The Anti-Garrison: He's Like the Antichrist, But For Me, Garrison

 

Every bully and abuser I've ever had is a brainwashed cult member. The Anti-Garrison is their god.

Metropolis of Mediocrity

VERSE 1

No hobbies for you, just the red, white, and blue

Say the Pledge of Allegiance ‘til Satan is defeated

Punch-down comedians in an idiot contest

Take Pink Floyd and George Carlin out of context

They say the seven words and still need an education

Egocentric minds trained to recognize one nation

The rest of the world is outside of the bubble

Cross the borderline and you’re in biblical trouble

 

CHORUS

Metropolis of mediocrity

Miles away from the bluest blue cities

Break free from the doomer mindset

The key to your chains costs the same as your rent

 

VERSE 2

Romantic dinner at Dairy Dan’s

Movie at Yardbirds, holding calloused hands

Those wounds tell the story of religious abuse

You could call 9-1-1, but it’s just old news

Bringing her baggage into your union of love

The eyes of her god are watching from above

Say the words “I do” on your wedding day

You’re too young for this shit, barely older than eight

 

CHORUS

Metropolis of mediocrity

Miles away from the bluest blue cities

Break free from the doomer mindset

The key to your chains costs the same as your rent

 

VERSE 3

A new city and a new abode

Finally free, but stuck in fight or flight mode

You ran from your trauma, but you kept the pain

Forever a prisoner of a malfunctioning brain

The new friends you make don’t last forever

They can’t help you with the ties you must sever

Create your own greatness, but they call it ego

Show vulnerability and they call you emo

 

EXTENDED CHORUS

Metropolis of mediocrity

Miles away from the bluest blue cities

Break free from the doomer mindset

The key to your chains costs the same as your rent

You can run all you want, but hiding’s not an option

The cycle ends here, because only you can stop it

Enough is enough is a mantra, not a cliché

The next generation learns from how you behave

 

OUTRO

You take your stories to the grave!

Those lessons make the children brave!

Let them learn their own worth!

Greatness is a gift from the day of their birth!

Femcel Fatale

VERSE 1 (FEMCEL)

“I can’t play a game of Magic worth a good goddamn

But I bet you’re just dying to know who I am

I’m the woman of your dreams, the very worst kind

Let my demonic image burn right into your mind

What’s your telephone number? I like to talk a lot

Tell you all my dark secrets so spicy and hot

You’re coming with me if you’re ready or not

This is red dead city, you just might get shot”

 

PRE-CHORUS 1 (FEMCEL & ME)

“Hey! You gave me the wrong phone number!”

You want to know why? I’ll tell you why…

 

CHORUS (ME)

‘Cause you’re a creep

You’re a weirdo

What the hell are you doing here?

You don’t belong here

 

VERSE 2 (FEMCEL)

“Let’s go to Mickey D’s for our platonic date

But “platonic” and “no” are the words that I hate

The two of us can split a small Shamrock Shake

Only got one straw, my germs are yours to take

But you got your own straw to save your chiseled jaw

I got a blackbelt in judo and I’ll wrestle you raw

Sorry for the information, it’s a normal conversation

One dirty thought away from craving masturbation”

 

PRE-CHORUS 2 (FEMCEL & ME)

“Well…I had fun today!”

That makes one of us, my non-babe

 

CHORUS (ME)

‘Cause you’re a creep

You’re a weirdo

What the hell are you doing here?

You don’t belong here

 

VERSE 3 (FEMCEL)

“It’s been months since we talked, where the hell’s my body chalk?

I want to kill every man on this earth that still walks

I got a new man who puts up with my bigotry

I like to wax poetic about all men’s idiocy

I’m a perfect little princess who can do no wrong

Unlike that lady Chyna who cut off her own shlong

I’ll keep running my mouth forever and a day

You want my first amendment rights? Come take them away”

 

PRE-CHORUS 3 (FEMCEL & ME)

“Come on, sit next to me on the couch!”

No thanks, I’d rather sit on a pin cushion

 

CHORUS (ME)

‘Cause you’re a creep

You’re a weirdo

What the hell are you doing here?

You don’t belong here

 

OUTRO (ME)

We’ll see each other again

Just kidding, you hate men

You’re not a feminist hero

You got a fan base of zero

Couldn’t find you with a Google search

You must have fucked off the face of the earth

Nothing of value was lost

Except for my sanity, it’s a heavy cost

The Chehalis Video Store Incident

 A few years ago, I got rid of my VHS copy of Pink Floyd the Wall in a bout of spring cleaning. It’s currently sitting in a thrift shop somewhere waiting to be bought if it hasn’t already been. If you asked me about this back in the mid-90’s, I wouldn’t have thought that the movie would end up being one of my favorites of all time. Never mind the fact that I was a pre-teen in the mid-90’s and The Wall is an R-rated movie (for good reason). Then again, I never cared about age limits and neither did my parents. But this isn’t a story about being too young to watch an R-rated movie, no, no, no. After all, there are certain movies that disturb the shit out of the audience regardless of how old they are, examples of which include The Human Centipede, Hostel, Saw, and of course, Pink Floyd the Wall.

Papier-mâché masks with two holes for the eyes and one hole for the mouth. If you were a character from The Wall and you wore one of these, it meant you lost your individuality and were successfully bent to the will of your corporate masters. It also meant you were going to eventually be ground into hamburger meat so that you’ll look even LESS distinguishable from your conformist peers. The masks alone could make you question your love for cheese. The hamburger scene will make you into a permanent vegetarian. And that’s just one music video! The Union Jack morphing into a bloody cross will make you question what kind of sauce is covering your meatball sub. A crudely-drawn monster morphing into a literal and figurative giant asshole? If that happened in 2020, the toilet paper would be gone long before the pandemic.

But long before the movie even starts, your formerly untainted eyes will feast upon the artwork on the cover: a screaming face with an excessively wide mouth, a bloody chin, a bloody shoulder, hideous dental work, and a blue background that will make you question your need to ever drink water again. I dare you to find this artwork and give it a big old smooch. Go on! I dare you! Chicken! Wait a minute…did I say chicken? Was I being a hypocrite just now? I would have been if it was the mid-90’s. Pink Floyd the Wall and its artwork terrified the shit out of me during that time. My limbs would shake. The color would drain from my face. My blood would go cold at the mere suggestion of watching that movie. One time my leg shook while I was resting my foot on the bed and tying my shoe.

Every time my mom and dad took me and my brother to Sight and Sound Video Store in Chehalis, Washington, there was always the looming threat of somebody wanting to rent Pink Floyd the Wall and subjecting me to the horrors within. But why would I want to admit to being scared of it when Pink Floyd was one of my favorite bands at the time? Sure, I grew up in a progressive family, but that didn’t mean I didn’t feel at least some obligation to hide my fear from those around me. Besides, my family wasn’t the only influence in my life. My classmates at Chehalis Middle School would have caught wind of it if I let the cat out of the bag. My family is progressive, Chehalis is not. Macho conservatism was the norm in this god forsaken town. Any weakness on display was mocked and ridiculed until the end of time, giving way for even more weaknesses to be revealed by proxy.

One day at Sight and Sound, the secret came within razor-thin closeness of being out. It didn’t help matters that on the back wall of the video store, there was a big fucking Pink Floyd the Wall poster with that disgusting, hideous face looking down upon everybody who dared enter the store. I kept my head tucked low and hurried to the kids section where my eyes could be averted. What would I rent that wasn’t the world’s scariest rock opera? The Three Stooges? Donald Duck? Mickey Mouse? Dick Tracy? Before I could make my official decision, my parents come up to me and tell me that Sight and Sound is selling CD’s and T-shirts in the back of the store, which was in direct eye-contact with the vomit-inducing face.

My mother read my emotions like a book despite my best efforts to hide them. The color draining from my face, the sad expression, the dewy eyes, the beating cold sweat, they all prompted my mom to finally ask…“What’s wrong?” This was my opportunity to bear my soul and to “break down the walls” so to speak. This was the friendlier version of Gerald Scarfe’s judge telling me to expose my feelings to the world. But instead, the conversation went like this:

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You look sad.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I’M FINE!”

