Mark Shapiro: No Relation to Ben, But You'd Be Forgiven If You Thought Otherwise

 

Booker T vs. Triple H

 

The "award-winning announcer" Booker T got buried in 2003 when Triple H not only made a bunch of racist jokes about him, but also beat him decisively at Wrestlemania and got no comeuppance for it. Now it appears the only burying going on is burying the hatchet between the two of them, so that they can join TKO in their quest for milking the fans' wallets for all they're worth with a mediocre product and high ticket prices.

Voice of Reason

CHORUS

No one would believe me when I had a story to tell

They bent the knee to the powers that be

They’re too afraid of burning in hell

You’re not the voice of reason, you’re enabling treason

You’re handing out forgiveness like it’s Christmas season

A seat at my table should always be earned

Fuck the crosses you burned

What are the lessons you’ve learned?

 

VERSE 1

You want me to compromise with the ones who tell lies

And give them any credence like they’re just as wise

Shake hands with the Klan for your economic plan

Where we come together for this capitalist cheddar

One for all and all for one

But what will you do now that the damage is done?

Marginalization is institutionalization

But at least we can agree this is a badass nation

 

CHORUS

No one would believe me when I had a story to tell

They bent the knee to the powers that be

They’re too afraid of burning in hell

You’re not the voice of reason, you’re enabling treason

You’re handing out forgiveness like it’s Christmas season

A seat at my table should always be earned

Fuck the crosses you burned

What are the lessons you’ve learned?

 

VERSE 2

You call it unity when you fit the square pegs

Into the round holes while the beggars beg

We’re all equal because we all look the same

As we’re playing Monopoly, a real-life game

Say nighty-nighty, give your dreams to the mighty

It’s for the common good even with the white hoods

In the end, we’ll all be ground up into sausage

But at least we won the war, ‘cause the street trash lost it

 

VERSE 3

You’re not riding the fence, you’re riding the dick

Of Agent 47 who should be 86ed

You say you love us all, but you won’t answer the call

You’ll be so far away when another tower falls

Of course you’re apathetic and it’s kind of pathetic

How you use your privilege to rewrite and edit

The story of history through your eyes, not theirs

You’re so rich and lionized that you don’t have to care

 

CHORUS

No one would believe me when I had a story to tell

They bent the knee to the powers that be

They’re too afraid of burning in hell

You’re not the voice of reason, you’re enabling treason

You’re handing out forgiveness like it’s Christmas season

A seat at my table should always be earned

Fuck the crosses you burned

What are the lessons you’ve learned?

 

OUTRO

No small surprise where the center really lies

You’re the center of the universe, now everything’s worse

You sang kumbaya with jackboot-wearing thugs

Future civilizations will wonder if we’re on drugs

Selling Your Soul

VERSE 1

You sold your soul for some paper and metal

Digital transactions from lawsuits you settled

All you have left is a mediocre shell

And a special seat for you waiting in hell

Your spirit was once so colorful and bright

Before you fell off hard after turning right

Your road to heaven was paved with blood

Your so-called “truth bombs” were only duds

 

VERSE 2

When I give my soul to the left

I get a return on what I invest

The stories of underdogs just like myself

Told in the form of books on my shelf

Songs, art, movies, and more

Keep me from becoming a bootlicking whore

I grew and matured, I learned from the best

Who cares about results on a standardized test?

 

VERSE 3

Crushing dreams is what keeps you alive

Heaven forbid that creativity thrives

They should sell their souls for a pizza party

In a corporate office packed like sardines

Into cubicles more like trash compactors

That’s how you see them, they suppress detractors

Power corrupts, it’s an insatiable hunger

Feed the addiction while the artists suffer

 

VERSE 4

Why hire meat sacks when robots are cheaper?

Why use your brain when your pockets are deeper?

Why relate to another human being?

When outer beauty is all that you’re seeing?

Beauty fades and so does common sense

Those who enable you are not your friends

They carry knives in search of a back

Slip up just a little and they’re on the attack

They run away with your big money sack

Another soulless wonder, you’re left with jack

“Capitalism breeds innovation” they say

Yet it’s the same old shit every damn day

Launch the Third Rock, Pt. 2

I used to love the idea of reincarnation

That was before the rise of fascist nations

Before I was broken by capitalist education

Before the churchies tried to outlaw masturbation

 

Never thought I’d be jealous of an aborted fetus

Never thought I’d be thankful for a virgin penis

Wouldn’t bring a new child into this fucked up world

When their only options in life are boy or girl

 

It’s not just America, it’s the whole third rock

Everybody wants a piece of the awe and shock

Everybody does it for the lulz and the laughs

Israeli bombs get David Draiman’s autograph

 

Talk about Disturbed, you ain’t seen shit

You got to be disturbed to want any of it

You got to be fucked up in the head really bad

To enjoy the bloodshed that drives all of us mad

 

Of course you pretend like everything’s okay

‘Cause your American way is the only way

It’s the country where Jesus will come back to life

Bring you to heaven and leave behind your trad wife

 

Praying on your knees never got you anywhere

Except into a box after years of despair

The elite don’t like you, they do not respect you

Vote for them all you want, they will not protect you

 

Launch the third rock into the sun in the sky

That’s where we left off, but I’m wondering why

Shouldn’t we take this shit past the point of no return

You like to threaten hellfire? Burn, baby, burn!

