse, Therapist, Analyst, Counselor)

[] Hedonist (Bon Vivant, Chef, Gourmet, Gourmand, Sybarite–see also Mystic)

[] Hermit (see also Wise old Man)

[] Hero/Heroine (see also Knight, Warrior)

[] Judge (Critic, Examiner, Mediator, Arbitrator)

[] King (Emperor, Ruler, Leader, Chief — see also Politician)

[] Knight in Shining Armor

[] Liberator

[] Lover

[] Martyr

[] Mediator (Ambassador, Diplomat, Go-Between)

[] Mentor (Master, Counselor, Tutor)

[] Messiah (Redeemer, Savior)

[] Midas/Miser

[] Monk/Nun (Celibate)

[] Mother (Matriarch, Mother Nature)

[] Mystic (Renunciate, Anchorite, Hermit)

[] Networker (Messenger, Herald, Courier, Journalist, Communicator)

[] Pioneer (Explorer, Settler, Pilgrim, Innovator)

[] Poet

[] Politician (see also King)

[] Priest (Priestess, Minister, Rabbi, Evangelist)

[] Prince

[] Prostitute

[] Queen (Empress)

[] Rebel (Anarchist, Revolutionary, Political Protester, Nonconformist, Pirate)

[] Rescuer

[] Saboteur

[] Samaritan

[] Scribe (Copyist, Secretary, Accountant–see also Journalist)

[] Seeker (Wanderer, Vagabond, Nomad)

[] Servant (Indentured Servant)

[] Shape-shifter (Spell-caster–see also Trickster)

[] Slave

[] Spectre (Ghost / Apparition with Unresolved issues)

[] Storyteller (Minstrel, Narrator)

[] Student / Scholar (Disciple, Devotee, Follower, Apprentice)

[] Teacher (Instructor, see also Mentor)

[] Thief (Swindler, Con Artist, Pickpocket, Burglar, Robin Hood)

[] Threshold Guardian

[] Trickster (Puck, Provocateur)

[X] Turncoat

[] Vampire

[X] Victim

[X] Villain / Shadow (Big Bad of the story; see also Antagonist)

[] Virgin (see also Celibate)

[] Visionary (Dreamer, Prophet, Seer–see also Guide, Alchemist)

[X] Warrior (Soldier, Crime Fighter, Amazon, Mercenary, Soldier of Fortune, Gunslinger, Samurai)

[] Wise old Man (see also Hermit)

1. What are the motivations for the character’s actions? Money, cigars, alcohol, and not angering his father even though he’s dead and only exists as a voice in Orpheus’s head.

2. What are the character’s goals / ambition / dreams? To become the most “badass” mercenary anyone has ever crossed, to strike fear in the hearts of the entire world.

3. What external conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? Completing missions on time.

3a. What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? Windham is slow in delivering the blueprints from Shelly’s castle.

4. What inner conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? Shutting up his father’s head voice.

4a. What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? Head voices don’t go away on their own. Plus, Rinehart thinks that therapy is for “pussies”.

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AUTHOR’S NOTES / MISCELLANY

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Character theme song: “American Capitalist” by Five Finger Death Punch

Celebrity / IRL lookalike: A fatter version of Chris Kael

Shipping Meme

***SHIPPING MEME***

During the past few days, I’ve been having conversations with my friends Zero Urrea and Marie Krepps about how much fun it is to link two things together with the letter X (a practice commonly found in Japanese anime). Would you go to a concert that was featured as Korn X Starset? You’re damn right you would! Would you ever play a videogame that featured the team of Super Mario X M. Bison? Sure, why not? And of course, the X link is used to signify collaboration between two romantic partners. Cloud X Tifa, Mario X Peach, and Squall X Rinoa are all mainstream examples of this. You could also mix and match between genres and canons…and genders. Would you ever read an erotic fan fiction that featured Tifa Lockhart X Stephanie McMahon? You bet your sweet ass!

Which brings me to something authors might have to deal with if their work becomes famous enough: shipping. If you write a novel that’s highly enjoyable, your readers are definitely going to want to tinker with various combinations of characters as romantic couples, for better or worse. You know who’s not okay with this? Anne Rice, who went to great legal lengths to make sure her fans don’t do that to her books. Some people are okay with this, others are not. More important is how you feel about your own fans doing this to your books. Me personally? I think it’d be flattering no matter what the combinations ended up being.

Unfortunately, I only have one edited and published novel to my name and it’s not even a full length book, so I don’t have a wide roster of characters to work with. Then again, if I include minor characters, this meme could actually be lots of fun. So here’s how this works: I’m going to make a list of Occupy Wrestling characters, use a number generator to randomly pick two of them from that list, and discuss how they’d work as a couple. I won’t use the same character twice and I’ll only generate five different couples. Are you ready? I know I am!

1. Debra Winter, Human Valet
2. Desilu McCourt, Amazonian Knight
3. Dovald, Superhuman Knight
4. Garra, Superhuman Knight
5. Hall Markata, Undead Necromancer
6. Jason Finnegan, Human Wrestler
7. Keegan Day, Human CEO
8. Mitch McLeod, Human Wrestler
9. Monzo Bleeder, Orc Wrestler
10. Nina Jordan, Human Cop
11. Riley Warpthroat, Skeleton Knight
12. Rosie Rogers, Human Referee
13. Snake of Jehovah, Skeleton Monk
14. Stephanie McMillan, Human Wrestler
15. Teiji Roughhouse, Rat Wrestler

FIRST COUPLE: Riley X Keegan

THOUGHTS: Keegan’s blatant bigotry aside, these two would be perfect for each other. They’re both hell-bent on dominating the wrestling scene. They’re both sadistic. They can intimidate the hell out of anyone. And lastly (and this is the most important part), they both look like they were just brought to life by a necromancer. Maybe when these two are in the bedroom, Keegan can use the Day Family Gem as a ball gag for Riley. Keegan does control his minions with that magical MacGuffin, after all.

