It's a Punderful World and The Joker Agrees

 

Elijah Canterbury a.k.a. Dogmeat

 

A teenaged runaway who can escape a volatile home, but not the dangers of gang life.

Murder Nuts the Clown

 

Demonic Clown DESTROYS Ben Shapiro with JUST ONE CARTOON

 

Two-Sentence Horror Story: "Nut Up AND Shut Up"

When Murder Nuts the Clown kidnapped an entire bus full of high school cheerleaders, it took a lot of balls for him to do what he did. They came in many colors and all of them had leather straps.

The Whole World Is Watching

The whole world is watching whenever you’re botching

A million TV’s tune in

Whenever you shower, their dicks become towers

Tissues flushed into the sewage

Whenever you slide and you land on your hide

They laugh just like a demon

Whenever you stutter and melt into butter

The power dynamic is uneven

When you ask her out and you’re crippled by doubt

The comedy starts to punch down

When your ass gets fired for being too tired

You become their favorite punk clown

When you leave the bar and then you crash your car

The comedy turns into tragedy

When you rot in jail from your epic fail

It’s time to end the pageantry

When you take your last breath and teeter on death

The shock pads wake you up

When they set you free for the world to see

They grab their popcorn and soda cup

When you leave them hanging, their big heads are banging

Against a fucking brick wall

When you’re born for laughs and government graphs

You don’t have permission to bawl

When you’re born this way, at the end of the day

It was God who made the mistake

When death’s a solution in this institution

It’s your only shot at a coffee break

The whole world is watching whenever you’re dodging

The spotlight in the sky

The whole world hates you, they always debate you

Brain tells you to say goodbye

Clown Music

CLOWN MUSIC
A ball on my nose, a smile on my face
Big red shoes stepping all over the place
Bright green overalls to complete the look
Comedy routines from a high school joke book
Who’s ready to laugh? Who’s ready to dance?
Who’s ready to wet their own underpants?
I’m throwing the pies, riding one-wheel bikes
We can party and giggle for as long as we’d like

COMING HOME
It’s getting pretty dark around the trailer park
Wipe off the makeup, frown the shape of an arc
A bottle of jack and some pills for my back
A pizza for dinner, another heart attack
Another episode of Wheel of Fortune
Another news story about the ban of abortion
Fall asleep on the couch, cancer stick in my mouth
I’ve got no rhyme or reason to be fucking proud

BACK TO WORK
Sunbeam aggravates my pounding headache
Still laying on the couch like I’m dead weight
Can’t put on another smile for the little brats
Can’t put on the overalls, I’m too damn fat
Can’t let them know that my magic is gone
No more faking happiness, no more being strong
Where did I put that damn nine millimeter?
I don’t care if you call me a coward or cheater

BANG!
Suicide attempt didn’t go as it was planned
But I’m still walking amongst the damned
Extra hole in my head, brain dead as can be
Little kids cry as they take a look at me
Mommies holding them, daddies glaring
The love is there, but nobody’s sharing
I am a monster in the eyes of the young
No cracking jokes, no birthday songs sung

Joker

MOVIE TITLE: Joker

DIRECTOR: Todd Phillips

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Psychological Thriller

RATING: R for violence, swearing, and disturbing themes

GRADE: Extra Credit

Humanizing a violent criminal is a tall task in and of itself. Getting sympathy for any kind of character is harder than it looks (trust me, I’ve tried). When you watch this movie, not only will you have sympathy for Arthur Fleck a.k.a. The Joker, but you’ll cheer for him as well. There’s more to building a sympathetic villain than throwing in a tragic back story and calling it a day. This movie went above and beyond in developing the Joker character. He’s mentally ill, he’s rejected by society because of his awkward behavior, he’s impoverished, and he’s the target of violence just as much as he’s the instigator. While people wouldn’t under any circumstances condone his violent behavior, they will at least understand it. They might even learn to treat fellow members of society with respect. Nobody starts out as an evil person. They’re slowly built into one by the forces around them. Again, it doesn’t excuse Joker’s murders nor does it give the incel community an idol to look up to. But the more we see each other as human beings, the more we act like human beings.