 

You afraid of The Devil? He was here all along

He was every alpha leader pretending to be strong

He was every dictator who silenced his critics

Wouldn’t entertain the chance to learn and listen

 

You want your own bubble? Now you’ve got it

Protect you from the truth, the wise ones taught it

Protect your pretty soul, the greenbacks bought it

Nobody visits you, because your heart is rotten

 

We don’t have a loneliness epidemic around here

Got an epidemic of fascists blasting out our ears

You deserve to lose every best friend you’ve got

Your family too, whether you like it or not

Make a Wish on a Star

CHORUS

Make a wish on a star

For an unbreakable heart

For an indominable soul

An irreplaceable role

Make a wish on a star

Leave things better than they are

Smash the Status Quo

Until utopia’s all we know

 

VERSE 1

If wishes were fishes, the world would be an ocean

Masturbatory fantasies, the river’s made of lotion

Problems don’t just go away because of magic spells

Not one person in this life can save the world by themself

There’s strength in numbers, especially in bank accounts

Abusing all the power for an even larger amount

No one has the energy and no one has the solution

We’re stuck in our depression and worldwide pollution

 

CHORUS

Make a wish on a star

For an unbreakable heart

For an indominable soul

An irreplaceable role

Make a wish on a star

Leave things better than they are

Smash the Status Quo

Until utopia’s all we know

 

VERSE 2

We march until our shoes are worn and torn to shreds

And then we wake up in a metal prison bed

Or a hospital with one hand cuffed to the rail

It was like this all along, we were set up to fail

 

CHORUS

Make a wish on a star

For an unbreakable heart

For an indominable soul

An irreplaceable role

Make a wish on a star

Leave things better than they are

Smash the Status Quo

Until utopia’s all we know

 

BRIDGE

The only star worth wishing on is one that will crash

On corporate buildings, capitols, smash them into trash

Yachts and private jets, no, we’re not done just yet

From the river to the sea is a promise, not a threat

 

OUTRO

Make a wish on a star!

Make a wish on a star!

Make a wish on a star!

Let’s take shit too far!

IOU

Something unexpected, but not really, though

When it comes to the world, there’s nothing I owe

I gave it everything

Until I couldn’t sing

The world asked for more, well, what do you know?

It’s an abusive romance with a floating rock

She gets all the diamonds, I get a bloody cock

More, more, more

So like a good man whore

I play the cheerleader while she’s fucking a jock

If I go on strike while I’m working this mic

What would there be left to click on and like?

I’m falling behind

In the endless grind

My wheels are spinning like a Kawasaki bike

Here’s an IOU that will never be paid

Here’s a shitty RPG that will never be played

You can be the DM

Until we’re past the PM

Hours of the day, I think my hairs have grayed

That’s all that life is: a game I can’t win

So why am I even going all the way in?

Gamble everything

Lose until it stings

Slam dunk the IOU in the rubbish bin

I owe the world nothing, its people even less

I’ve given all I’ve got and I’m still not the best

Christmas is over

I ain’t being covert

Middle finger to the earth, time for me to rest

Wake me up when you throw a parade

For every sacrifice that I’ve ever made

It’s not ego

I’m not a hero

I’m just full from drinking capitalist Kool-Aid

You Win

Congratulations! You beat me in a war

Want a fucking cookie? How about four?

Go grab me a plate and I’ll regurgitate

A whole bag of Oreos that I just ate

Congratulations! You owned me on the mike

Take your gold medal and take a fucking hike

Your precious prize is made out of chocolate

The gold is urine from my manly man rocket

Congratulations! I’ll never recover

Maybe I should be your brand new prison lover

I’ll be the top and you can be the bottom

Smash your ass like a pumpkin in the middle of autumn

Congratulations! You win at everything forever

I’m sure your victory speech will be funny and clever

Tell them how you cheated me out of first place

Then crack your stupid jokes about gender and race

Congratulations! There’s nothing left to achieve

You’re the king of the mountain, it’s what we believe

Play with your riches until you get burned out

All those cars for nothing, so much for your clout

Congratulations! You drove everyone away

Here’s your trillion dollar check on this lovely payday

Now you’re all alone with nobody to talk to

Not even Creepy McCreeperton wants to stalk you

Congratulations! You won against a guy who never wanted to play

Addiopizzo

VERSE 1

You sold us a world where we could be ourselves

You occupied several rows on the library shelves

But then April Fools became your golden rule

The marginalized became part of your death pool

You didn’t sell books, but you collected pizzo

Protection? You’re the only one who eats though

Built a castle out of corpses, sat on a throne of bones

But what do we know? We’re always on our phones

CHORUS

We’ll never pay your prices

You can feed your own vices

Addiopizzo!

Addiopizzo!

VERSE 2

You sold us combat between two superstars

Roads to your arenas jam packed with cars

Then the comedy writers turned the show to shit

But your bank account is still a number one hit

Making more money now than any other point

Smoke cigars made of pizzo, stink up the joint

Built an empire out of muscles and steroids

But what do we know? We’re not one of the boys

CHORUS

We’ll never pay your prices

You can feed your own vices

Addiopizzo!

Addiopizzo!

BRIDGE

You’re wearing a suit made out of pizzo

Crisp dollar bills from the tip jar, keep those

You’re wearing shoes made from human flesh

The worst of it all? The wounds are still fresh

CHORUS

We’ll never pay your prices

You can feed your own vices

Addiopizzo!

Addiopizzo!

VERSE 3

You sold us a product from an MLM boss babe

Got an army of recruits with empty promises made

But then they knock on your door asking for a check

There are more instructions in their DM texts

Keep buying the stash and supplying the pizzo

Ugly leggings, ripped boots, hole-covered speedos

It’s a cycle that continues for the rest of time

Nobody cares that collecting pizzo is a crime

Addiopizzo!

Addiopizzo!

Celebrate Yourself

VERSE 1

You don’t have to win at March Madness

To earn the right to alleviate your sadness

If all you did was survive another year

Then celebrate yourself with cake and beer

You call yourself weak, but I see the opposite

You’re a badass and a half and alive on top of it

Your value isn’t measured by a teacher’s grade

Or whether or not the boss man gets paid

CHORUS 1

Celebrate yourself, because you’ve got this

Shine your beacon of light, don’t ever stop it

On those days when you’re feeling like hell

Celebrate yourself until you’re healthy and well

VERSE 2

Getting out of bed is worth a thousand Oscars

And a thousand tape gags for the smack-talkers

And a thousand tacos on your dinner plate

And a thousand burgers is what you ate

Getting dressed in your absolute best

Is a feat in itself, you more than passed the test

In a world where everything drains you away

Be thankful that you lived yet another day

CHORUS 1

Celebrate yourself, because you’ve got this

Shine your beacon of light, don’t ever stop it

On those days when you’re feeling like hell

Celebrate yourself until you’re healthy and well

BRIDGE

When racing to the top of the corporate ladder

Leaves you so empty that effort doesn’t matter

Remember that glory is always overrated

When it’s a line of work you definitely hated

What’s so great about grinding and dying

When it leaves you defeated and crying?