SECOND COUPLE: Snake of Jehovah X Dovald

THOUGHTS: Another pair of viciously monstrous villains? Sure, why not? Though considering the fact that all Snakes of Jehovah look the same covered up with monk robes and snake masks, Dovald could end up accidentally cheating with another minion. But if that were to happen, how exactly would they initiate the cheating? Snakes of Jehovah are skeletal minions, with no sexual orifices or genitalia, so the closest Dovald could get to achieving sexual pleasure is to take the snake mask off and go through the eye sockets.

THIRD COUPLE: Jason X Stephanie

THOUGHTS: At least we’re back into normal territory since they’re both humans. Plus, they actually have things in common that they could bond over. They’re wrestlers. They’re despicable heels. They’re both championship material. Ship them, damn it! There’s just one curiosity I have: if Jason is a three hundred pounder who suffers a heart attack in the first chapter, even if he lived through it, would he be healthy enough for sexual activity? Would he have to be on bottom while Stephanie was on top? Would he fall asleep halfway through and lose his erection? So many burning questions.

FOURTH COUPLE: Hall X Nina

THOUGHTS: Spoiler alert: Hall ends up using his necromantic powers to raise Nina from the dead as an ash-covered zombie. I’m more curious about what you, the readers, didn’t get to see when all that happened. You think Hall is into that kinky shit? Does he forgo apps like Tinder and Grinder and just settle for a trip to the cemetery? Well, he doesn’t have to anymore if he’s got Nina as his minion. While Nina isn’t the most attractive woman in my book, there’s something sexy about a woman in uniform.

FINAL COUPLE: Desilu X Debra

THOUGHTS: If it wasn’t for the fact that Desilu tried to snap Debra’s spine in two with a camel clutch, this could actually be somewhat normal. Debra is a bisexual who appreciates both masculine and feminine features in both genders. Desilu is a big fucking Amazonian who knows how to wrestle (not just in the ring). Hell, she could probably do a better job of protecting her than Mitch ever could. That, and Desilu is happy to train Debra in wrestling herself since that’s all Miss Winter really wants: to be self-reliant. Of course, if Debra is that desperate for wrestling lessons, she might have to take a serious beating at the hand of Keegan’s minions. Oh wait, that already happened.

Okay, I must admit that I had fun doing this. Maybe I can do it again when I publish another novel. Hell, even my unpublished first drafts could use some love and war. What if I took Mario Bryan from Watch You Burn and paired him up with Daniel Mercer from Demon Axe? Or as the Japanese would say, Mario X Daniel. They’re both mentally ill, so they could help each other through their toughest episodes. Mario is schizophrenic and Daniel has PTSD. The two illnesses are similar to each other, but schizophrenia is a psychotic disorder and PTSD is an anxious disorder. This could actually work! But that’s a story for another day. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you soon!

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Fifty Shades of Grey is to literature what candy corn is to vegetables.”

-Bill Maher-

Disneylodeon

“Good morning, members of the press and those of you watching at home. My name is Albert G. Briscoe and I’m the CEO of Disneylodeon Productions. As many of you have already seen in the mainstream media, certain allegations have been levied against me and my organization. I’m here to tell each and every one of you that these allegations are far from true. Our mission here at Disneylodeon is to provide quality entertainment the whole family can enjoy, none of which includes exploitation of any kind. Our actors and production crew are treated fairly and equally. They are paid livable wages and they work in a comfortable environment.”

“Bullshit!” shouted a Hungarian-accented man before cocking his assault rifle. The journalists in the audience scattered about like cockroaches, screaming and cowering against the wall. “Shut up!” the terrorist shouted. “Shut the fuck up!” No screams, only quivering lips and whiny moans.

The only one who wasn’t screaming or running was Albert Briscoe himself, who remained seated at the stage behind his table and microphone. His middle-aged face told the perfect story of guilt and stoicism. He brushed his silver hair back and said, “I bet the shareholders aren’t going to like this.”

The Hungarian pulled his trench coat hood back and revealed his long bearded, bald headed mug to the CEO of Disneylodeon. “The shareholders aren’t going to like shit. But they’re the least of your worries, Mr. Briscoe. Right now you’re looking down the barrel of an AK-fucking-47. If you don’t give me what I want, you’re not going to be looking at shit with a face full of slugs.”

“Who are you?” asked Albert with his hands folded and his attitude calm.

“Vladek Bathory,” the gunner answered. “That last name should sound very familiar to you, Mr. Briscoe. My daughter was the lead actress on one of your shows. I’ve seen just about all I want to see of her in those slutty outfits and bare fucking feet.”

Holding his hands up defensively, Albert said, “Listen, Mr. Bathory, I don’t have that much control over my own directors. I’m just a corporate guy. If you have any grievances against my directors, you should take it up with them.”

“Such a perfect portrait of leadership, throwing your own guys under the bus like that,” said Vladek as he stalked closer to Albert. His hawkish eyes pinpointed on the CEO’s throat, which just engulfed an eight-ball sized lump of saliva. “You’re not fooling anybody. You can sweet talk these journalists all you want, but I want something a little more.” Vladek edged close enough to point the barrel right against Albert’s nose. “You’d better own up to your sins, boss man.”