The conversation kept going on and on with “I’m fine” and “what’s wrong?” responses until I reluctantly agreed to go with dad to the back of the store to check out their CD’s and T-shirts. I stared that Pink Floyd poster right in the face and was ready to melt into a puddle…until I didn’t. The nasty-looking face no longer had control over me. But why? Why the sudden loss of fear? Was I exposed to it so many times that it became meaningless? Was this truly the Law of Diminishing Returns? Whatever it was, I looked at Pink Floyd CD’s and T-shirts with Dad regardless. Surprise, surprise, my dad wanted a T-shirt with the screaming face on it and it still didn’t melt me like a snowflake. Would I eventually feel this kind of courage towards the putty-faced masks in the actual movie? I wasn’t about to press my luck, so we didn’t rent it.

I thought that would have been the end of that. We’d get our movies, CD’s, and T-shirts and then get the fuck out of there. But then the four of us ate at a Chinese restaurant across the street from Sight and Sound. It’s amazing that I still had an appetite for Chinese food considering everything I just went through. We were sipping on our drinks waiting for the food to arrive when my mom asked…

“What happened to you in the video store?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“You were walking with your head down when we went into the store. Was somebody picking on you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“NOTHING IS WRONG! I’M FINE!”

She seemed intent on asking me over and over again until I spilled the beans. At this point it wasn’t a mother asking about the welfare of her son. It felt more like an interrogation. We even had the hot lamp above our table to complete the effect. But I kept on denying that anything was wrong until the conversation ran its course. She even shushed me when I got too loud, but I stood my ground. “Nothing is wrong! I’m fine! I’m not sad! Nobody was picking on me!”

In a town full of gun control opponents, I dodged the biggest bullet of them all. But what would have happened if I admitted to being afraid of Pink Floyd the Wall and its movie artwork? Would I have been forbidden from going to see Roger Waters in 2000? Would I have been labeled a wuss by everyone around me? Would the bullying I experienced in my freshman year of high school have been worse than it already was? The latter might have been true since I solved all of my disputes at the time with violence and screaming. Wusses and violence don’t exactly go hand-in-hand, after all.

But an even bigger consequence to admitting my crippling fear was that Pink Floyd the Wall wouldn’t go on to become my favorite movie of all time. I wouldn’t have received that message of protecting my individuality at all costs. I would have blindly believed anybody who told me my creativity was no good. I would have stumbled into mediocrity and not given two shits about it. Think of all the TV shows, movies, and books I would have missed out on if I admitted to being afraid all the time and allowed authority figures and bullies to tell me how to think. I might not even have a writing career if that was the case. I could have received the “be yourself” message from any piece of media, but where else was I going to get it from that had “Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2” playing in the background? The music spoke to me and so did the movie.

I’m not saying that everyone should keep their fears a secret all the time. That’s just what I did and I may have done some serious damage to my psyche by doing that. Not admitting fear is the same as not admitting other things in life such as being bullied, being abused, being mentally ill, being in pain, or god knows what else. Silence is your worst enemy in a world where everyone wants to tell you what to believe and how to think. If you don’t think for yourself, there are plenty of Hitlers out there who are willing to tell you what life is all about. If you don’t stand up for what you believe, there are plenty of drunken spouses out there who will beat it into your brain, literally and figuratively. Stand for something…or you’ll fall for anything…right into a sausage grinder!

Are You Alive?

OPENING LINE
You owe it to society to be better than your tormentors, not worse.

VERSE 1
Remember when I was fourteen years old?
You and your friends took away my soul
You cracked some jokes about my pole
Lied about me sticking it in the ugliest holes
The conspiracy spread throughout school
Believed by every white bread redneck fool
And to this day I’ll always wonder
If you can still hear my voice of thunder

CHORUS 1
Are you alive or are you dead?
Why are you renting space in my head?
Am I insane or was I right all along?
When do I get to be the hero so strong?

VERSE 2
Remember when the year was 2003?
I had stars in my eyes, a head full of dreams
But all I remember about that year
Was your insults buzzing in my ear
Grew up believing I would never be loved
By a man to whom I shouldn’t have looked up
And to this day I’ll always ask
Why your words always poured from your ass

CHORUS 2
Are you alive or are you dead?
I’d rather you were the latter instead
Am I crazy or do I have a point?
Was this all just a combat boot to the groin?

BRIDGE
I’m so tired of your excuses
I’m so tired of feeling useless
Break the cycle of my abuses
So I can finally hear the music

VERSE 3
Remember when the year was 2009?
Everybody moved on, left me behind
I’m sick of hearing, “Get a life!”
From those who stabbed my back with a knife
I can’t move on and follow my ambitions
Got a bottle of pills and shitty nutrition
And to this day I’ll sit and wait
For the world to give up on its hate

CHORUS 3
Are we alive or are we dead?
Do we lie awake in our beds?
Am I nuts or is it true
That I grew up to be like you?

Large Groups of Characters

***LARGE GROUPS OF CHARACTERS***

“The Way-Back Machine is all warmed up, Mr. Peabody!”

Good boy, Sherman. Now let’s go back to the late 1990’s in Chehalis, Washington, where I was a pre-teen playing Dungeons & Dragons with a large group of my brother’s friends. Pay close attention to the “large group” part of that last sentence. It didn’t matter if I was a level one human fighter with a true neutral attitude. It didn’t matter if my character was destined to become a badass somewhere down the line. That prophecy never came to fruition in this particular role-play. You want to know what my character did? You want to know what his big contribution to the experience was? Smashing a whiskey barrel over somebody’s head. That’s it. End of story. The rest of the role-playing session was a whole lot of jack shit. Whenever the DM asked me what I wanted to do next, I’d just languidly say, “Go with them.”

From that day forward, I only agreed to D&D sessions with small groups of people or strictly one-on-one with the DM. When too many characters invade one story, there’s not enough room for them to get their shit in. They get shoved to the background in favor of others. There’s no room for development. Or in my case, all I got to do was smash a wooden barrel over somebody’s head…and not a goddamn thing more. Whenever I write novels, I always make sure to keep my protagonists down to a manageable number like two or three. That way, everybody gets a chance at character development in the relatively small space that constitutes the word count benchmark for novellas. Bigger adventuring parties are designed for works that are longer. Me? I don’t have the mental endurance to write something long enough to include an army of three-dimensional characters.

This heavy burden of characters is something often seen in professional wrestling as well, not just with books and movies. It’s one of the reasons why the WWE Divas Revolution was so poorly received in 2015. Nine women had to share X minutes of TV time, which means nobody got developed, nobody had any real motivations, nobody had personality, and there was no real end game to it all. To put it bluntly, it was a cluster fuck that resulted in the Wrestling Observer Newsletter giving it a Worst Feud of the Year award. It also placed second in that year’s list of Most Disgusting Promotional Tactics and third in the list of Worst Gimmicks. There’s only so much TV time to go around, which means smaller groups take priority if there’s ever a chance at character development.

Of course, not all characters have to be three-dimensional. Some characters were designed to be extras and that’s okay. But if you’re going to make a character an extra, be prepared for the lack of emotional investment that comes with it. A mass slaughter of innocent civilians doesn’t hold nearly as much weight in a Marvel or DC movie as the death of a character the audience actually cares about. The more you care, the more it will hurt. Why do you think people in real life get choked up about family members dying, but won’t blink an eye at an elderly celebrity passing the pearly gates? Celebrities are nice, but they’re not as connected to us as our truly loved ones. The same logic applies with stories where there’s a large number of protagonists.

Having said these things, I can still think of a few examples where it’s okay to care about big groups of people. In “The Savior’s Champion” by Jenna Moreci, there are twenty combatants in the Sovereign’s Tournament. You know they will eventually die per the rules of the game, but when they do, it’ll hurt worse than a Kaleo knee to the ribcage. Then again, that novel is at least five hundred pages long, so Ms. Moreci has given herself a lot of space to work with. Same thing with the old SNES videogame Final Fantasy VI. It takes weeks to beat, which means a large group of playable characters can thrive in that environment. You’ll care about Sabin Figaro. You’ll give more than two shits about Mog. You’ll give lots of flying fucks about Cyan Garamonde. Please do play that game if you’re into the classics. What about Lord of the Rings? Well, each movie in the trilogy is three butt-numbing hours long. You think that’s more than enough time to develop a big ass group of characters? Fuck yeah it is!