A boss man could never really understand

The pain of it all when his head’s in the sand

CHORUS 2

Celebrate yourself, you’re worth more than this

Your strengths belong on a never-ending list

On those days when you’re doubting it all

Celebrate yourself, stand a hundred feet tall

Salty Cindy

Teaching history? You’re on the wrong side of it

You took your students’ lives, turned them into shit

Yelling and screaming until they hear you from Scotland

If you went further east, they’d launch nuclear rockets

Oral quizzes? You’ve got no fucking business

Put our anxiety on display for millions to witness

Calling us lazy when we worked our asses off

But we believed it like our brains were acid washed

Rushing us through like a military exercise

So that we’d be good drones in a capitalist enterprise

Don’t you know it takes more than a degree

To teach any class, let alone senior history?

Empathy and kindness should be prerequisites

Not a grumpy outlook and marine sentiments

If I wanted to fight a bunch of strangers overseas

I’d have actually said the words, “Sign me up, please!”

But I didn’t, because I’m not a cog in the machine

I have my own ambitions, my own goals to achieve

None of them include listening to your loud voice

The future is mine, I’m the one who makes the choice

Where do you belong? In the unemployment line

Although I wouldn’t even trust you to cook my fries

Wouldn’t trust you to take care of my kitties

Nor my puppies neither, you’d be just as shitty

I don’t even think your own family likes you

Face it, Salty Cindy, you have nothing left to do

You can go get fucked with a rifle’s bayonet

It’s a surefire bet, are there any takers yet?

Like a sex offender, you don’t belong near a school

You belong in a morgue where the bodies are cool

I know this all sounds just a little too extreme

But this is what I do when you fuck with my dreams

Destroy and Reform

VERSE 1

When you hang on to the macho mentality of the past

It’s no wonder why your students won’t come to class

No one wants a lashing with a bamboo whipping cane

No one wants false history to liquefy their brains

No one wants to do homework for the rest of eternity

No one wants the bullies to taunt them with absurdity

No one wants to grow up with a brainwashed point of view

No one wants to be a part of the putty-faced crew

CHORUS

Destroy and reform

Never obey and conform

Rebellion is the new norm

Been that way since we were born

VERSE 2

Nobody wants to serve sundaes to entitled Karens

Nobody wants to be screamed at while running errands

Nobody wants to gaze into the abyss of a factory

Nobody wants to pick fruit that triggers allergies

Nobody wants to collect garbage for a few cents

Nobody wants to unclog toilets just to pay the rent

Nobody wants to coast when they’ve got passion to boast

With just one poem, they turn a request in a roast

CHORUS

Destroy and reform

Never obey and conform

Rebellion is the new norm

Been that way since we were born

BRIDGE

Five dollars an hour isn’t going to cut it

Don’t argue against that, fucking shut it

Dystopia shouldn’t feel so natural

As we swallow the last of our Adderall

VERSE 3

Never accept less than being treated as human

Never vote for politicians who’re useless

Never raise your hand for an uncaring teacher

Only rely on yourself to be a truth-seeker

Never give that job to a nutcase fuck-up

Never thrive in the world by being a suck-up

Never compromise what makes you special

Lest you be an empty shell of a vessel

CHORUS

Destroy and reform

Never obey and conform

Rebellion is the new norm

Been that way since we were born

Cutthroats Love Unemployment

With Hustle Culture constantly in everyone’s faces, it’s hard not to come to the false realization that capitalism loves you as much as you love it. Rise and grind! Work, work, work! Breaking every bone in your body means more money! Meanwhile, you have next to nothing in your bank account because the surgery needed to fix those bones…that’ll cost you a small fortune. But if you’re a mercenary for hire in my 2002 home brew RPG Cutthroat, broken bones and small fortunes are just another part of the job. In which case, capitalism loves you so much that it’ll give you a kiss on your owie when you get shot in the chest or stabbed in the leg.

The year 2002 was one where I gave less than a shit about politics. I knew I didn’t want to conform to society. I knew that people should be treated fairly. I also used to believe in the death penalty because I wanted it to apply to my high school bullies. As someone who didn’t give two fucks about politics, let alone someone who was old enough to vote, it showed in my world-building techniques when I put together the rules for Cutthroat. In the distant future, every continent on planet earth not named Antarctica waged war against each other. Why? Fuck if I know. Maybe war is just fun for these autocrats. Maybe there is some growing tension between North America and Africa because of…reasons? Maybe Europe and Asia want to start lobbing grenades at each other because…they’re bored?

If I had more storytelling skills back in 2002, coming up with a reason for intercontinental war would have been easy-breezy-lemon-squeezy. Maybe South America wants revenge on North America because of an assassination or terrorist attack. Maybe Africa wants revenge on Australia because the latter has resources that Africa wouldn’t otherwise have without taking them by force. Maybe Asia wants to bomb the shit out of Europe because superpower flexing is more important than perpetual peace. There are lots of reasons to go to war. Pick one, damn it!

Throwing together a bullshit reason for intercontinental war wouldn’t have been that hard. But even if the guns for hire weren’t believers in each continent’s political ambitions, money will always be a motivator for anybody who wants to eat and have a roof over their heads. Which is why when I ran this RPG in 2002, I was baffled by the reactions of my players when their characters were approached by job recruiters. One character (we’ll call him Clyde) ran away and tried to hide in a shadowy alleyway. Another character (we’ll call him Ninjo) slaughtered his recruiter in the bathroom. Cutthroats must really love unemployment! Either that or they’d rather work at Burger Monarch or Taco Hell and get emotionally scarred instead of physically. So how about we take a look at these two scenarios and try to determine why Clyde and Ninjo were so allergic to employment opportunities.