“Look, Mr. Bathory, I just told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Albert with progressively fast speech. “This is out of my hands. I just do corporate work, that’s it.”

“So basically what you’re telling me is that you’re about as useful as steak sauce in India?” asked Vladek rhetorically. When Albert’s face became too frozen in fear to speak up, the gunner smashed the barrel across his nose and splattered blood all over the microphone. The CEO screamed and held his jacket sleeve against the wound, drenching it in a flood of violence.

Vladek grabbed Albert’s tie and yanked him by the neck over the table, sending him crashing to the carpeted floor coughing and wheezing. The Hungarian pressed the barrel against Albert’s cheekbone and belted, “If you’re really that fucking useless, I have no reason to keep you alive!”

“No, wait! Wait! Don’t shoot me! Please don’t fucking shoot me!” begged Albert with a nasally voice. “I can get you the producer who was in charge of your daughter’s TV show! I just need to access my phone, that’s all!”

“Bullshit!” snapped Vladek before smashing the butt of his gun against Albert’s cheek, causing even more pathetic screams of pain. “Like I’m going to let you just call the police and have this all be for naught! You think I’m a fucking idiot, Mr. Briscoe?! Huh?! You think you’re going to get off that easily?! Nobody’s coming to save you or your precious journalists! The TV and radio signals are jammed, including the cameras in this fucking studio! You’ve been talking to a brick wall this whole time!”

“Please don’t shoot me! I have a wife and daughter at home! They need me!” pleaded Albert with his hands together prayer style.

“Oh, now wives and daughters are important to you!” yelled Vladek when he pressed the barrel against Albert’s throat. He could feel another lump going down the CEO’s gullet and pressing against the gun. “They weren’t important to you before, but now that they’re yours, they’re suddenly bigger than Jesus fucking Christ himself!” Vladek leaned into Albert’s heavily panting face and whispered throatily, “Let me ask you something: are your wife and daughter into the kind of perverted shit you put on television? Does your wife like bare feet? Does your daughter like showing off her sexy soles to complete strangers on TV?!”

“It’s not like that, Mr. Bathory! You’re blowing this way out of proportion!”

“I’ll blow your head out of proportion if you don’t give me a confession!” To show he wasn’t fucking around, Vladek pulled out his smart phone and mounted it on the end of his AK-47. “Stand up, dickhead! Move!” Albert quickly obliged, allowing his nose to drip slowly and painfully. “Now then…with the whole world watching and not just your fucking shareholders…I want you to look into my phone and confess that Disneylodeon is a pervert’s paradise. You’ve got foot fetishes up to yin-yang, you’ve got naked teenagers parading their bodies around, and you’ve got producers and directors getting their jollies off in the background!”

Albert stared down on the floor and took a huge breath, slowly bringing his bloodshot eyes to Vladek’s phone to make the announcement the whole world has been waiting for. “My name is Albert Briscoe…I am the CEO of Disneylodeon…our directors and producers…are a bunch…are a bunch of….I can’t do this…no, wait, wait, wait!...Our directors and producers are foot fetishists and pedophiles. It’s plain to see in the TV-G shows we air on our network…But even more apparent than that…is the raging bulge in Vladek Bathory’s pants!”

“What the?!” shouted Vladek as he looked down at his crotch to see there was indeed a large mass forming.

The lengthy tube steak snapped in half upon contact with Albert’s swift loafer-wearing foot. The Hungarian dropped his assault rifle and doubled over in pain while screaming like his daughter would have in the same situation. Albert rushed to grab the assault rifle and pointed it at the wounded terrorist. “You see that, everyone?!” Mr. Briscoe shouted. “That was an example of the many feet we like to put on the air! And now for the first time in the history of this company, Disneylodeon’s programming will be rated TV-MA for violence! Lots and lots of VIOLENCE!”

That last word was punctuated with Albert unleashing a barrage of bullets into the now bloody and splattered body of Vladek Bathory. The life juices splashed all over Albert’s Armani suit, but the bulging rage in his eyes suggested that was the last thing in the world he was angry over. Journalists stormed out of the building screaming and crying while a familiar face came running inside to kneel by her fallen father.

“Daddy!” the teenaged actress shouted. “Daddy! What happened?!” She cradled her father’s shattered skull in her arms and rocked back and forth while bawling like a baby.

“Who do you think you’re calling daddy, young lady?!” shouted Albert as he pointed the assault rifle at the actress, who gazed up at him with flooding eyes and quivering lips. “From now on, baby girl, you’re going to be calling ME daddy! And if you think your hypocrite ex-father was good with a gun…you should know…I don’t shoot blanks either!” Albert winked at the end of that last sentence before chuckling evilly at the sorrowful girl on the ground.

“You’re a monster, Albert!” sobbed the girl as she wiped her tears and snot away with her bare arm. “You’re a goddamn monster!”

“Monster? Really?” said Albert. “This isn’t about being a monster, honey. This is about business. This is about the American way. And right now…business is booming! When you see your father in hell, be sure to tell him I said thanks for making my shareholders happy!”

Lionize

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Lionize Entertainment’s fiftieth anniversary of the Lion Cup Tournament! My name is Andrea Lovell and I am the CEO of Lionize Entertainment! We’re going to have a fucking fun night of blood and death tonight!”