But if it’s really dependent on the length of the story, then why don’t I just write longer stories? Why can’t Beautiful Monster be 100,000 words instead of 45,000? Because a story’s completion has nothing to do with how long it is. Yes, it’s a shorter novella, but it’s a complete story. Even in its early draft phase, it has a beginning, middle, and end. The two main protagonists, Windham Xavier and Tarja Rikkinen, are only two people, which means they get lots of time to develop and grow as characters. Everybody else can claim the spotlight for themselves because my main character roster isn’t that big. But why not make my story longer and include more characters? Does it really need more characters? Can the few that I have not carry the story on their own? Besides, like I mentioned before, I don’t have the mental endurance to write longer stories. I’d be nice if I had it, but superpowers aren’t really a thing yet, so I’ll have to stick to the short stuff.

So the moral of the story is, if you want people to care about your large group of characters, make sure your medium is long enough for their individual developments. It can be done, but not by me, because I don’t feel the need to stretch myself beyond my means. The same will apply to any Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run in the future: the smaller the group, the smaller the headaches. Everybody will get their shit in. They’ll mean more to my fictional world than smashing a whiskey barrel over somebody’s head. This isn’t a WWE battle royal with a bloated roster full of tainted characters. This is creative writing. Although, if Vince McMahon (who gets the last word on WWE’s creative processes) wrote a novel of any kind, I’d want to read it just because I can’t avert my eyes from a train wreck. I’m Garrison Kelly! Happy Thanksgiving! Eat lots of turkey! I know I will!

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

(Circa 2013)

JAMES: Hey Garrison, why are you being pissy?

GARRISON: I’m not!

JAMES: You’re being pissy.

GARRISON: I’M NOT!

JAMES: Yes, you are, you’re being very pissy.

GARRISON: I’m not!

JAMES: Come on, Garrison, be happy, get excited.

GARRISON: About what?

JAMES: I don’t know. Life.

GARRISON: Can I be excited about that cardboard box over there?

JAMES: Sure, why not?

***POST-SCRIPT***

True story: I told my Face Book followers that I was going to the Regal Cinemas today to watch A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. I backed out at the last minute, because the entire day I was feeling grumpier than usual. I snapped at everything and expended a lot of physical energy screaming at little shit. But that’s okay, because it’ll still play Saturday night when all of the Thanksgiving and Black Friday hoo-ha has died down.

The Last Child Comedian

***BEFORE I BEGIN***

Just a quick heads up to readers of Beautiful Monster: chapter eleven will be featured exclusively on Wattpad and nowhere else due to its strong sexual content. You won’t need a trigger warning this time, because the sex will be consensual (and maybe a little pornographic, depending on my own personal knowledge of sex). This chapter has been a long time coming, though it’s only the beginning of a much larger story of recovery and sensitivity.

***THE LAST CHILD COMEDIAN***

Many of you already know this, but when it comes to my sense of humor and my writing, George Carlin has always been one of my biggest influences. He swears like a sailor, he’s unafraid of being censored, he’s poignant as hell, and best of all, he’s funnier than a motherfucker. Speaking of which, “A father is a motherfucker.” That’s a direct line from George Carlin and it got my laugh motor going at the time. Thank god he came into my life when he did, because my sense of humor was suffering as an early teenager slash little kid.

Before Curious George became part of my comedic repertoire, I had guys like Johnny Carson and Benny Hill giving me my fill. There’s nothing wrong with either of those two comedians, but there was something wrong with the way I’ve processed their jokes into my own creativity. They told a lot of adult jokes that I wasn’t old enough to get yet, so all I had was their G-rated material. And from those jokes came some…questionable material on my part.

I knew it was questionable because when I told these manufactured jokes to my dad and brother, they didn’t laugh. Quite frankly, I don’t blame them. Want to hear my version of Jeff Foxworthy? Prepare to cringe hard. “If you fly all the way to Big Ben just to see what time it is, you might be a redneck.” Good god almighty. What the fuck? You think that’s awful, listen to this: “Why don’t criminals use pens? Because they might go to jail (pen as in penitentiary)”. Ugh. I’m cringing just writing these jokes down.

But it didn’t stop there. In fact, it got progressively worse. I’m sure my older brother remembers the infamous “Buttered Toast Shop” routine. It told the fictional story of a crabby restaurant owner with a lisp who only served buttered toast at his establishment. You couldn’t order anything else, not jam, not peanut butter, not even water. Just buttered toast. You also couldn’t dress like Wonder Woman in his diner because he’ll accuse you of wearing a diaper instead of a one-piece suit. I’ll let you all shiver for a few seconds before I continue.

And then there was a routine about a fat black guy named Tiny winning a vacation to Hawaii. Only he didn’t pronounce it the way people normally do. He pronounced it “Hwy.” That’s it. That’s the punch line for this whole joke. People would constantly try to correct him, but he just kept calling it “Hwy”, so he had his vacation revoked. I bet some alternative right motherfuckers would eat this shit up, but not my brother, who rightfully told me that my sense of humor was for little babies.

And then it got worse once again. My next routine was about an airline traveler who wanted to go to Japan, but kept getting his ass kicked by ninjas. In fact, the ninjas told him in a butchered sing-song accent, “We are the Japanese ninjas and we’re going to kick your butt!” Okay, so just don’t go to Japan. Problem solved. But then this traveler kept going to other countries and getting his ass kicked by ninjas. “We are the [Insert Foreign Country Here] ninjas and we’re going to kick your butt!” Even when he was on an airplane over the Pacific Ocean, he’d still get his ass kicked by international ninjas. Not one laugh. Not one goddamn laugh was earned that day. I can’t imagine why. Oh, excuse me. I can’t imagine “hwy”.

I didn’t watch my first George Carlin HBO special until I was fifteen years old. It was a VHS version of “Doing It Again”, where he talks about euphemisms, politically correct language, dog turds, and anything else that would make the censors rip their hair out. I watched these comedy bits and I thought to myself, “I want to do that!” So I took myself over to The Matrix Coffeehouse in Chehalis, Washington and performed George Carlin routines from memory. “If crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fires, what do freedom fighters fight?” And of course, some wiseass from the crowd just had to yell, “Freedom!” Even so, I probably got more laughs doing this than I would have talking about a fictional Buttered Toast Shop.

It was from that George Carlin special along with the movie Pink Floyd the Wall that gave me my strong sense of individuality. I could crack offensive jokes and listen to devilish music without ever once caring what other people thought of me. I still take that nonconformist attitude into my adult life, though I’ve calmed down just a little bit during those lengthy years. Thank you, George, for bringing me the mental emancipation I needed from dull G-rated comedy that makes no goddamn sense. He’s been dead for a whole decade now, but I still keep his comedy close to my heart.

The lesson for the day: if you must process creative fuel and form your personal identity around it, don’t let anybody tell you you can’t do this or you can’t do that. Do what feels right to you. Do what makes you happy. Unless you’re a serial killer, in which case, you should probably surrender yourself to the authorities. Other than that, try not to crack under the pressures of society. They don’t care about you and your dreams. They only care about keeping the machine moving, a machine which grinds individuality into pieces of homogenous meat. I told you Pink Floyd the Wall had a strong influence on me! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***COMEDY ROUTINE OF THE DAY***

“Let’s take a look at some of these food words, particularly “old-fashioned”. When you hear the words “old-fashioned”, you’re supposed to think, “Oh, this goes back to the old days!” Right! The old days! Before we had sanitation laws. Before hygiene became popular. When botulism was still considered to be a sauce. Old-fashioned is supposed to give you a warm feeling. It makes you think about your grandma. Well, I don’t know about you, but when I’m picking out food, I don’t want to picture ninety pounds of wrinkles in a black dress…with a big hairy mole sticking out…and an infected lip.”

-George Carlin, 1937-2008-

#MeToo

***ME TOO***

In the wake of the Harvey Weinstein sexual assault scandals, there’s a hashtag going around called #MeToo, where women share their stories of sexual harassment/assault whether it’s in the workplace, public life, school, the streets, or home. As I’ve stated many times before, I don’t often give people a glimpse into my past because of my schizophrenia and how talking about it actually makes the numb feeling worse. But after seeing so many of my friends come out with stories like this, I feel empowered to talk about it as well. Granted, I’m not a woman, but this isn’t an issue exclusive to one gender. So now, I will recall for you, my lovely audience, the first time I’ve experienced sexual harassment.