First, we have Clyde. He’s kicking it in England having a drink at the bar. He’s no doubt looking for his next paycheck so that he can have more alcoholic beverages to fuck up his liver. But when he’s approached by two trench-coat wearing men who call out his name, his first instinct…is to run away from them. Granted, the two men look incredibly suspicious in their trench coats. They could have been carrying weapons in their pockets. But if they were, they didn’t pull them out. Instead they were like, “Hey, come back! Wait up!”, begging and pleading for Clyde to slow down. But instead of slowing down and listening to reason, he runs into an alleyway looking for a nice hiding place in the shadows…on a hot sunny day when shadows won’t do shit to help you.

Surprise, surprise, the trench coat guys find him and explain that they were only approaching Clyde to give him a job. A nice, big fat contract that will guarantee him enough beer to keep him permanently pissing until the end of time. Clyde eventually saw the light, sunny day aside. I know now that trench coat guys who know your name will always look suspicious, but if you run away from your job recruiter and they have to blow out their lungs to hire you, you’d be lucky if you got the job in the first place. Imagine going into a job interview and then running out of the boss man’s office because you think he looks a little too weird for you.

Actually, now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense. Young people are starting to wake up to the fact that capitalism means more work for less money and maybe running away from the boss man is how they’ll gain any semblance of leverage. Not to sound passive-aggressive, but running away was definitely a genius move on Clyde’s part…mainly because accepting the job and sneaking onto a military base got him gunned down in a storm of bullets and lasers. He should have ran faster.

And then there’s case number two: Ninjo, an assassin for hire based in Japan. No doubt he needs work as well and he doesn’t want to serve cocktails in a pretty dress, so assassinating people is the avenue he wants to go down. There he was enjoying a nice meal in a restaurant when he suddenly had to move to the nearest urinal. Pissing in privacy would have been a heavenly request that he understandably should have been forked over. But then a Mexican in camouflage fatigues uses the urinal next to him and introduces himself as Jet Guile, Ninjo’s would-be employer.

To Ninjo’s credit, there are so many things wrong with this scenario that 16-year-old me didn’t pick up on before putting together this campaign. First of all, what is a Mexican mercenary randomly doing in a Japanese bathroom? Second of all, why is his name Jet Guile and not something…you know…a little closer to his nationality? Thirdly, and this is the most important question of all: why the fuck is he trying to give someone a job interview…in the bathroom?! What, is Jet observing Ninjo’s sniper skills by watching the piss hit the toilet? What if Ninjo had bad diarrhea from the sushi he was eating? What if Ninjo didn’t make it to the toilet on time? Would Jet refuse to hire him for failing to “deactivate a bomb” in his ass? 

In hindsight, this was weird on so many levels. It should come as no surprise that the minute Jet Guile said Ninjo’s name, Ninjo beat the holy fuck out of him and left him a bloody and useless corpse on the bathroom floor. Ninjo may love unemployment, but he loves peeing undisturbed even more. Well, he didn’t get either; three more Mexican mercenaries hired him anyways in spite of what happened to Jet! That’s right: Ninjo got a job despite killing one of his employers. Turned out to be one of his tests, not because I had it planned all along, but because I pulled it out of my ass and made an even bigger mess than Ninjo’s piss puddle and Jet’s bloodbath put together. Imagine if Homer did this to Mr. Burns on an episode of The Simpsons. Work would be less stressful, for sure, but that’s only because scooping prison food is easier than handling nuclear rods.

So…why is it that Clyde and Ninjo were so reluctant to allow their employers to hire them for soldier work? Chasing someone into an alleyway and interviewing someone while they’re draining the lizard are reasonable enough answers to me. Or maybe there is something to be said about not feeding the capitalist machine…in a society where war is the main product. Or…maybe Clyde and Ninjo were supposed to keep their identities a secret and the minute their employers shouted their names, they bailed. And then it hit me like a sack of bricks: war isn’t always fought with soldiers gathering together on a battlefield and shooting at each other. It isn’t always about bombing the fuck out of cities and capitols either. Sometimes a little stealth is paramount to getting a job done. Maybe your enemy will be more easily defeated if they don’t know you’re coming. Keep the name a secret. Keep the employment a secret. Keep everything a secret. The less they know, the less they’ll see coming.

Undercover work should have been my first guess all the way back in 2002. Of course they’re running, because their cover was potentially blown. Of course they’re beating up employers because they could be assassins themselves. Trust and friendship are two of the rarest things you’ll find in war, because the object is to kill or be killed. Sure, you can trust your fellow soldiers, but a complete stranger? That’ll take a little more vetting. I guess the lesson to be learned here is to not lay all of your cards on the table so soon. They call it a poker face for a reason. They also refrain from wearing mirror shades to a poker game. Right, Kim?

Refusing to lay your cards on the table is not only necessary for succeeding in war, but in other aspects of life too. Suppose you do get a job interview that’s not in a bathroom or a dingy alleyway. Sure, you want to be open and honest, but do you really want to let your boss man know everything about you, be it mental illnesses, bad experiences in school, bad experiences with other employers, or divorces you’ve had? Same thing goes for any other activity, whether it’s dating, friendship, or playing a good old fashioned RPG. You want to give them just enough to get a good idea of you, but if you spill too many secrets, then you’ll never get passed the front door.

But that also depends on what secrets you choose to keep and how doing so will negatively affect the relationship. If you’re trying to keep abuse a secret from your peers, it’ll get out one way or another, especially in an argumentative setting. In which case, don’t get into the relationship at all and seek help before you spiral into an early grave. If you have murder-hobo tendencies and you’re playing an RPG where your character kills everyone around them, that’ll derail the game in a big fucking hurry. If you’re an alt-right nutjob and your paladin uses “stand your ground” laws as an excuse to kill innocent orcs to become an oathbreaker, then get some goddamn help!