Hearing his boss echo those words throughout a coliseum full of roaring fans made Dargoth Destroyer sick to his stomach and set his aching brain on fire. The barbarian warrior firmly believed Andrea only had her job because she looked like a million bucks in a short skirt and high heels. She was easy to fantasize about, but hard to love.

Dargoth was too busy loving his own wife and kids back home. He loved them so much that he would rip the limbs off of any opponent who dared stand in the way of a paycheck and beat them to death like little bitches. With his wrecking ball muscles and volcanic temper, he could do just that to pretty much anybody.

Then again, so could Dargoth’s opponent for the evening, Zeal Cottonwood. The rotten-smelling, blue skinned zombie towered over the barbarian with a skyscraper height and muscles that might as well be registered as deadly weapons (even the small and insignificant ones). Zeal stared down into Dargoth’s eyes with neon-colored madness and smiled with rusty-nail teeth.

The barbarian, having already had visions of blood and brutality locked forever in his brain, refused to give even an inch of trembling to this undead beast with greasy long hair. The two opponents were so laser-focused into each other’s menacing eyeballs that they tuned out the crowd and Andrea Lovell’s nails-on-a-chalkboard voice completely.

It wasn’t until Miss Lovell, who sat at her golden throne in a skybox above the coliseum, snapped into the microphone, “HEY!” that the two combatants gave her their undying attention with wicked glares. “Are you two ready to put on a hell of a show for these rowdy animals?! Give ‘em hell!” Rowdy animals became the understatement of the year when the beer-drinking, T-shirt and jeans wearing crowd’s cheers bored into the combatants’ eardrums like a power drill. Even Zeal Cottonwood couldn’t help but grunt lightly at the sudden explosion of volume.

“Ready to get your ass whipped, little buddy?” growled Zeal in a monstrous tone. He leaned his sour milk-fragranced face in closer and whispered, “Between you and me, I wouldn’t worry too much about that wife of yours. I hear she’s banging the shit out of a hotter version of you. That lucrative contract of yours is going up her nose and in her G-spots!”

Zeal’s demonic cackle prompted the angrily trembling Dargoth to head butt his opponent in the nose. Both men clutched their noggins in pain and groaned minimally, but Dargoth was the only one between the two who staggered after such a brutal move. Zeal chuckled, “Is that all you got, little man? No wonder your wife’s sleeping around. That spaghetti dick of yours couldn’t satisfy a bitch like her anyways!”

Dargoth’s fiery adrenaline was smothered in kerosene, causing the hefty barbarian to spear tackle Zeal’s gut so hard that the seven-foot zombie flipped in the air like a pancake and flattened to the ground like one too. The barbarian’s muscles tightened as tough as steel with every brick-like punch he threw at the zombie’s already decrepit face. Teeth flew everywhere, pimples popped like grenades, blood splattered across the dirt floor, but through it all, Zeal never lost his smile and Dargoth’s hands reddened with electrified pain.

Zeal Cottonwood pushed Dargoth Destroyer in the air with his booted feet and nipped up in time to catch the smaller warrior in a military press. The audience “oooed” and “ahhed” like a herd of sheep while Zeal did strength training repetitions with Dargoth’s 300 lb. body. The barbarian tried to rake and punch at his opponent’s eyes, but the zombie wouldn’t relent. He tossed the smaller opponent across the dirt arena and caused him to bounce up and down along the way, forming bruises the size and disgustingness of rotten tomatoes.

Everything in Dargoth’s body felt as though he had been stepped on by Godzilla and rubbed across the asphalt. Yet the mental images of his beautiful wife and his two sweethearted daughters sent a rush of hot lava through his veins. This kind of money would keep them fed forever.

It would give the daughters an education they wouldn’t have dreamed of having in the ghetto neighborhood. It would give his wife a life of happiness and stability. If he didn’t get up and fight at this very moment, they would think of him as a failure and they’d most likely die from hunger in such a downtrodden economy. It was such a distasteful way to make money, but in Dargoth’s mind, there was no such thing as too much hard work.

By the time the barbarian heaved his clumsy ass off the ground, he peered up through bloodshot, dirt-covered eyes to find Zeal had a live chainsaw roaring to life in his hands. There were weapons scattered everywhere on the bloodstained ground from staves to swords to axes. Dargoth picked up an axe in his sore hands and then in a surprise move broke it over his knee to send a message: “Weapons are for pussies! If you want to fight like a pussy, I’ll treat you like one, Zeal! Come on, bitch!”

The gargantuan zombie rushed towards Dargoth swinging his power tool like a deranged samurai while Dargoth egged him on with a “come at me” hand gesture. The chainsaw blazed and buzzed all around the barbarian while the muscly warrior dodged and cartwheeled to safety despite losing a lock of his own sweaty hair.

Dargoth saw his opening when he ducked a decapitation attempt and went for a hard uppercut to the jaw. Zeal staggered backwards in dizziness and dropped his weapon. The barbarian continued to pummel his opponent with hard-hitting, rapid fire strikes that connected with thuds, cracks, and explosions. The primitive warrior tucked his head underneath Zeal’s crotch and hoisted the hefty warrior on his shoulders before slamming him down on his back with a shotgun blast thud. Even more cracks and bursts echoed throughout the arena as did the obnoxious cheers of both the audience and Andrea Lovell, who sat at her throne mockingly clapping for her independent contractor. “Finish him, Dargoth! Finish him now, you sick son of a bitch!”