I was fourteen years old and going to high school in Chehalis, Washington (where the big boys play, apparently). Every once and a while, the school would have Spirit Day, where students dress up in a certain couture to show their school spirit (which I had none of, because I fucking hated school). That day’s apparel was pajamas, which I didn’t wear. And because of this, a girl snuck up behind me and said, “Hey, where’re your pajamas today?” before grabbing my ass and laughing with her friend. I never turned around to see who did it and therefore couldn’t report anybody. Instead, all I had was a heedful of trauma and no way to get rid of the stress. I couldn’t concentrate on schoolwork or creative activities. Whenever I’d watch my favorite TV shows, I’d just blank out and forget what happened. I began to think that I was becoming gradually stupid because of this mind fuckery. As someone who prided myself on A’s and B’s, taking away my intelligence was personal to me. I wanted revenge, but with no face to direct my fists to, it never was.

It was the first time I’d been harassed, but not the last. My freshman year was based on beating the shit out of students who spread lies about me dating an ugly woman (not that there’s anything wrong with that, but a lie is a lie and sexual harassment is sexual harassment). Since then, I’ve been mooned by marines, hit on by fat gay guys, and stalked by ex-girlfriends. I won’t go into the intense details of those encounters, but they sucked just as badly as my first time. Even now as I type this, my prophecy about bad memories coming back is coming true. Hopefully, my audience will learn something from this and my self-triggering won’t be in vain.

But then there’s another reason why I was hesitant to write this: because I’d feel like a hypocrite if I did. In addition to being the victim of sexual harassment, I’ve also been an unintentional perpetrator. I never wanted to be that guy, but sometimes I’d crack an obscene joke that would make the people around me uncomfortable. I used to have a Deviant Art friend who photographed fetish models. Some of those accidentally stinging comments were directed at her and her models. We haven’t spoken since then. It’s the reason why I’m shy around women in the first place: I don’t want to offend them and become that monster again. Even something as simple as saying, “You’re beautiful” can be hurtful. I don’t like hurting people. I like being good to them and making them feel respected. For all the people I’ve offended with my comments, I’m sorry. I could say I’m sorry a thousand times, but it wouldn’t be enough for me. I’ve been in those shoes before and I don’t want to put anybody else in them.

Let these stories be a lesson to everybody out there. If someone tells you to stop, you’d better stop. If they’re not capable of telling you to stop, don’t cross that Moral Event Horizon and become the next Brock Turner. I’ve never crossed the Moral Event Horizon, but I still feel terrible every time I think about the women I’ve hurt with my crass jokes. Be careful about what you say and do to the people around you. Don’t become the next Harvey Weinstein or Donald Trump, two men who can never be forgiven for their sins. It’s not worth the heartache. It’s not worth the lack of concentration. It’s not worth feeling stupid over. Think before you speak, think before you act.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“From morning to night, I stayed out of sight. Didn’t recognize I’d become no more than alive. I’d barely survive. In a word, overrun. Won’t hear a sound from my mouth. I’ve spent too long on the inside-out. My skin is cold to the human touch. This bleeding heart’s not beating much. I’ve murmured a vow of silence and now I don’t even hear when I think aloud. Extinguished by light, I turn on the night when it’s darkness with an empty smile.

-Pink Floyd singing “Wearing the Inside Out”-

Research

***RESEARCH***

If you’re going to make a bold and loud statement, you’ve got to have research to back it up. Otherwise, you’ll get eaten alive by those debating your statement. This is especially true with historical fiction, especially if you don’t want your critics to accuse you of being inaccurate. And that right there is the reason why I don’t write historical fiction: not because I’m too lazy to do research, but because if I’m off by a one-percent margin of error, here come the internet wolves to dine on my flesh. Of course, there is an entire genre out there called alternative history, where you can purposefully rearrange the timeline to benefit your story, but even then, it’s a slippery slope.

So what constitutes good research? How do you know when you have enough information to make your statement? I’ve often heard the mantra that if everyone says it, it must be true. Lots of people thought Obama was born in Kenya, but that doesn’t mean it’s anywhere close to the truth. For one thing, your sources have to be reputable and independent. Then and only then can you use popular opinion, but only among those reputable sources.

But research doesn’t always have to be limited to writing historical fiction. Sometimes researching simple things like combat scenarios can greatly improve your story. Sometimes personal experience can play a huge factor. But if you’re going to research something and apply it to your story, the margin of error has to be razor thin. Otherwise, it’s feeding time, motherfuckers.

If I may be blunt for just one moment, research is my least favorite part of writing stories and novels. Sure, anybody can do it with a simple Google search and it’s actually pretty easy. It’s that razor thin margin of error that gets to me, though. That’s why most of my stories take place in the fictional locale of Paulson City. I can put anything I want in Paulson City and nobody’s going to question my imagination.

I suppose my stories could take place in Washington state, my personal home, but I’m not sure even my home sweet home could house all of the madness that goes on in my writing. A political rally in Port Orchard? Sure, if you can find people who give a shit. A heavy metal concert at The Matrix Coffeehouse in Chehalis? Do they even play that kind of music or is it just indie rock? Even if they did play metal at The Matrix, would that mean I’d have to role-play the people who own it? I’m sure they’d enjoy the shit out of that.

Paulson City is my own personal shield against those who want to chomp at my smooth skin. Anything can go on in this locale and usually does. Sunny beach parties? Sure. Political riots? Absolutely. Organized crime? Disorganized crime? Traffic jams backed up as far as the eye can see? Hell yeah it can happen in Paulson City! Irwin Gladden may be the Mayor, but make no mistake about it, I’m in charge of this city!

And whenever Paulson City becomes too realistic of a place for my Poison Tongue Tales adventures, I simply change the destination to Dread City. Cyberpunk corruption? Yes, yes, yes! Magical warfare? Damn right! Apocalyptic hell? Shit yeah! Paulson City may not be the ideal vacation spot, but Dread City is fucking unbearable! And that’s how I like it!

I’m sure many of you have wondered where exactly Paulson City is on an American map. Now you know for sure: it only exists in my head. There are no real world or historical inaccuracies because I make the fucking rules. I’ve got more high schools and colleges in that city than I know what the hell to do with. I’ve got mountains off to the side where people go to not only vacation, but also to die horrible deaths. Maybe one day I could draw a map of Paulson City and put all of these pieces together. Or I could just roll with it and keep putting odd places there.

I may have gotten off topic with that Paulson City rant. The real question I’m trying to ask is, how do you, my audience, make the margin of error so thin that you can’t even see it with the naked eye? Razor thin isn’t thin enough for me. Paper thin is even worse. Not even Cosmo Kramer’s meat cutting machine can get me the thinness I want. Other authors can pull it off, but I don’t know if I can. Then again, I could be paranoid about something not worth being paranoid over. Surely, lots of books out there have been disputed for accuracy and came out the other end smelling like roses. Oh, what now? Do roses not smell that good either? Damn that margin of error! We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***PAPER TOWNS***

As many of you have seen on my Good Reads page, the next novel I plan on plunging into is “Paper Towns” by John Green. I enjoyed reading “The Faults in Our Stars” and I expect “Paper Towns” to be just as heartbreaking. Yes, I know I’m a big softie, and I don’t care!

***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***

Now that all of my American Darkness 2 stories are complete and ready for critiques, I can concentrate solely on PTT2 and Lunatic Justice. The next story on the chopping block will be “Wal-Martians” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1.   Cain McLeod, Barbarian Hero

2.   Micah Fireborn, Paladin Hero

3.   Alexis Lee, Amazon Hero

4.   Sakura Divine, Priestess Captive

5.   Nameless Aliens

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: Wal-Mart has been taken over by an alien race and it’s up to the three Diablo II-style heroes to liberate it and free Sakura from captivity. Throughout this whole bloodbath (or goo-bath in this case), the heroes joke to each other by questioning how the alien invasion is any different from how Wal-Mart usually looks.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

If you’re looking forward to drawings of Cain, Micah, and Alexis, know that I’ve already drawn them several years ago when they were Diablo II characters. Cain was then known as Cannonball. His name was changed because I didn’t want two stories in PTT2 with cannonball themes in them. I have a short story named Wolf’s Cannonball, so I don’t need a barbarian in Wal-Martians named Cannonball. For the Dark Fantasy Warriors series, I’ll draw Sakura Divine since she hasn’t had a picture yet. How does that sound?

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

Most of my fictional stories take place in the made-up locale of Paulson City. Sometimes the problems in these stories have to be solved by the Paulson City Police Department, a.k.a. the PCPD. So basically, criminals in my story are being arrested by…the PC Police. By PC, I mean Paulson City. What did you think it stood for? And while I’m at it, I’ll start a wrestling organization in California called San Jose Wrestling, which initials spell the acronym…oh, dear. Hehe!