Your GM doesn’t have to know everything, but they should know enough to decide whether or not they want to play with you. If you put yourself in a situation where it’s you or the GM, then the GM will pull a Clyde and Ninjo and run the fuck away from you. Or they’ll kill you in the bathroom while you’re interrupting their pissing session, one of the two. This is not an instruction manual for narcissists, because fuck them. But if you’re genuinely looking for new opportunities in life and you’re going to make the most of them, then getting your foot in the door is as easy as getting both feet out of bar on the way to a garbage-covered alleyway.

Help Me, Walter Hollywood

 He lights a cigarette, compromises his health

Fresh lungs don’t matter in this neo-noir hell

Every day someone is murdered and forgotten

Until the corpse makes the streets smell rotten

“Help me, Walter Hollywood,” says the dame

Every transaction starts to all sound the same

An envelope of cash, smoke the last of the ash

Hope to god her lover isn’t thrown out like trash

But before he slings the questions around town

Obligatory sex scene with hushed moaning sounds

Almost makes the lover a complete afterthought

But there are bills to be paid, killers to be caught

Every fedora-wearing wise guy takes a swing

Until Walter’s eyes water, nose bleeds, ears ring

Anymore snooping and he’ll be full of bullets

Take his scalp until he’s only left with a mullet

Walter taps the dame up for a little more money

She laughs like his misery and bruises are funny

Admission of failure is just another part of the job

She winks one more time and turns the doorknob

Another body just washed up on the riverbank

Bricks around his ankles ensured that he sank

His face was so familiar despite the taped mouth

And the two black eyes and his nose cut out

Finding the lover was as easy as reading the paper

Nothing about this mystery made Walter feel safer

The money he was paid made him look like a hit man

Police would arrest him, lock him up with a big man

Capitalism made people do the weirdest things

Wait tables, scrub floors, stand on the streets and sing

Taking unclean money seemed like the way out

Why isn’t the dame’s freedom in any kind of doubt?

It’s a system that abuses everyone who struggles

Locks up the failures with big men who snuggle

Gangsters and politicians sip from a glass of wine

And every femme fatale continues to look so fine

Rest in Power, Gay Reynolds

 His driver’s license said Gabriel, he went by Gay

He’d do anything and anyone to get his fat payday

He had the 70’s moustache and a tray full of ash

Viagra and cocaine tucked inside his private stash

Eight hours of on-camera sex was what he had

A waterfall climax until his pecker looked so sad

For god knows how much money, the gig wasn’t bad

No longer will he miss a payment on his bachelor pad

Couldn’t find this kind of cheddar jockeying a cash box

Couldn’t find all these greenbacks curing smallpox

Would end up on the streets if he went to school to teach

Couldn’t cut it as a field hand picking every last peach

But the biggest price he paid when he got himself laid

Was some protests on his lawn and some online shade

More DM’s in his inbox than he could possibly delete

Asking for a free fuck, on their marriages they cheat

Every judgmental eye stares some daggers in his soul

They know about every hole, terrorism is their goal

A Molotov bomb thrown through his front window

Before they even get a chance to try to fucking know

What his struggles really are, explosives in his car

Blowing every little piece of him fifty feet apart

Why all of the hate for a guy trying to get by?

Couldn’t win against capitalism even if he tried

No love from the police, not a desist or a cease

Not even a bodyguard with a wild pay increase

The world learned to hate, so they sealed his fate

Could’ve been a porno legend, could’ve been great

Everybody mocks what they don’t understand

Rest in Power, Gay Reynolds, in the Promised Land

Never did he know that he left behind a daughter

Mother was a fellow actress also led to slaughter

A kid in foster care never stood a chance there

I wouldn’t blame her if she was constantly scared

Calling out for her parents but the bullies answer

Wishing her to have a malignant form of cancer

Who is anybody to point and laugh and judge?

Roles were reversed? Life would be just as tough

"The PROX Transmissions" by Dustin Bates

BOOK TITLE: The PROX Transmissions
AUTHORS: Dustin Bates
YEAR: 2017
GENRE: Graphic Novel
SUBGENRE: Science Fiction
GRADE: Pass

A greedy one-percent corporation who wants total control of humanity-saving technology? Check. That same corporation wanting to keep the masses ignorant and amnesic? Check. A secret society that wants to make the technology public so that we don’t live through an apocalypse? Check. And what about a couple of pawns who happen to be highly-esteemed engineers? Double check. When you strip away the sci-fi elements, this graphic novel begins to read like a prophecy. Unlike Mike Judge, Dustin Bates wasn’t off by 490 years. This is classic capitalist dystopia at its most dangerous. When profits come before people, the people won’t remain and they’re the most important resource we have. The loudest voices of our generation are being silenced, provided those voices don’t belong to the willfully ignorant or the economically powerful. If this graphic novel about decoding a space transmission doesn’t serve as a warning to humanity, I don’t know what will.

I know this book doesn’t seem like much of a message given it’s only eighty-eight pages and the first half of it is riddled with cheesiness. Sometimes the dialogue seems like an exposition dump or wholly unrealistic. The romantic relationship between Stephen and Dana happened way too quickly, which might have been by design considering what we learn about Dana. Some of the main characters are removed from the plot too easily and when they come back it almost seems like Deus Ex Machina. While I appreciate the scientific terminology being broken down into laymen’s terms, that too feels a lot like an exposition dump. The sob story that Stephen tells Dana about his ongoing divorce feels forced and only thrown in there as a ham-fisted attempt to garner sympathy. The fact that it was so endearing to Dana is a little bit sick. After this first half was over, I wrestled with myself about what grade I should give this book.

And then the second half came along and everything became as clear as day. The action got hot and heavy in a hurry when the assassination attempts on the main characters were taken more seriously. The cryptic text messages weren’t just a cliché plot device after all and actually led to the greater good. The technology that the evil corporation wants to get their hands on would quite frankly go a long way in rebuilding our economy in the real world. The anti-capitalist themes were more apparent and more urgent-sounding. There were twists and turns that made me forget about the Deus Ex Machina reinsertion of lost characters. The ending brings about a full circle effect that leaves the story open-ended, much like the uncertainty of life itself. I guess what I’m trying to say with this paragraph is that if you’re waiting for things to stop being cheesy and start being real, then your patience will be rewarded with a brilliantly-written story. The eighty-eight pages will feel jam-packed with everything you’re looking for in a dystopian journey.