Of course, none of this sympathy would have been possible if not for the brilliant acting work of Joaquin Phoenix, who played The Joker. In fact, Mr. Phoenix might be telling Heath Ledger to hold his beer (no disrespect to Mr. Ledger). The pathological laughter, the nervousness around strangers, the poor cadence of his jokes, the sadness when he’s alone, they all looked believable coming from Joaquin Phoenix. Mental illness is a lonely obstacle for someone to overcome. Nobody wanted to be around The Joker when he was at his worst and the actor brought that loneliness to life through his character work. It took a lot of studying and reading in order to get this villain down perfectly. Mr. Phoenix’s passion for what he does is obvious in his roles. If he doesn’t get an Oscar for this performance, I’m going to be very surprised and upset. Granted, I won’t give the Army nervous fits with my level of disappointment and nor should anybody else. You hear that, terrorists? Be nice!

Somewhere in this nature vs. nurture debate, there’s a modern day dystopia happening all around The Joker. Garbage is piling up, rats are infesting the city, the disenfranchised are being bullied, social programs are being cut, and poverty is at an all time high. When politicians and oligarchs use their influence to enrich themselves at the expense of others, distrust starts to build between the social classes. It doesn’t always end in riots and violence, but sitting down and doing nothing doesn’t cross their minds either. In many ways, the dystopian politics of this movie reminds me a lot of what’s going on in the real world under the Trump administration. So we have a realistic Joker and a realistic political system. Superhero movies get a bad rap for being cartoonish and comical, right? You know what Joaquin Phoenix and the rest of the crew says to that? “Hold our beers.”

Everything that could go right with this movie did go right. It’s gritty, it’s real, it’s dark, and nothing was out of place. Keeping a smile on your face all of your life is close to impossible. It’s okay to feel bad sometimes. Toxic positivity did nobody any good. But if you must rage against the machine with a nihilistic point of view, don’t cross the point of no return like The Joker did. An extra credit grade will go to this modern day masterpiece. Now THAT’S something worth smiling about!

Eat My Beef

VERSE 1

I had a lunch date with Ronald

We ate just like The Donald

And then he whipped it out and said

“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 2

We had some chicken nuggets

And then we said, “Fuck it!”

The Colonel from Kentucky can

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 3

We ate some salty fries

And then some salty guys

Tried to shame us, but we told them to

“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 4

We drank a lot of Coke

Until we almost choked

My cholesterol’s a joke, so

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 5

We slid into the ball pit

Even though we didn’t fit

If you really give a shit, then

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 6

I say fuck the heart attacks

We need a fucking snack

We’re addicted like crack, so

EAT MY BEEF!

Jim Cornette's Name Test

***JIM CORNETTE’S NAME TEST***

Another blog entry about wrestling? Well, not entirely, though Jim Cornette is one of wrestling’s most recognizable personalities. This blog has a little bit more of a universal appeal since it’s about character names. Whether the genre is wrestling, fantasy, sci-fi, or even contemporary, you want your characters to have good-sounding names. A guy named Michael Hickenbottom doesn’t stand a chance in the limelight. But Shawn Michaels? Why, that’s Hall of Fame-worthy.

Here’s how the name test works. You have two opponents, the protagonist and the antagonist. When you say their names and stick the word “versus” in between them, you want it to sound like it could be a big deal. Examples from wrestling that could pass the name test include Ric Flair vs. The Undertaker. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it? Makes you want to know more about this conflict. Ricky “The Dragon” Steamboat vs. “Macho Man” Randy Savage. That also sounds exciting.

And like I said at the top of the journal, this logic could apply to any two sets of people. Harry Potter vs. Voldemort sounds as magical as its canon suggests. It makes you want to read the books or watch the movies, so you’ll spend top dollar to know how that story ends. Lion-O vs. Mummra also has a mystical aura to it, which makes sense coming from a cartoon called The Thundercats. Goku vs. Freiza has a martial arts feel to it. Mario vs. Bowser sounds like something that would happen in a comically mischievous world.

As much as I don’t want to toot my own horn, I’m going to use examples from my own stories to show that I’m following Jim Cornette’s advice to a fault. I’m currently writing a high school drama called Silent Warrior, so there better be a positive name test result to back up such a hot title. Scott George vs. Tom Simpson? Well, it doesn’t sound like much on the surface, but if you shortened their names to just their family names, it sounds like a Supreme Court case. George vs. Simpson? I’d say that has a Supreme Court ring to it, which is funny because chapter eighteen features a criminal case against Mr. George.