Angel of Chehalis

VERSE 1

In the city of burning crosses

We’ve suffered so many losses

In the town of blind-eye bosses

We were figuring out the causes

But you were the one constant

As I laid down watching for comets

Could you be the Angel of Chehalis?

Would stealing your kiss be tasteless?

CHORUS

You made me believe in love

When I gave up and had enough

You brought me out of the dark

Angel of Chehalis, take my heart

VERSE 2

You flew away in the dead of night

Deprived this city of your radiant light

I carried my burden with all my might

It’s my cross to bear, no love to share

I walked the earth, but saw no sign

Of the angel from the burning ley line

Are you still the Angel of Chehalis?

Or has this damn city left you jaded?

CHORUS

You made me believe in love

When I gave up and had enough

You brought me out of the dark

Angel of Chehalis, take my heart

VERSE 3

Finding heaven in the strangest places

Finding angels in the saddest faces

Finding the living in permanent stasis

Finding the dead lonely and wasted

In the city of burning crosses

I walk away and cut my losses

Until we meet again, Angel of Chehalis

Until this world is a photograph faded

EXTENDED CHORUS

You made me believe in love

When I gave up and had enough

You brought me out of the dark

Angel of Chehalis, take my heart

Take my body, take my soul

Take my mind, take total control

Fill the chasms and the black holes

Why must this memory take its toll?

Liars and Thieves

VERSE 1

You spread lies like you spread your legs

Giving it all away free to anyone who begs

Libel is your bible and fraud is your god

Yet you wonder why you’re a lightning rod

Well placed punches never shut you up

You drink in sympathy like a coffee cup

Everyone is eating out of your filthy hands

Lies and rumors are the laws of the land

CHORUS

Liars and thieves! People to believe!

Thieves and liars! Slander for hire!

Gather around the cult of personality!

He chokes on bullshit ever so laughably!

VERSE 2

Reputations ruined and lives shattered

Spirits broken and psychologies battered

Brains feel number than a shot of Novocain

Hearts feel crushed underneath the pain

Weaponizing words is an act of war

You’re an iron dictator to the deepest core

Weaponizing fists is an act of revenge

Nobody stops until everyone is dead

CHORUS

Liars and thieves! People to believe!

Thieves and liars! Slander for hire!

Gather around the cult of personality!

He chokes on bullshit ever so laughably!

VERSE 3

A cold jail cell is the last circle of hell

The result of the fighting after the bell

The high school became a boxing ring

The final punch has dethroned the king

Justice or revenge? What’s the difference?

One takes longer and the other is instant

The road to hell is paved with bitter blood

There is no exit ramp to lead you to love

EXTENDED CHORUS

Liars and thieves! People to believe!

Thieves and liars! Slander for hire!

Gather around the cult of personality!

He chokes on bullshit ever so laughably!

The truth alone never freed anybody!

When no one even bothers to study!

Everybody wants to plant the seeds!

Of ignorance for the liars and thieves!

FINAL LINE

Coming up next on Celebrity Bullshit: this Hollywood stud fucked an entire village of mentally challenged trolls! More news at eleven. Here’s Stacy with the weather.

Common Dreams

***COMMON DREAMS***

Ever since I started using my CPAP breathing machine in the summer of this year, I’ve had a harder time remembering my dreams. That’s probably because my dreams were either about weird ass competitions I was in or scenarios that would make good novels but only in the dream and not in the real world. Those are the only two types of dreams I have difficulty remembering. While this is normal for people who use a CPAP, there have been nights where my dreams were as clear as day. I don’t talk about my dreams as often as I used to. I used to do dream posts all the time on my blog Garrison’s Library, but what those amounted to was a bunch of boo-hooing that they didn’t involve sex or having a girlfriend. Hey, I was lonely and didn’t know what to do with my life, give me a break. Thankfully, I won’t subject you guys to any of that shallow whining. Tonight’s journal entry will be about common themes in the dreams I can actually remember. I don’t know what they mean or why they keep coming up, but I can assure you that it has nothing to do with my deep rooted desire to have a romantic relationship with a female rock star. Let’s get started.

1. Air Travel. My parents take a lot of vacations and sometimes I tag along with them. Some of them involved air travel, such as New Orleans, Hawaii, California, Colorado, or New Mexico. Maybe I keep dreaming about boarding airplanes because of these experiences. It used to be that I would feel anxious while having one of these dreams because I’d forget to pack my schizophrenia medication. Not the case anymore.
2. Cats. I’d move either way from an old house or into a new one and both times there were cats I’d have to take care of. Lots of cats. Orange cats, black cats, calicoes, marmalades, tuxedos, lots of goddamn cats. I once had a WSS member named Mark ask why he was more weirded out by me being a crazy cat man than after any reading of my violent short stories. I laugh about it every time I read that comment, because it was intended to be good natured. But now I think maybe he has a point. Hehe!
3. Chehalis. I’ve lived in the small conservative town of Chehalis, Washington from 1996 to 2001. While I don’t look back on this time in my life favorably, the dreams I’ve had about this town were noteworthy in many ways. I’ve dreamed about buying prostitutes, having a library job, visiting my childhood friends Winn and Duncan, catching a bus ride, searching for my childhood friend Nathan, and wandering through the apocalypse. If the apocalypse was really going to happen, it would definitely happen in Chehalis. Trust me on that one.
4. Concerts. It mattered not who was playing and it mattered even less where they were playing. In my dreamland, I’ve been to a Three Days Grace concert that took place in a college classroom. I’ve been to a Roger Waters concert at a stone-built temple. I’ve been to a Rammstein concert at both a Chinese restaurant and a roller skating rink. I’ve been to a Pantera concert at an abandoned grocery store (they played where the deli used to be). I’ve been to a concert where Skillet opened for Green Day and me and James got kicked out of the venue when Green Day played. I must really love concerts.
5. Diaper Shopping. These dreams would involve me waking up at an ungodly hour of the day, walking through dark and dreary weather, and cruising Fred Meyer or Rite Aid looking for a package of adult diapers, which would be used for sexual purposes. The dilemma of these dreams was that I had nowhere to hide the diapers from my family. Well, in the dreams, diaper sex was a great idea, but when I woke up, I realized it wouldn’t happen in a million years.
6. Dragon Ball Z. When I’m watching this anime in my dreams, I’m playing a desperate game of catch-up with some new series they put out, usually involving Vegeta getting humiliated or an apocalyptic scenario. Maybe these new DBZ episodes took place in Chehalis. I also play catch-up with new Gundam shows, but those are normally easier to follow than Dragon Ball Z episodes. Should I start watching anime again as a means of curing my boredom? Maybe when I get a better streaming service than my burned out Roku.
7. Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. I would either participate in these games or watch them on TV. Every time I do either, all of the players would fail miserably at both games. It’s kind of like the real world, but it’s more brutal, it’s drawn out forever, and it would take place in the past. During the toss-up rounds in Wheel of Fortune, Vanna White would actually flip the letters on that old-school board and the contestants would still get it wrong. Sometimes they’d even guess numbers and punctuation marks. Jesus Christ, man. One time during an episode of Jeopardy, Rosalind Cash (Dr. Cushing from Tales from the Hood) hosted Final Jeopardy and the category was Prostitutes. Double Jesus Christ, man.
8. Libraries. These are some of my favorite dreams, obviously because I’m an author who eye-guzzles literature on a daily basis. I always dream about checking out a shit ton of books, buying a bunch of RPG rule books, or checking out a Robotech book since I also dream about playing catch-up with this book series. Sometimes I would dream about playing D&D or buying action figures and Legos from a library. No nightmare fuel here!
9. Pink Floyd the Wall. When if first saw the music video for Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2 in the mid 1990’s, I tried my damnedest to try and avoid looking at the faceless masks ever again. They were creepy and nightmare inducing to the point where I’d even avoid looking at them in my dreams. I eventually got over my fear when I saw Roger Waters in concert in 2000, but in my dreams, I always avoid going to the Pink Floyd section of every record and video store.
10. School. Whether it’s middle school, high school, or college, the common themes in these dreams include failing classes, dropping out of classes, finding a seat in class that doesn’t have a bunch of graffiti on it, finding my next class while naked, taking gym classes at a community college, and reading a novel and actually being able to pass the class because of it. A less common theme would be fighting with a bully, to which I would feel angry after waking up. Why am I so obsessed with school? Is this why I write a lot of school-related stories for the WSS?
11. VHS Tapes. I’d have dreams about visiting my biological father Michael Temons and while I was at his house I’d dig through his VHS collection. Sometimes they would be episodes of Monsters. Sometimes they would be music videos from VH1. Sometimes they would be cartoons from the 80’s and 90’s. No matter what it was, I’d want those VHS tapes in the worst way. Same thing with his audio tapes. Maybe this is my brain’s way of thanking my dad for giving me an old school state of mind. He did introduce me to The Police, The Moody Blues, and Pink Floyd, after all.
12. Videogames. I played a lot of goddamn videogames until I officially retired in 2010 due to getting my ass kicked multiple times by a lava dragon in Final Fantasy III. Maybe these dreams are trying to pull me back in. I’ve played Super Mario games with Phantos aplenty, Final Fight games where I got my ass quickly kicked, Street Fighter games where I threw my opponent off of a high ledge, Mega Man games where I’d get frustrated as hell, Diablo II sequels that were exactly the same as the prequel but more frustrating, and Final Fantasy NES games where I couldn’t figure out what the hell I was doing. I’d also play Final Fantasy-themed RPG’s where I’d be on the verge of fighting the Calcobrena Puppets in some creepy form. I once fought a bunch of baldheaded puppets that sat in rocking chairs, pointed at my characters, and laughed evilly. When it comes to videogames, every time I think I’m out, they pull me back in!
13. World Championship Wrestling. The Monday Night Wars between the WWE and WCW were a time in wrestling history where both sides actually cared about improving and nobody had a complacent monopoly. My WCW dreams, however, tell a different story. Sometimes there would be a shitload of championship belts. Sometimes Rey Mysterio would dominate the show. Sometimes the WCW Nitro episodes would take place in a wooden hut. Sometimes Hulk Hogan would come to the ring to a Moody Blues song. Maybe WCW would actually stay in business today if these things really happened. Or it would have folded sooner than 2001, we don’t know.