The author of this graphic novel, Dustin Bates, also happens to be the lead singer and songwriter for the electronic rock band Starset. He doesn’t just write a neat little story; he lives the gimmick. He believes everything he says and we should listen to him. Does the sci-fi aspect seem silly to ordinary people? Absolutely. But does the genre make the message any less important? No way. Whether you think he believes his own gimmick too much or not, Dustin Bates is doing what every classic sci-fi storyteller has done before him: predict the future and call his readers to arms. For that, this graphic novel deserves four out of five stars.

Dirty Laundry

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to another episode of Beneath the Surface. I am your host, Aaron Moore. Tonight we’ve got a special treat for you. It’s no secret how Dread City’s debt crisis has ravaged our poor and working class population. Many of our citizens are losing their homes, their jobs, and in many cases, their families due to not being able to pay their debts on time. Here to expose the secrets of this little known debt industry is a man who wishes to be known by the pseudonym Heath Riggs. Heath, welcome to the show.”

“Good to be here, Aaron.”

Heath parked his ass at a dimly lit studio table across from his host, while live cameras filmed the interview from every angle behind the shadows. Aaron Moore clearly enjoyed the spotlight as evidenced by the fancy gray suit and tie he wore just for this occasion. Heath Riggs, on the other hand, thrived in anonymity, his black leather jacket, sunglasses, and hood covering everything but his black face driving the point home. While Aaron leaned his body in to ask the tough questions, Heath kicked back with his fingers in a triangle position and his heel across his lap.

“Now Heath, I want to start off by addressing with you the harassing ways in which debts are collected. The late night phone calls, the vulgar speech, the contacting of family, friends, and coworkers. By your own admission, these tactics should be illegal, yet debt collection companies get away with this all the time.”

Heath cleared his throat. “Well, you’re right about the fact that these tactics should be illegal. If they came from anybody other than a collector, the police would be called in a heartbeat. But the funny thing is, the harassment doesn’t actually get us our money faster. Then again, neither does the impending lawsuit and the subsequent garnishing of wages. This isn’t about collecting money we’ll never have. It’s politics. It’s all about weeding out the poor and disenfranchised so that they can’t influence our governmental policies. It’s not a conspiracy. This shit’s as real as it gets.”

Aaron, who was drinking a mug of hot coffee during Heath’s answer, spit out his beverage and choked on whatever was left. After wiping his mouth with his expensive sleeve, he said, “Mr. Riggs, I appreciate your honesty during this interview, but I have to ask you not to swear when giving your answers. We’re on live television in over a million homes. Surely, you understand.”

“Of course I do.” Heath grinned like he was onto something. “Wouldn’t want to offend your audience’s precious Christian ears. Wouldn’t want the children to hear any of this shit. Lord knows they might grow up to become free thinkers. We know that can never happen.”

“I’m warning you, Mr. Riggs….”

Taking his sunglasses off and revealing gray mechanical eyes underneath, Heath said, “Don’t worry, Aaron, I got the message loud and clear. You can’t swear on television, but if you do it behind closed doors with an unwilling secretary, it’s A-okay. I’m not just exposing the debt industries secrets, but yours as well. I agreed to do this interview because I want a clear conscience. Fourteen years of debt collecting began to wear on my soul after a while. I figured, as long as I’m here with an alleged sexual harasser, I might as well go the full nine, you know what I’m saying?”

“Cut the camera feed! Cut it now!” demanded Aaron. Without checking to see if his orders were followed, he leaned in closer to Heath’s face and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull, but you have no proof and neither do any of my accusers. Those cases were settled a long time ago. Now do you want to discuss debt collection or do you want to keep toying with me?”

“Why can’t he talk about both? It’s not like you two don’t deserve last words,” said a robotic feminine voice from the shadowy background. While Heath remained calm, cool, and collected, Aaron went bug-eyed and his body trembled at the sight of a cyborg assassin holding two severed heads by the hair like they were cheerleader pompoms. As soon as this mysterious woman stepped into the light, headless bodies all around the studio dropped to the ground and soaked the wooden floors in human blood and cyborg oil. A bald black woman with golden earrings and a green metal suit stared her newest victims down with a mischievous grin.

While Aaron curled up in a ball on the edge of pissing himself, the assassin said, “Don’t worry, honey. None of what you or Heath said made it on the airwaves. I made sure of that. It’s probably just as well. Although, if you want to tell your mindless viewers goodbye for one last time, I suppose I could let you do that.”

“Please…I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got a family I need to get home to. Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” quivered Aaron while Heath smiled and shook his head.

“It’s the same old excuse: think of my family so that I don’t have to when I’m trying to take the secretary to pound town. Don’t worry, Aaron, I’ve got this.” Heath cracked his knuckles before getting out of his chair and strutting towards the assassin, who tossed the cameramen’s heads off to the side like they were easily disposable to begin with.

“What are you so cocky about, Mr. Riggs? You’re not making it out alive any more than Hard-On Henry over here. In fact, you’re the reason I came here today,” said the assassin with a grin.

Heath gazed his assailant up and down and whistled. “That’s some expensive hardware you’ve got there. How much did them arm blades set you back? Hundreds? Thousands of dollars? And that metal body? Shit, man, I don’t know how you pay for all that with just a Street Ronin’s salary. If only there was somebody here who knew how to make debt disappear quicker than those cameramen you laid out. Hmm…” Heath stroked his chin as he mockingly pondered this question.

The assassin flipped one of her arm blades and held it underneath Heath’s chin. He didn’t back down from his confident demeanor, but he was all ears for his would-be killer. “When you’re as good as me, money isn’t that hard to come by. I don’t know what kind of lies you’re telling about my client, but these poor suckers don’t go into debt because of politics. They do it because they could never make it in a capitalist meritocracy. That’s my special way of saying they’re fucking lazy.”