The barbarian stared at the scantily clad, leggy CEO with cyanide in his eyes and iron in his gritted teeth. Winning the Lion Cup Tournament would guarantee him all the money he wanted for his family, but he would still be locked in a contract that put him in danger with every match. His body ached twenty-four-seven. He threw up his meals nightly. If he got the chance to go home at all, he would look like a monster to his family and scare them off. Maybe Zeal’s harsh rumors of infidelity would be completely justifiable at that point (if they were true). Surely, there had to be other ways of making lucrative money with his skills. Maybe there was…

Dargoth’s iron will wouldn’t be broken. One more death to go. Just one more. His target was in plain sight. The Lion Cup and everything that came with it would be his forever. He glanced at the live chainsaw and heaved the heavy machinery over his head with the intent to rip and shred. The audience roared and bellowed for Zeal’s bloody and disgusting death. He was just laying there ready to be dissected. Dargoth smiled a sadistic smile and approached Zeal with slow movements while the zombie rolled around and groaned in horrific pain. And then…the barbarian tossed the chainsaw like a boomerang.

But instead of grinding zombie meat, he chucked the whirring blade at Andrea Lovell so many feet in the air. The CEO gasped in horror before tucking and rolling out of the blade’s path. The audience gasped as well at the sight of the chainsaw embedded in the golden throne still buzzing.

After straightening her hair and fixing her skirt, Andrea stood back up with a queen’s posture and glared with hellish hatred at the menacing barbarian. She picked up the microphone and sneered, “So that’s how you plan on getting out of your contract, huh? By killing me?” Dargoth nodded and the audience booed him with plenty of bass in their voices.

The CEO scolded, “It’s a good thing your children are being well-educated with all of this money, because their daddy is the biggest dumb shit to step in my coliseum! Sure, you can kill me and rob me of the rest of your earnings, but you won’t be solving a damn thing, my friend. Ever heard the phrase power vacuum? Without me, all of your worst enemies will be gunning for my position. If you thought fighting to the death for my entertainment was bad, try fighting for the power I wield on a day-to-day basis. You already know what ISIS looks like. Try and picture the Lionize Entertainment version of ISIS! My corporation will last until the end of time, but your misery will be forever, just like your contract! You didn’t think this one through very well, did you?!”

Dargoth clenched his fists so tightly that his bloody fingernails dug into his palms and he didn’t give a shit about the pain. He didn’t want to admit it, but she was right: cutting off the head of the snake would create a hydra, not a corpse. A contractual slave like him couldn’t even dream of the power it took to run a whole corporation. What havoc had he brought upon himself? What danger did he put his beloved family in?

As he contemplated the consequences of his “easy way out”, Dargoth felt a tight presence squeeze around his torso until his body was pencil thin. His head turned purple, his veins grew to the size of tunnels, and his ribs were cracking like Rice Crispies. He peeked up and saw that Zeal Cottonwood was the one squeezing like a motherfucker, much to Andrea’s laughing delight. She even chimed in, “Squeeze harder! Pop him like a pimple! Make him suffer!”

Listening to that wasp-like voice sent Dargoth into rampage mode when he stomped on Zeal’s foot with the force of a jackhammer and head butted him in the jaw. The barbarian staggered around in dizziness and rasped for oxygen, but the zombie had released his grip and stumbled backwards himself.

As soon as Dargoth’s lungs no longer felt like he swallowed a battleaxe, Zeal went for an overhead strike. Dargoth ducked underneath and transitioned behind the zombie with an arm choke. The barbarian squeezed with enough force to pop more pimples and blood vessels on Zeal’s face. He even loosened a few rotten teeth. But the minute the zombie’s eyeballs popped out of his head, his brains leaked onto the floor and he was limp as Dargoth’s “spaghetti dick”.

As soon as Zeal plopped over dead, Dargoth Destroyer raised his fists to the sky to declare victory. The audience roared like jungle cats in approval and high fived each other while chanting Dargoth’s name. Even Andrea gave him a little golf clap while saying into the microphone, “I hope your wife is watching!”

Indeed she was watching. From the comfort of her soft, silky-sheeted bed, Mrs. Destroyer watched the violence with a satisfied, teary-eyed smile on her face. “Thank you so much, my dear! Thank you!” The other man who was grateful unwrapped the towel from his muscular waist and climbed into bed with her with a silver tray of cocaine in his hands. The wife smiled lovingly at her paramour before rolling up a dollar bill and snorting sweet candy right up her slender nose. The paramour snorted some too before the lovers got it on underneath the sheets.

Little did they know that from the crack of their bedroom door, two teary-eyed girls watched the whole thing. The daughters hugged each other tightly and smeared their salty eye fluids across their Winnie the Pooh pajama sleeves. “I miss daddy,” one of them whispered to the other while a night of hot cocaine-laced sex was unfolding before them.

Gender Blind

Every punch and kick Rachel Gustafson threw at her practice pads was dedicated to her haters. The right hook was dedicated to Battle Born President Raymond Katz, who put this intergender match together to solve his “Rachel Gustafson problem”. The flying knee was for every fan who didn’t believe she could do battle with a man, let alone win the fucking match. The elbow strike was for the protesters outside the arena who never wanted this match to happen. The spinning back fist was for Sting Masters, who thought this match was going to be a cakewalk. Lost in her rage, Rachel threw enough rapid fire punches and kicks to accidentally knock over her trainer, to which she apologized and helped him back up.

The knock on her door followed by a voice shouting, “It’s fight time!” prompted Rachel to crack her neck in both directions and march out of the locker room with fists tightened and muscles tensing. The PA system had already queued up her walk out theme of “One of These Days” by Pink Floyd. Groovy bass guitar solo aside, the grunting voice of “One of these days, I’m going to cut you into little pieces!” perfectly described how Rachel felt about everyone in this arena.