I’d like to think that I could harvest some decent creative fuel from these odd dreams. I certainly thought that when I dreamed about Hulk Hogan battling a crew of squid-like aliens. But the problem with using dreams as creative fuel is that they don’t amount to solid stories unless you tweak so much of the original dream that it loses its genuineness. The author has a decision to make between a good story and staying faithful to the original inspiration. I’ll always choose to have a good story, which is why the Hulk Hogan dream never materialized into an actual piece of literature: too many loose ends and plot holes. This is not to say that dreams are meaningless and that they should be ignored. There’s a reason I keep having these themes pop up in my head at night. If only I could tap into them in a way that made sense.

***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER 5***

There is a month-long discrepancy between chapters three and four of Demon Axe. This is unacceptable to me, especially since National Novel Writing Month is coming up after Halloween and I want to make the most of it. Let’s see what I can come up with for chapter five of this WIP novel. The chapter is going to start off by somebody smashing Daniel Mercer’s windows and breaking into his house. Raven Triscloud seems to think that she and Daniel are being followed by Roger Zee’s newly-enslaved minions Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez. Daniel and Raven will have to put aside their disagreements if they want to make it through this night alive.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

One of the things I’m trying to do with these character drawings is show them in different poses from what I feel comfortable doing. Too many of these drawings show the character folding his arms, having his hands at his sides, or waving his hands in the air. Very rarely does the character stand at an angle and when he does, it usually ends ridiculously as seen with the Shawn Henry drawing. That’s the thing about trying new ideas: sometimes you strike gold and other times you spill fertilizer. I’m hoping to strike gold with Soa, one of the two Samoan cannibals from the short story “Chunky Puffs”.

***COLLEGE HUMOR DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

GOOGLE GUY: Come on in. Don’t worry about me. It’s Jackson Polluck’s birthday today and I’m covered in paint to celebrate his particular art style.

USER: Why do farts smell?

GOOGLE GUY: One of the most important painters of all time and you want to know why farts smell.

-If Google Was a Guy-

Pussy Songs

VERSE 1

Loving thy neighbor sounds so romantic

Keeping the Sabbath sounds necromantic

A choir teacher with the words of a preacher

Kept us all in line like fucking bottom feeders

The songs we sang brought up bile and vomit

Armageddon couldn’t come sooner, a fiery comet

Love is an emotion that comes with devotion

No wonder Romeo and Juliet drank the potion

CHORUS

We had to sing a bunch of pussy songs! X2

VERSE 2

He thought heavy metal was the work of the devil

He thought rock and roll was on the same level

He thought hip-hop was simple gutter poetry

He made me sing without ever knowing me

Forget the choir; we should become a mosh pit

Destroy all the music that we all think is shit

Crowd surf the teacher to the back of the room

Lock him in the closet; leave him to his biblical doom

CHORUS

We had to sing a bunch of pussy songs! X2

VERSE 3

A whole year has passed since we sang that trash

Where the fuck is our money? Where the fuck is our cash?

I know we were students, but we need compensation

For all of the nausea and the heart-burning sensations

The school janitor should get a triple salary bonus

For the vomit he cleans right after our magnum opus

If you can afford the rights to all of those fucking songs

You can afford to keep our families going long and strong

EXTENDED CHORUS

We had to sing a bunch of pussy songs!

We felt violated, we felt so damn wrong!

We ate shit for breakfast, turned it into lyrics!

No more should we ever have to hear this!

Fighting Game Neighborhoods

***FIGHTING GAME NEIGHBORHOODS***

I’m sure most of my reading audience is old enough to remember videogames from the Nintendo and Super Nintendo gaming consoles. What I don’t know is if any of you have played beat ‘em up fighting games like Double Dragon or Final Fight. If you haven’t, then you probably won’t understand just what the hell I’m talking about. In which case, feel free to skip past this portion of my journal and go straight to the creative project updates and the quote of the day.

For those of you who did play those kinds of videogames as a child, congratulations, your childhood was fucking awesome. There’s no violence quite like senseless violence as you move your ass-kicking character from one side of the screen to the other. No talking, no nonsense, just straight up ass-beatings and maybe some kya noises. What this journal deals with in particular is how most of those games take place in poor, dilapidated neighborhoods.

You know the kinds of neighborhoods I’m talking about. The buildings are so broken down that they look like they’re about to collapse. Cars parked on the side of the road live up to their moniker of Fixed or Repaired Daily. The roads and sidewalks have so many potholes that it’s amazing your character doesn’t trip over them constantly. There’s trash everywhere, and I mean everywhere. In the second stage of the first Final Fight game, the subway train’s windows are bashed in and there’s graffiti all over the walls.

If you’ve ever lived in a small town or inner city district before, then you’ve probably made the connection between your own life and a fighting videogame. You would often pretend to be Billy Lee or Cody Travers as you punch and kick at invisible enemies. You couldn’t do that to real people walking by or else that would be considered assault and battery. There are places in Port Orchard and Chehalis, WA that look like they could be backdrops for a fighting game based on their depressing appearances alone. I haven’t met anybody in Port Orchard who was worthy of a Mike Haggar piledriver. Chehalis? Oh, that was quite the different story.

But why is this trope so relevant to fighting games? Why do they always take place in shitty neighborhoods? You never see fighting games that take place in friendly or rich neighborhoods. Even Belger’s penthouse from the first Final Fight game looked like shit. But what if there was an installment of Double Dragon that took place in a gated community? Would it have the same feel? Would it make less sense? Are people in rich neighborhoods suddenly better than people in poor ones?

And that’s how you can tell if class warfare exists. You won’t see Guy slinging a katana at some Wall Street motherfuckers. If Mike Hagger ever got elected president, you wouldn’t see him clotheslining Andore out of his boots at the white house. You won’t see Shadow Master drinking a glass of Chablis while eating caviar with Liberace playing in the background. The poor neighborhood trope in fighting games is stereotypical of how Americans see their economic inferiors. Then again, nobody played those games because of they were models for progressive values. They played them for the same reason I’d love to play them again someday: because kicking ass is a lot of goddamn fun!

***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

Speaking of kicking ass and taking names, this week’s story will be called “Kink Floyd” and will conform to the Captive prompt. It goes like this:

 CHARACTERS:

Tarja Hunter, Cop

Daniel “Kink Floyd” Alexander, Bondage Enthusiast

Johnny Filter, Straightedge Gangster

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Tarja is the captive of Daniel and Johnny.