“Sure, whatever you say…Harlock!”

Upon hearing the assassin’s name, Aaron slowly lowered his feet to the bloody floor, obviously not caring that much about his designer shoes. “Wait a minute, you know this woman?”

“Not as well as I’d like to, but when you’ve been on the job as long as I have, you learn something about these poor pathetic motherfuckers. The boss man gives you a name, an address, and how much they owe. The rest of the research is up to you, hence why we often resort to calling friends and family to collect the debt. Harlock here doesn’t care about the circumstances of others, which is ironic considering those cyborg parts didn’t come easy in this so-called meritocracy. Besides, if she was really as hot shit as she thinks she is, she wouldn’t have revealed all this information to me. We’d both be dead as fucking fried chicken right now. But as it is…”

“Shut the hell up!” said Harlock as she drew a tiny droplet of blood from Heath’s cheek. He still didn’t budge, only smiled wider as he cleaned the wound off with his finger and licked it.

“Face it, lady,” said Heath. “You don’t want to admit it, but you can see the irony of a debt-burdened assassin working for a debt collection agency. You’re desperate for cash, so you’ll whore your services to anybody who can make shit go away. But the truth is…paying those suckers off ain’t going to solve everything. You would not believe the tricks they pull out of their asses just to keep you paying up. Ever heard of zombie debt? How about fifty percent interest? How about debtor’s prison? They still have that shit.”

Harlock narrowed her bladed eyebrows and dug the weapon deeper into Heath’s skin. He flinched a little bit, but not enough to give away whatever modicum of fear he might have been burdened with. She leaned in and said, “You know nothing about me and my struggles.”

“Exactly! Debt collectors don’t know shit about you, which is why they keep calling your ass in the first place! You could come crying to them with your whole life story and it wouldn’t be enough. They got no heart. They got no soul. If a big ass mega corporation had a heart and soul, they wouldn’t be in business for very long, would they? Capitalism is a bitch.”

Harlock’s eyes slowly lowered to the soggy floor as if Heath’s words got through to her. He took this small window of opportunity to grab her by the arm and swing her blade into her own stomach. While Aaron was in the background this whole time shivering and weeping, Harlock’s mechanical guts spilled all over the ground as she coughed up oil and blood. Heath yanked the blade upwards and split the rest of her upper body in two, bloodying the floor even more than it already was.

“What the hell did you do that for?! She was cooperating!” Aaron screamed.

“Recognizing how badly you’ve fucked up isn’t a Get Out of Jail Free card. In case you hadn’t noticed what’s been going on here the past few seconds, look on the ground. That bitch is beyond redemption. Speaking of which, let’s get them cameras rolling again…”

“No! No cameras! No! I’m done with this!”

“Oh, we’re just getting started, Aaron. We’ve got a lot to discuss. Debt collection and sexual harassment all in one story, although that piss stain on your pants will be bigger ratings boost than anything we talk about.”

Aaron spread his shaky legs to see that there was indeed urine on his groin. “Goddamn it!”

Heath shushed him. “Ah, ah, ah! No swearing! There’re children watching!”

Due Process

“Savages. Fucking savages,” said McKenzie Youngblood under her breath as she power-walked through the halls of Aspire Mental Hospital. Every jacked up orderly and nurse made her skin crawl. Every image of “crazies” suffering in silence on their padded cells made her stomach turn. The walls and floors probably hadn’t seen a sponge and bucket since the Reagan Administration. If they did, it was most likely off the backs of these patients.

The closer she stomped toward Dr. Oliver Killian’s office, the hotter McKenzie’s blood boiled. Her flat shoes were the most audible part of the hallway. Her chubby scowl and gray business suit indicated she meant…well…business. Deep inside, a wildfire began to grow as these white orderlies scowled at her black skin. Nonetheless, she was a professional first and foremost. Just deliver the papers to Dr. Killian, get in, and get out. A pepper spray bottle in her leather briefcase would only be used as a last resort.

McKenzie adjusted her suit and skirt and gave a hard series of knocks on Dr. Killian’s office door. “Come in!” he commanded and she did just that.

The first thing she noticed was the pristine condition of his office. Bookshelves with infinite wisdom, wooden plaques containing various college degrees, a marble office table with the latest computer technology sitting on it, and not one speck of dirt or dust unless one were to count Dr. Oliver Killian sitting with his hands behind his white fluffy hair. He adjusted his glasses and asked, “What can I do for you, young lady?”

“My name isn’t young lady. It’s McKenzie Youngblood and I’m a process server. The Paulson City Courthouse sent me here.” She pulled a thick manila envelope out of her briefcase and dropped it unceremoniously on the marble table. “You’re being sued by your former patients. Rough treatment, suppression of rights, unnecessary procedures, lengthy incarceration with no due process of any kind…you’re in deep trouble, Dr. Killian. It’s your right and your responsibility to contact the courthouse within a week of receiving these papers. Otherwise, the case will go on without you. Any questions?”

Dr. Killian’s sarcastically pleasant demeanor turned to silent rage as he rifled through the papers and read them hurriedly. “Psychiatric patients don’t have rights. This case will never stick.”

“Well, then I guess you have nothing to worry about, Doctor.” McKenzie leaned forward and said, “And I use that term loosely.”

Slamming the papers on the table, Dr. Killian, without raising his voice, seethed as he said, “Our facility is one of the best in the country. We are the good guys. We’re not the ones committing heinous acts on the street. We’re not the ones making life difficult for our loved ones. These patients are here because they deserve to be here. They’re a threat to society. How dare you question my methods!”

“Technically, I don’t have to stand here and have a debate with you. I could just walk out of this hospital and tell the judges you were served. But I’ve got to know something before I head out. When was the last time these patients have seen the summer sun? When was the last time they’ve had visitors? When was the last time they’ve had love or kindness of any sort? I know how this place works. Beatings, lobotomies, electroshock, repeat. Beatings, lobotomies, electroshock, repeat. Day after day, every hour on the hour. This isn’t a hospital. It’s a death camp, especially for minorities and women, which make up eighty percent of your patient roster.”