Once she walked down the aisle, she could hear the boos reverberating off of her muscles of stone. The occasional shouts of, “You suck!” made those audience members ideal candidates for a hard right hook to the face. But they were the ones sweating like pigs, not her. Even from the middle of the aisle, she stared bullets into Sting Master’s smug British face. He was already in the octagon waiting for her with his arms folded and his red Mohawk looking as silly as ever. “Cakewalk my ass!” she said to herself upon reaching the entrance to the cage.

Rachel stripped off her hooded sweatshirt and athletic pants to reveal her sports bra and baggy shorts with various business logos on it. At least she didn’t have “Condom Depot” printed on her ass like a lot of fighters these days had. After getting her face greased up with ointment and being searched by the referee for weapons, Rachel stomped up the steel stairs and bolted inside the cage, running circles around the structure and giving the middle finger to her booing audience. She would have given one to Sting, but a flying knee would have been more appropriate for someone of his arrogance.

Once both warriors stood in their appropriate corners behind the black line, the seven foot tall referee stood behind the ring announcer as he got this main event going. Speaking with passion and fire into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are live from the sold out Tacoma Dome in Tacoma, Washington for Battle Born 57: Eye for an Eye! This event is sanctioned by the Washington State Athletic Commission. When the action begins, our referee in charge of the fight is Bill Dash. If you’re ready for some violence tonight, make some noise!”

The audience did make noise, but none of their cheers and boos were enough to take Rachel’s sniper sight focus off of Sting. The announcer continued his oratory with, “Three rounds in the Battle Born Promotions first ever intergender lightweight division match! Introducing first, fighting out of the red corner! This man is a striker who holds a professional record of twenty-six wins and six losses. He stands five feet seven inches tall and weighed in at 155 lbs. Fighting out of Manchester, England…STING…MASTERS!” More boos from an audience who clearly wanted this match to end in a double knockout.

“Introducing his opponent, fighting out of the blue corner! She is also a striker, but holds a professional record of nineteen wins and four losses. Standing at five feet eleven inches tall, weighing in at 153 lbs.. Fighting out of Denver, Colorado, ladies and gentlemen, she is the former Battle Born Promotions Women’s Lightweight Champion of the World…RACHEL…”GUTSY”…GUSTAFSON!”

Referee Bill Dash took center stage and brought both fighters toward his position. With the announcer holding the microphone in Bill’s face, he gave his instructions, “Okay, you two, I want a good clean fight. We’ve been over the rules in the locker room. Protect yourselves at all time. Obey my commands at all time. When I tell you to stop, you stop. If you want to touch gloves, go ahead and do it and then go back to your corners.” Not a damn fist was raised, only deadly steel-eyed stares. “Good luck to both of you and may the best fighter win,” said Bill before both fighters marched back to their corners.

The ring announcer and other unnecessary personnel vacated the cage and all that remained were two intergender warriors who wanted to smash each other’s faces in. Rachel saw red and only red. She remembered the interviews Sting gave in which he said he was going to, “Make her [his] bitch” and “Put her in her place.” All the laughing. All the booing. All the fake outrage going on outside with enhanced security. All the times Raymond Katz wanted to get rid of her for whatever reason. Those lava-like emotions bubbled towards the surface and she almost jumped the gun before the referee started the match.

“First round, are you ready, Rachel? Are you ready, Sting? Let’s get it on!” shouted Bill Dash and both warriors met in the middle of the octagon. No feeling out process, just throwing caution to the wind. Both fighters threw heavy punches and created wooshing sounds as those hits never landed. Rachel threw a kick at Sting’s hamstring and caused him to slightly wince, but otherwise suck it up. Another kick to the hamstring and a deep purple bruise formed on Sting’s pasty white leg.

Sting threw kicks of his own to Rachel’s midsection and she could feel the tiny bit of oxygen leaving her stacked body. The jeers from the audience intensified, but they weren’t the ones in this match and Rachel easily blocked them out. She threw more kicks to Sting’s legs and slowed him down considerably.

And then the wily Brit went for broke when he stormed towards Rachel with a series of hard rights and lefts. He missed the first two strikes, but the third, a stiff jab, caught her on the chin and sent a dot matrix of lights scattering across her field of vision. Another punch caught her on the bridge of her nose and her eyes watered like a raging river of hot tears. And then Sting used his good leg to throw a high kick and caught Rachel behind the ear.

The feminine fury wobbled and staggered about as she was being dissected by this brutal bully. He threw an elbow to her forehead and knocked her down while opening a gusher of a cut. The boos and outrage intensified even more, but all Rachel could hear were birdies tweeting in her head. Sting was little more than blur to her, obnoxious red Mohawk aside. She threw her feet upwards to try to keep him from mounting her and getting more vicious offence in.

Sting got overzealous and went for the mount anyways, but was met with an up-kick to the bridge of his nose, knocking him flat on his ass and busting him wide open with a waterfall of blood. Both fighters, bloodied and beaten, stood on their knees and punched the shit out of each other. Rachel’s vision was darkening with every knock she took on the face while Sting’s gusher poured like a busted fire hydrant.

Bill Dash was awfully close to stopping this fight when out of the corner of Rachel’s vision, a fan leaped over the cage and was immediately tackled to the floor by the seven foot ref. But then more fans jumped the fence and swarmed in on Bill Dash. The booing audience who hated this idea of an intergender match came rushing it all at once, even knocking one of the sides of the cage down.