SYNOPSIS: In order to gain leverage over the Paulson City Police Department, Johnny kidnaps Tarja (their best detective) and takes her to Daniel’s studio. “Kink Floyd” as he’s nicknamed poses her in humiliating sexual bondage positions while Johnny takes pictures on his iPhone. Distributing these pictures could do serious damage to the Police Department’s reputation, which is why Johnny wants to use the photos to blackmail them into allowing him and his gang to do whatever they want. But even in kinky bondage, Tarja won’t give up without a fight to the death.

FUN FACT: If Tarja ever arrests her two captives, not only will they be charged with assaulting an officer and attempted conspiracy, but they’ll also be charged with murder. The victim? Pink Floyd’s music.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

If Stinger Crushwar’s head looks like it’s a little too far on his left shoulder, I apologize. That was a goof on my part and hopefully there will be fewer of them in the future. No sense in crying over spilled milk, though, because the next one to appear on the list is Mathias Jorgenson, the elf sorcerer from “Forever Autumn”. I already drew a picture of Autumn the parrot wizard, so Mathias was naturally next on the list. “Forever Autumn” was described by my audience as “cute” and “cartoon-like”, so hopefully I’ll capture those essences when I draw Mathias.

***POISON TONGUE TALES***

Only my Deviant Art members will understand why this section of the journal is significant since they’re the only ones who see my editing work. The next three stories that will undergo literary surgery are the three M’s of Poison Tongue Tales: “Mastodon”, “Minnie-Moo”, and “Molly-Dolly”. All three of these stories deal with animals and they all start with the letter M, which spells out MMM!! Tarja Hunter’s going to be saying that a lot when I eventually write “Kink Floyd” for the WSS contest. Hehe!

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call a mean Canadian?

A: Eh-Hole.

Bury the Past

***BURY THE PAST***

In my college days, I used to talk candidly about my past like it was no big deal. I would write little essays of my most negative and emotionally draining experiences and post them online as if I was hotter shit than Tobias Wolff or Alison Bechdel, both authors masters of the memoir style. I even had aspirations of writing my own autobiography and talking about high school in Chehalis, living with my former step-dad Art, and being depressed at Western Washington University. Every negative experience I had in my life would bring me gold and silver, I thought to myself.

But then people would see these nonfiction postings and would want to know more. So they prodded me with questions like “What did he say?” and “What happened?” and anything else that would be considered nosy and detective-like. Talking about these experiences doesn’t bring me peace of any kind. It brings me sadness and heartache, so I try to avoid these conversations as much as possible. But then the nosy people would ask me why I posted my memoirs online whilst refusing to talk about it afterwards. I could never argue with that logic. I knew in my heart it was wrong, but I couldn’t disprove it. So please, if I don’t want to talk about the past, don’t make me. I keep those memories buried beneath the dirt forever, never to surface again.

I say these things not just as a warning to anybody digging into my past, but to anybody who wants to write memoirs themselves. If you publish something, people will be nosy about it and ask you about traumatic memories until the end of time. A prime example of a memoir gone bad is “My Fight/Your Fight” by UFC fighter Ronda Rousey. I haven’t read it yet, but I do know about it through Rousey’s Wikipedia profile. In the memoir, she talks about a time when she beat the shit out of her ex-boyfriend because he wanted to post revenge porn (nude photographs) of her online. Ever since then, domestic violence groups dropped the hammer down on Rousey while completely ignoring the cyber abuse her ex-boyfriend tried to commit, which is just as bad in my opinion as any physical beating.

Rousey has her own reasons why she wrote the memoir and none of her public backlash is her fault. But after hearing about that part in her book, it makes me want to read it more. Make no mistake about it, though: if there comes a time when the two of us talk online, neither of our pasts will be on the menu. Same thing goes for authors like Jaycee Dugard, Randy Blythe, and Amanda Knox: if I want to know their life stories, I’ll read their books and make no further comments other than to leave an online review.

Privacy is always a fuzzy gray area with the internet being as abundant as it is today. People love to share their lives online, but when the sharing becomes too much, their followers still want more. I personally enjoy my offline privacy. I keep my past buried beneath the earth, I refuse to write memoirs, and the only pieces of my life that I do share are clean photographs and occasional updates of events that might affect my artistic performance. Being an introvert and being a private person go hand in hand. When privacy is violated, the introvert becomes bitter at whoever violated it and rightfully so. So please, don’t force anybody to talk about something they don’t want to. Talking doesn’t bring peace for everyone, mostly just traumatic flashbacks and chilled blood.

　

***CREATIVE WORK***

A new week at the WSS is on the horizon, so expect another Poison Tongue Tale to come from that prompt as well as my independently written short story “Zombie”. The biggest update I have so far is for the Dark Fantasy Warrior drawings I’ve been doing. Up next is Rosie Moonbender, the antelope wizard from Unleash the Animal. She is the epitome of the “colorful, over-the-top violence” Edward Davies at the WSS likes to talk about when commenting on my short stories. Unleash the Animal was a bizarre story to say the least, which is what will make this picture of Rosie Moonbender all the more special.

　

***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What does Stone Cold Steve Austin say every time he changes a baby’s diaper?
A: Austin 3:16 says I just wiped your ass!

Common Values

***COMMON VALUES***

I’m going to go ahead and ask the million dollar question. In order for a relationship to work, do the two people involved have to have things in common or is it really true that opposites attract? I’m not just talking about romantic relationships; I also mean business, family, and friendly relationships. I’ve heard arguments for both answers to that question, but I still can’t make heads or tails of it all. Then again, my relationships in life are limited to my family and internet friends, so it could be that I lack the necessary experience to make this judgment call. But I’m going to try and do it anyways, just for the sake of argument. That, and I’m desperate for journal topics.

Let’s say you’re someone who believes that the two people have to have at least one thing in common with each other. When you have that one thing the two of you share, you can give each other some great conversations and even better feedback on how to make that activity better. You both like online gaming? Great! Then buy a copy of Diablo III and rock out with your cock out. You both like soccer? Awesome! Go to soccer matches together and hold hands. Having something to bond over keeps the relationship from getting stale.

And then there’s the other school of thought in which like protons and electrons in chemistry, opposites attract. There actually are couples out there who practice this idea. You’ve got liberals getting together with conservatives, geeks with cheerleaders, rebels with conformists, introverts with extroverts, the list goes on and on. The argument I’ve heard in support of this is that nobody wants to have a relationship with someone who is exactly like them since the two people would get tired of each other quickly. While those two would have a lot to bond over, maybe too much bonding can lead to a lack of privacy.

After going over the two schools of thought, I’m riding the fence with this one. I want to have at least a few things in common with the other person, but not everything. That’s why I have such a hard time talking to the barbers at Hair Masters. Disgust for small talk aside, when I hear about their interests and values, I find out that we have nothing to bond over.

How am I supposed to talk about how “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” turned me into an emotional wreck when the hairdresser wants to read books about World War II? Can I even get one word edgewise about how lethal Kevin Owens’ pop-up power bomb is when the other person would rather watch the Seattle Seahawks run around and pounce on other teams? What if I want to talk about Dimebag Darrell’s shredding techniques to someone who listens to country songs about losing their goddamn truck? That kind of polarity can make me feel lonely.

Of course, I could take some initiative and actually introduce the other person to my values and interests, but I don’t want to feel like I’m forcing myself on them. When I was a middle schooler in Chehalis, Washington, I tried relentlessly to get my friends to share my interest in those Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s. You know the ones, with racial stereotypes like Go-Go Gomez, Hemlock Holmes, Joe Jitsu, and Sketch Paree. Since Chehalis is swarming with rightwing nut jobs, they probably would have eaten that shit up with a spoon. But apparently, the Dick Tracy trend never caught on. Oh well. At least I learned not to force my values on other people.

So, ladies and gentlemen. Where do your loyalties lie in this debate? Should your friends and paramours have similar interests or do opposites really attract? Share your experiences with me and let’s have a fucking conversation. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

　

***BOOK REVIEWS***

The next time I post a book review on my social networking sites, Good Reads, and Amazon, it will be “So…I Met a Vampire” by Paul McAvoy. I’m only 63 pages into it, but the book itself is approximately 180 pages and the writing style is so fast-paced that I can blow through it probably by tomorrow afternoon. If not, then the day after. I always close my commitments to fellow indie authors. Never forget that.