Dr. Killian stood up and slammed his palms on the table, still maintaining his silent anger. “We use those methods because they work. They’re the only thing that will. Crazy people don’t learn any other way. They don’t listen to reason. They don’t comprehend order and decency. They don’t live in our reality. If we don’t do this to them, the world will. These patients should be thankful for the lessons we teach them. Instead, they want to make a few bucks off of us and complain about us to the liberal media. If anybody should feel oppressed right now, it’s me and my staff!”

McKenzie leaned in closer until she was almost touching noses with Dr. Killian. She did her best to contain her own anger as she told him, “You’d better hope the judges and jury buy into your twisted propaganda. If not, then you’ve got a shit storm on your hands, buster. Who knows? Maybe this dump will be closed once and for all. Good luck with your trial.” Just as she was turning around, Dr. Killian grabbed hold of her wrist, his bony fingers barely making a dent in her thick skin. “You have three seconds to pull your hand away and then I’m whipping out the pepper spray.”

“Okay, Miss Youngblood. You win. You can have a tighter grip if you prefer that.” Upon releasing his clasp, Dr. Killian pointed his elongated, creepy finger at the door to his office.

McKenzie turned around and saw two beefy orderlies standing there with their arms folded and their faces fixed in death stares. “Great idea, Dr. Killian,” she said. “You can have yet another lawsuit on your hands and hemorrhage money like no tomorrow. You tell these orderlies to back off or I’m taking your ass to court.”

Dr. Killian whispered into her ear, “What good is a lawsuit…if you can’t even make it to the courthouse? You think you’re the only one to serve me papers lately? You think you’re the only one who’s trying to sue me? We’re not just doctors and nurses. We’re magicians. We make lawsuits…disappear.” He licked her ear hole to punctuate his last point.

She turned around to try and slap him, but he ducked out of the way and allows his orderlies to grab her tightly by both arms. McKenzie struggled and fought while screaming curses at her captors, but their grips would only serve to leave purple bruises on her arms later on. They bent her over the table and yanked her hair so that she was facing Dr. Killian, who glared at her with ophidian eyes.

“Nobody’s taking my money away,” snarled Dr. Killian. “We’re making enough of it as it is. Turns out locking people up is quite the lucrative business. The more patients we’ve got, the richer we all are. It’s basic economics.” He leaned his face close to McKenzie’s. “You’d have to be crazy to stand up to capitalism. So crazy, in fact…you’d need your own padded cell.” With the orderlies’ hands firmly behind McKenzie’s neck, Dr. Killian planted a sloppy tongue kiss on her lips and slammed her forehead against the table.

McKenzie’s head swam as she was roughly dropped to the ground. Sparkling stars and colorful clouds filled her vision as darkness threatened to overtake her. She tried to stand up on her own two feet, but her legs and arms felt like rubber. Any last chance of rebellion was snuffed away when an orderly kicked her in the skull and sent her on a one-way ticket to dreamland.

It felt like an eternity since she slipped into unconscious hell. Waking up from it proved to be an even bigger drain on her body. She tried to wiggle around yet again, but leather straps held her horizontally against a metal table. She tried to yell for help, but her lips were held together with what appeared to be medical tape. Despite being in bondage, she never stopped struggling, especially when Dr. Killian’s hazy image swirled into view.

“Fighting isn’t going to make things better, Miss Youngblood. Or should I say, Patient #855341. Why fight something you have absolutely no control over? Why keep fighting and expecting different results? That is the true definition of insanity. You’ll eventually leave this place like any other patient of mine. How soon depends on your ability to conform to my rules.

From this point going forward, you will do what I say. You will think the way I tell you to think. You will be cured of your insanity. Your brain is mine to play with. Your body is mine to puppeteer. It’s crazy to rebel against basic human order. It’s crazy to think you’re capable of winning. It’s crazy to bring a can of pepper spray to a gunfight.”

As soon as Dr. Killian dangled the can of pepper spray in front of McKenzie’s face, she opened her mouth as wide as she could and ripped the tape off that way. She spit in Dr. Killian’s face before taking deep breaths and trying to relax for the horror she would have to endure.

He smiled, wiped the spit off with his finger, and sucked it down like maple syrup. McKenzie shivered in disgust before Dr. Killian grabbed her by the throat and squeezed as hard as he could.

As she gagged, wheezed, and struggled for oxygen, Dr. Killian held the spray bottle to her eyes and laughed maniacally as he pulled the trigger. Except instead of a blizzard of hot chemicals, he got a beeping noise. He slowly let go of the chokehold and allowed McKenzie to cough violently and regain her breath.

Dr. Killian studied the device even further, his face growing more and more confused. He glared at the bottle before peeling the label off and seeing that the pepper spray was actually a beacon.

“What? You thought the courthouse wasn’t going to investigate their own process servers going missing? In about five minutes, the cops are coming to tear this place apart. You could have taken your blood money and paid off your patients like a good corporate stooge. You could have kept this quiet. But you made this shit personal and it’s going to get as loud as a motherfucker up in here!” McKenzie smiled as the words and rage dripped from her mouth.

It didn’t take five minutes. Sirens blasting off in the distance echoed throughout the room and Dr. Killian paced back and forth in nervousness. “No, no, no, no, no! I’m supposed to be the good guy in this story! I’m doing God’s work!”

“Sorry, Dr. Killian…but it’s crazy to rebel against the system,” said McKenzie with a wink.

“Okay, Mrs. Black Lives Matter! Okay, you Snowflake Justice Warrior! You want to be a martyr?! I’ll make you a martyr!” Dr. Killian pulled shock pads from the sides of the table and electrocuted McKenzie’s brain. She could feel her insides droop. She could feel her face fall off. She could feel her brain melting like butter on mashed potatoes. Her eyes popped out of her skull at one point. But she never lost that smile no matter how many volts of electricity she was subjected to. Why would she? It was hard to frown at the prospect of justice being served. She was a process server, after all.