Sting got up from his dazed kneeling position and was actually protecting Rachel with fists and feet towards the zealous fans. Bill Dash and other security members tossed around fans like sacks of potatoes. Meanwhile, a pair of husky arms grabbed the fading Rachel under her pits and dragged her out of the arena. She didn’t resist due to her weak body even though she wanted to. All she could hear was cussing, screaming, and riotous violence surrounding her. One fan even stepped on her ankle on the way to the cage and she didn’t even flinch. She huffed in exhaustion and closed her swollen eyes (or at least tried to) on her way to wherever the hell she was going.

By the time Rachel Gustafson opened her black and blue eyes and wiped away the crusted blood from her black ponytail hair, she actually thought she had woken up in a different time period. Was she an old lady by this time? Was this place a nursing home? No, it was a medical facility located far away from the Tacoma Dome. She recognized the plain white walls, the dull florescent lights, and the ultra-comfortable bed snuggling up to her spinal cord. Opening her eyes hurt like a motherfucker, but she did so anyways and caught a certain chubster in a cheap suit with horseshoe hair and a cheesy moustache standing over her bed.

“You’ve got a lot of balls coming here, Raymond. What the hell do you want?” asked Rachel in a weak, but angry tone.

“Miss Gustafson, I am so sorry for the way things turned out,” begged Raymond with his hands folded together. “This was supposed to be a special night for all of us. A revolution was unfolding before our very eyes. I didn’t think it would come to a full on riot.”

“Where’s Sting?” asked Rachel.

“We have no idea where he is. He could have gotten lost in the riot for all we know.”

“…So in other words, I’ll never get my win back from the man who stole it from me…because you wanted a fucking revolution?!”

“Rachel, I’m sorry, I really am.”

Having no more of Raymond Katz’s bullshit answers, the battered, bruised, and sore Rachel burst out of bed and held the CEO against the wall by his throat with both hands. “Don’t give me that crap! You knew from the very beginning this was going to happen! You wanted to get rid of your so-called Rachel Gustafson problem! So what do you do? You have a fucking riot in the middle of my fight! A fight, which by the way, I should have won by TKO!”

After listening to her boss wheeze and hack for hair, she finally let go of his chubby neck and let him plop to the floor on his giant ass. As he desperately caught his breath, Rachel kneeled down next to him and asked, “So what is the problem, Raymond? Is it because I asked for a raise? Is it because I asked to be promoted properly instead of getting pushed aside like a commodity?” She leaned her battle tested face towards his and said in a deep whisper, “Or is it because I tried to use the company’s health benefits to have an abortion when I needed one the most? If I had that baby, I would have died and you knew that!”

Once he had a sufficient amount of oxygen in his raspy lungs, Raymond threw his hands up defensively and said, “Trust me, Rachel, any problem I had with you has flown out the window. You’re important to me. I honestly didn’t believe this match was going to end in a riot. I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Rachel stood up and asked, “Anything?”

“Anything you want. You fought like a trooper tonight, against a man, no less. You deserve something special for that.”

“If I can really have anything I want…then I want to be released from Battle Born Promotions.”

“What?! You’re kidding me!”

Rachel punched a hole in the wall above Raymond’s head and caused him to flinch and yelp. “I’m serious, you fat fuck! No amount of money can ever make me forgive you. You put my life in danger that night and I should do the same to you. But I’m not going to…unless you don’t grant me my release.”

With nothing more to say to her now former boss, Rachel stormed out her semi-private room and collapsed on the floor. She needed nurses and doctors to help her stand up. Out of her still painful vision, she saw a man in a wheelchair covered in bandages except for his eyes, which were swollen and purple just like hers. The man gave a thumbs up and said in his signature British accent, “I’ll see you again someday. We’re not finished by a long fucking shot!”

“You’re damn right we’re not, Sting!” shouted Rachel as she was being dragged away by medical personnel.

Ninja

The rain poured down on the helpless African diamond miners like the tears of those sent to heaven by Andrew Bradley’s bullets and grenades. A whole line of skinny workers were on their knees with their arms bound behind their backs and their heads down in shame. Some of them were so skinny that their bones were visible. Some of them didn’t have arms or hands. Some of them were as young as seven years old. All of them shivered at both the sensation of cold rain and the fear of the mercenary for hire standing behind them with an AK-47 in hand.

“Alright, you little wankers, listen up!” said Andrew Bradley in his tone-deaf English accent. “I came here for one reason and one reason only: the Ninja Ruby is here in this exact diamond mine. I’d better get some answers as to where the hell it is or else all of you are getting bullets! Not excuses, not questions, but bullets! Bullets in your head! Bullets in your back! Bullets up your arse!”

With his muscular and hairy body, black tank top, camouflage pants, and eye patch over his right eye, Andrew was a specimen of intimidation. The worst part about that? He could back it up. When he wasn’t getting answers from the bound up miners, he took the butt of his rifle and smashed it in the back of a random worker’s head. The worker screamed in pain as he laid on the ground with his wound bleeding like crazy.

“Consider that your final warning, you little twerps! If I don’t hear an answer soon, I’m going to start shooting!” screamed Andrew as he fired his automatic rifle in the sky and laughed his ass off.

And then a shuriken flew past the scene and lopped off the tip of the AK-47. Another one flew past and exploded the ammo card. One more flew by and was centimeters away from taking off Andrew’s trigger finger if he didn’t drop his weapon in time.