And then you have examples that not only fail the name test, but fail them on an epic scale. The Undertaker sounds like a creepy enough name on its own, but not when his opponent is named Stinky McFarts or Chilly McFreeze. Ever wonder why you never saw a main event WWE match in the 1990’s between Doink the Clown and Bastion Booger? Look at the names of those two individuals and run them through the test. Epic fucking fail!

As much as I hate to admit it, one of my back-burner novel ideas fails the name test as well. Booger the Clown vs. The Orc King. There’s nothing wrong with The Orc King. In fact, it sounds rather intimidating. But when you pair him up with a guy named Booger the Clown, you can see how the story gets dragged down by guffaws of laughter. Then again, Booger is supposed to be an ironic name to begin with considering the character is a depressed, suicidal marine who moonlights as a birthday clown and can only feel happy when he’s listening to violent gangster rap.

If you’re an author penning the next bestseller, take your naming system seriously and make sure the final conflict doesn’t feature Nut Sack McGee vs. Penis Breaker III. Of course, no self respecting author would ever do that to his or her own product, but it’s worth pointing out anyways. You want to know what sounds like a spellbinding feud? Reverend Jesse Custer vs. God. A lot of whacky shit takes place in Preacher, including that same feud I just mentioned. I don’t know much about the TV show, but I’ve read volumes one through four of the graphic novels. It’s every bit as fucked up as the feud sounds.

So that’s all I have for you today. Don’t forget to tip your waitresses and leave online reviews for your favorite indy authors. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time! But before I leave, now that we’re on a wrestling-related topic, yes, I will do a blog entry about 2017’s Most Disgusting Promotional Tactics as awarded by the Wrestling Observer Newsletter. My love for shocking the shit out of my audience hasn’t waned a bit. And goddamn, we’ve had some good ones this year! Bye!

***LEGAL QUESTION***

For the next chapter of Silent Warrior, I’m planning on having Scott George rushed to the hospital to be treated for anxiety and malnutrition. I’m not sure if court cases actually work like this, but I was thinking about having the trial broadcast to Scott’s room via satellite so that he can at least know what the hell’s going on. Would a court actually do that or do they just wait for the suspect to stand trial? You don’t have to be a member of the bar association to answer this; you just have to know more about it than I do.

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Accept who you are…unless you’re a serial killer.”

-Ellen DeGeneres-

Thanks For the Creative Fuel, Asshole

CHORUS 1

While you’re ruling everything in your castle

I’ve got to say

Thanks for the creative fuel, asshole!

VERSE 1

Every time you lay hands on me

Every time you haunt my TV

Every time my broken heart bleeds

You’re planting another artistic seed

I’m not in the business of staying down

I’m in the business of running the town

If it’s pen to paper or fist to chin

I’m already the favorite to win

CHORUS 2

While you’re making the whole world sick

I’ve got to say

Thanks for the creative fuel, dick!

VERSE 2

Art is a weapon and I’m the warrior, bitch

My words will leave you dead in the ditch

A traumatized mind and a body of bruises?

They mean nothing if my enemy loses

CHORUS 3

While you’re shopping for discount caskets

I’ve got to say

Thanks for the creative fuel, jackass!

VERSE 3

I don’t need a sword or automatic rifle

To leave my enemies in the highest pile

You do the work for me by being a clown

Lower than bathroom stains so brown

Lower than a sewer rat guzzling piss

Lower than the target you’re sure to miss

Lower than the ball bag of a venomous snake

I celebrate your doom with ice cream and cake

CHORUS 4

While you’re gifting me a number one hit

For every time you throw a fucking fit

For every throat that I want to slit

I’ve got to say

Thanks for the creative fuel, you little shit!

I’ve got to say one more time

Thanks for the creative fuel, asshole!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 1

With the third grade classroom dimly lit in shades of purple, puppet children on strings danced and twirled their way through the door. The girls wore pretty red dresses and had their blond hair in pigtails. The boys wore elegant blue tuxedos and were shaven completely bald. This waltz of perfect conformity was accompanied by the PA system’s glorious soundtrack of the Moonlight Sonata. The rhythm carried the puppet children to their desks one row at a time so as not to cause unnecessary disorder. Once they had taken their seats, the puppets slouched over with their pale white faces and rosy cheeks touching their desks.