　

***BLOOD BRAWL***

I don’t really know when chapter three will be written, but when it is, it’ll feature a chase scene between Ivan Blackstone and the female rogue who will later be identified as Justine Dupree (not the biggest spoiler I can give). Really, wouldn’t you run too if an orc in a trench coat and hood was chasing you down the streets with a big ass scythe? Especially if you thought he looked like the Grim Reaper from a distance and knew his name was Ivan fucking Blackstone.

　

***MOVIE OR TV SHOW REVIEW***

Though it’s not the freshest thing in my mind right now, my next movie review will be about Kung Fu Panda. This movie has everything I could ever want: martial arts action, animal warriors, and a story where a complete nobody becomes a conquering hero over the course of the movie. Uh-oh! Did I just give away a spoiler? Come on, you knew that shit was coming from miles away. It’s not about IF the hero conquers. It’s about HOW. Never forget that.

　

***WRESTLING OR MMA MATCH REVIEW***

I’ve been giving out passing grades like it’s fucking Christmas lately. Though the season of giving is drawing near, I’m afraid I’ll have to play the role of The Grinch when it comes to a UFC fight between Jake Ellenberger and Rory MacDonald. There was a lot of trash talking before the fight actually happened. In fact, Jake Ellenberger said that Rory MacDonald is “faker than the food he’s named after”. A guy with “berger” in his last name is making a fast food joke about someone named MacDonald. The irony is killing me, but not nearly as much as the boredom resonating from this god-awful fight.

　

***DRAWINGS***

Technically, the short story “Bleed For Weed” is a contemporary drama, not a dark fantasy story. It will be included in American Darkness 2: Black State, not Poison Tongue Tales. When I draw Riff De La Luka, can he really be considered a “dark fantasy warrior”? Of course he can, because I fucking said so!

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Women are always trying to make their men feel better about sex. ‘Oh, it’s not the size of the boat that matters; it’s the motion of the ocean.’ That may be true, but it’s hard to sail to England in a rowboat.”

-Jeff Foxworthy-

Tyler Cutty

NAME: Tyler Cutty
AGE: Immortal
OCCUPATION: Mummy Serial Killer
CANON: World of Darkness: Washington 2

You’re looking at Tyler Cutty’s occupation and are probably wondering if he’s goes around randomly killing mummies or if he’s a mummy who happens to also be a serial killer. The latter is what I was trying to imply. But why is an ancient Egyptian creature running around with the name Tyler? Cleopatra, Ramses, Xerxes, and now Tyler. Such progression, I know. Evolution couldn’t have come up with a better byproduct than a fucking American mummy named Tyler! With his invincible undead body and a sword bigger than he is, it’s more believable than it sounds.

Although the second installment of World of Darkness: Washington never came to fruition, the first one was a real thing at one point and now it’s digital dust. The idea behind each WOD:WA story is that three different kinds of undead creatures are tracked in three different cities in Washington state, my current home. In the first novel, mummies lived in Bellingham, vampires lived in Seattle, werewolves lived in Chehalis, and they all congregated to start life over again in Aberdeen.

In the second novel, which would have been Tyler’s home, mummies, vampires, werewolves, and hunters lived in Tacoma, demons lived in Port Orchard, and changelings lived in Purdy. Although Tyler is a mummy to the core, he would actually be a part of the third act in Purdy with the changelings.

If you’ve never been to Purdy before, don’t forget to bring your blanket and pillow; you’re going to need them in such a boring backwoods area. Purdy is so boring, in fact, that it’s a perfect place for a serial killer like Tyler Cutty to take residence. Nobody would ever think to look for him there. Granted, he has to actually go out and venture into the bigger cities to look for victims, but he’s more than capable of doing that, because he looks completely normal riding a city bus in his mummy wrap.

Unfortunately, because WOD:WA2 never got realized, Tyler Cutty never got developed past his name, race, and occupation. All we know about mummies from the first novel is that they become those creatures by allowing magical wrappings to snake around their bodies and turn their innards to dust. The only way to kill a mummy, as pointed out by Egyptologist Dr. Shawn Phoenix, is by cutting at their wrappings with a 12-inch knife. No more, no less. Only a knife of that length could ever possess the combination of strength and precision necessary to perform such a surgical strike.

Dr. Shawn Phoenix got the shit kicked out of him in the first novel, so those who actually know the 12-inch blade secret are few and far between, and they’re certainly not out in Tyler Cutty’s part of Washington state. Which means of course that Tyler is free to either slowly torture his victims by ripping their limbs off or slash them to bloody pieces with his oversized sword, which is far more than 12 inches, I can assure you that. If you’re a changeling, which is basically a kind of faerie in World of Darkness terms, how do you stop a guy with infinite strength and sadistic urges to back it up? You might be able to do it if you found out about the 12-inch secret, but even if you did, you still have to be a better fighter than a super powerful mummy. Good luck, little fairies!

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Maybe I should let her go, but not until she loves me.”

-Slipknot singing “Killpop”-

Loretta

NAME: Loretta

AGE: 33

OCCUPATION: Professional Wrestler

CANON: WWF Smackdown 2: Know Your Role

Technically, this seven-foot tall Amazon doesn’t belong to me. When I was a teenager living in Chehalis, Washington, my brother James, our friend Nathan, and I played a lot of videogames. WWF Smackdown 2 for the Play Station just so happened to have a create your own character mode.

And boy, did the three of us make a lot of characters. My most noteworthy character was a seven-foot version of Guile from Street Fighter II. Nathan’s character was a soldier slash hippie named Me (and yes, Nathan took full advantage of the jokes that came with that name). James had a seven-foot diva named Loretta, who happens to be the subject of this journal.

Guile can’t be an unemployed character because he’s a staple of the Street Fighter franchise and using him would result in a legal shit storm I’m not prepared for. I can’t get a hold of Nathan these days since he phased out of our lives in late 2002, so I don’t even know if I have permission to use Me in a story (save your jokes, people).

I have no qualms, however, about adding Loretta to my roster since my brother James doesn’t have aspirations of being an author nor does he take wrestling seriously anyways. If I stole Loretta out from under his nose, he’d be so oblivious to it that he wouldn’t even care if he found out. If he does care, I’m happy to give her back.

Loretta wasn’t just a big chick in a long skirt, high heels, a sports bra, and sunglasses. Being big isn’t everything. Being skillful is what matters most in professional wrestling. Loretta was part of the same videogame that had Chyna on its roster. Remember Chyna from the Attitude Era of WWE? She was fucking huge. She wrestled men and looked good doing it, which is why Chyna was the only woman to have held the WWE Intercontinental Championship. Loretta makes this woman look like El Torito in the ring. She could crush Chyna underneath her high heels and scrape her off like chewed bubblegum.

In addition to being a badass in the ring, Loretta was also slated by James and Nathan to be the storyline lover of Guile, who as I said earlier was a seven-foot version of his Street Fighter self. At first I didn’t agree with that since I had a shallow bias against overly tall women back then. But the more I think about it, the more I think Guile and Loretta should tie the knot and make seven-foot babies.

You know what’s even scarier than a seven-foot baby? A seven foot baby who was made taller and heavier by a pituitary disorder. If The Big Show and The Great Khali were a part of this videogame, they’d be insects among this world of giants. It wouldn’t be a WWE arena anymore. It’d be an ant farm. What if Daniel Bryan and Rey Mysterio were a part of this game? Guile and Loretta’s children would need a microscope just to compete against them!

Several Women’s Championship matches and beauty contests later, the videogame disc for WWF Smackdown 2 was scratched and broken from overuse. It was a fun game to play, but with a broken game disc, a sold Play Station, and a lost memory card, Loretta’s adventures in the digital world are over. Which is why I’d like to bring this giantess back to the digital world for a round of literary action.

The way I see it, Loretta’s character, should I decide to use her, can play out two ways and both of them have to do with her height advantage. Either she will be an unlikely hero who gets picked on for her size or she will be a villain who crushes villagers underneath her stilettos while breathing fire on them. Both alignments are believable for a woman like this. After all, being seven feet tall is not a guarantee for a happy or beautiful life.

Would you believe it if I told you The World’s Strongest Man and WWE legend Mark Henry was bullied as a teenager? He may have been big and strong, but he was still flawed in the eyes of everyone around him, especially those who called him names. Bottom line: if Loretta ever makes it into one of my stories, she won’t be winning a Most Overrated award from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter anytime soon.