One of the workers smiled up at Andrew and said, “You want to know where the Ninja Ruby is? You can find it on that cave. There’s just one problem: you won’t make it out alive!”

“Is that a threat? Huh? Is that a threat?!” Andrew roared when he pulled out a bowie knife and held it to the smiling worker’s throat. “You’d better wipe that god-awful grin off your face or else you’ll get a Columbian necktie! We’ll see if you’ll be smiling after that!”

A blowgun dart whizzed by and struck Andrew in his thick leg. He hopped away from the “smart-assed” worker and grimaced in pain. With one swift jerk, he pulled the dart from his leg and allowed it to bleed minimally. He stared down the cave with gritted yellow teeth and a death grip on his knife’s handle. “That’s it! You want to screw around with me! I’ll slash your fucking head off and drink your nigger blood!”

Andrew marched into the cave and lit up his club-like flashlight. No matter where he shined it, he couldn’t find even the slightest clue as to where the perpetrator might be. “Alright, you little pansy!” shouted the mercenary. “I’ve had just about enough of your smart-assed trickery! If you won’t come out of here with your hands raised to the sky, I’ll blast this goddamn cave back to the Stone Age! I’ve got enough dynamite in my truck to shake the entire earth to its core!”

“That won’t be necessary, my friend.” Andrew turned around and saw that the source of the deep-voiced dialogue came from a man dressed in multi-colored robes with a demon’s mask over his face and a katana in his hand. “My name is DJ Rouge. You wanted to know where the Ninja’s Ruby was. Here it is. Come and take it.” DJ removed his eye patch and revealed a beautiful red gem in his socket.

Andrew looked at the ruby with O-mouthed awe as it shined brightly enough to illuminate the whole cave. DJ pulled the gem out of his eye socket and threw it out of the entrance to the cave, darkening the atmosphere yet again except for Andrew’s flashlight. “What are you waiting for? Go fetch, you hideous dog!” said DJ.

“You cheeky little bastard!” yelled Andrew as he charged up to DJ while swinging wildly with his bowie knife and flashlight. Every blow he threw scraped dust off the cave walls and ground, sometimes even taking whole stones. But never once did Andrew hit his target, who was moving with acrobatic quickness and calm stealth.

“You can’t play defense forever, you little swine!” yelled Andrew. He was right. DJ slashed the mercenary’s flashlight in half with his blade and darkened the room once more. The only light remaining was at the entrance, which was still somewhat dim due to this cold weather. “Where are you?! Where are you, you little bastard?!” bellowed Andrew.

With darkness as his ally, DJ threw knees and elbows to Andrew’s ribs, stomach, and face. Each blow shook the brute’s body and made a resounding thud. But even with a few crunches here and there, Andrew boldly said, “Is that all you’ve got?!” DJ then threw a sweep kick and knocked the British warrior on his ass.

Instead of growling in pain, Andrew did so in frustration and got up immediately to throw random punches and kicks in the dark. Not one of them found its target and instead all he got were DJ’s kicks to his thick legs, almost buckling his knees. “Where are you, you little creep?!” yelled Andrew Bradley.

The mercenary threw another uppercut, but this time hit the ceiling with such force that a rock came down and bonked DJ Rouge on the head, prompting him to let out a small “Ow!” That one mistake was enough for Andrew to grab DJ around his throat and pin him against the wall with brutal force.

The mercenary squeezed with such force that he could feel DJ’s throat becoming thinner and his neck bones popping. “You hear that, you little shit?! That’s the sound of your own undoing! Are you ready to tap out?! Are you ready to give up?! Huh?! Huh?! HUH?!”

DJ was on the verge of passing out or having his neck snapped when the sound of a loud explosion boomed across the mine fields. Andrew’s grip weakened as he started to worry. “Oh no!” he yelled out before releasing the chokehold and running out of the mine. He could hear DJ coughing violently with bloodily, but the music to Andrew’s ears was ruined when he saw his truck bursting into flames.

“No! No, no, no!” yelled Andrew. He dropped to his knees and cried pathetically, though the African workers would have no sympathy for him. They stood around the explosion with their arms folded and their expressions angry.

“What was that you said about having enough explosions to shake the earth?” said one of the workers in a mocking tone.

“Oh, go to hell, you little jerk-offs!” cried Andrew. “All I wanted was a little ruby for my bosses! It wasn’t personal! It was just business!”

“Ruby? You mean this?” said the worker as he pulled out the brightly shining stone. “Go ahead. Take it. It’s yours.” Except he didn’t just hand it over. He threw the gem right into Andrew’s good eye and caused him to scream pathetically some more. His eye was squished like an olive and all he could do was roll around like a wounded animal.

And then the gem was ripped from Andrew’s good eye and a blade was held to his throat. DJ’s familiar voice said, “These people you held captive. They were never meant to be slaves for your corporate banks. I came here to free them. They’re not just ‘cheeky bastards’. They’re hard workers who deserve much better than the treatment you gave them today.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want! Just don’t hurt me! I’ll never come by here again!” pleaded Andrew.

“Anything I want, huh? Alright then. Tell me who you work for and I might let you go.”

The next morning at Babylon Bank, the chubby, white-haired CEO received a package in his office. He smiled at it with his saggy jowls and opened it up like it was a Christmas present. It was delivered by Andrew Bradley, so he was expecting a brightly shining Ninja Ruby. Instead all he got was pieces of Andrew’s hair and his heart. A bloody, sloppy heart that would have been cold even without the dry ice. The CEO screamed in a tone-deaf voice that would have woken up the dead, including Andrew Bradley.