Their strings jerked them to the upright position while another puppet descended at the chalkboard in a heap. With another tug of the strings, the clown lady with rainbow hair, a distorted face, and a frilly white dress reassembled and proceeded to write her name on the chalkboard. As she wrote, she sang a “happy birthday” style rendition of her class greeting in a condescending, Shakespearean voice. “Good morning to you. Good morning to you. Good morning dear children…”

She signaled for her students to speak up with a wave of her hand. And true to form, they completed the song in perfect unison with, “Good morning to you!”

“Very good, dear children!” said the teacher while curtseying, still using her hammy stage voice. “My name is Aloysius Striker, but you may all call me Mrs. Striker. And my, don’t you all look lovely today! All smiles, tight strings, and not a single misstep in the morning song. No disorder among you all. Do you know why? Because we are all part of something much greater than ourselves. We have the same dreams. The same desires. We are all part of…a community!”

Mrs. Striker quickly erased her name from the board and wrote in its place the word of the day, community. “Now class, would any of you like to tell me what a community is? Don’t be too shy to speak up. Your grade depends on it!” The last sentence was punctuated with a mock whip strike with her piece of chalk.

All at once, the puppets rotated their heads three hundred sixty degrees and said, “A community is a gathering of people who have something in common!”

“Excellent, children! You’ve made me very proud already! But what are some examples of communities? Oh, do please speak up. We’re all part of a community, after all!” sang Mrs. Striker.

“Churches!” said the puppets, to which Mrs. Striker gave a celebratory, “Yes!” and quickly chalked it on the board. Other examples the children gave were shopping centers, police departments, congress, and yes, even school. That last answer sent an orgasmic chill throughout Mrs. Striker’s puppet body. She even gave a sing-songy laugh.

And then the teacher’s demonic smile turned to a saggy frown when she saw one student in the back corner of the class with his head tucked firmly in his hands. No puppet strings, no puppet face, no handsome tuxedo, just a shadow silhouette and glowing green eyes. Mrs. Striker tiptoed towards this lonely student like a ballerina and towered over him with a vengeful sneer.

“Look who decided to join us today, class. Mr. Scott George, the so-called introvert! The so-called shy guy! The little boy who hasn’t crackled a smile since the day he was born! Let me show you how it’s done, Mr. George!” The children’s heads turned one hundred eighty degrees and their puppet strings morphed their faces into insane grins with monstrous teeth and worms in the backs of their throats. “See? It’s not so hard, little Scotty! But in all seriousness, why haven’t you spoke up with the rest of the class? Don’t you want to be part of a community?”

Surveying the ghastly smiles around him, Scott brushed his teacher off with his hand and said, “Not really.”

Mrs. Striker’s elongated nose touched with Scott’s forehead before she chirped, “Well, that’s tough cookies, Mr. George! Your grade depends on your participation! Your ability to get a job depends on your sociability! You are indeed part of this society whether you want to be or not!”

The teacher clutched Scott’s wrist with a death grip as she dragged the shadowy student kicking and screaming towards the chalkboard, all while the puppet students pointed and laughed at him. By the time Scott made it to the chalkboard, Mrs. Striker grabbed him by the scruff of his neck to pull him up and placed the piece of chalk in his hand. “Now then! This is your next assignment, Mr. George, and you shall not screw this up for your fellow students, but most of all, for me! I want you to write on this blackboard another example of a community! Post-haste! Chop-chop!”

Scott George shivered and cowered, barely able to keep the chalk in his hands while the students giggled at him through their noses and closed mouths. Sweat poured off of him like rain while the purple lighting turned to a single bright halogen spotlight on him. He swallowed hard and stared at the chalkboard like a monkey doing a math problem. All of these examples of a community and he couldn’t come up with one…until he piggybacked off of the shopping center answer.

With slow precision and squeakiness that made the puppet children squint and hold their ears, Scott wrote something on the chalkboard without actually seeing what it was. It seemed as though hours went by and a whole tidal wave of sweat poured off of his body. But then he finished writing what he was going to write and breathed an anxiety-crushing sigh of relief. The pregnancy-sized knot reformed in his stomach when Scott saw the children laughing their asses off as well as Mrs. Striker staring at the blackboard in wide-eyed horror. “Shopping carts?!” she cried in disbelief. “Shopping carts?!”

As the laughter got louder and Mrs. Striker’s dramatic sighs grew more obvious, Scott’s crippling anxiety morphed into white hot rage. His boiling blood gave third degree burns on his tender flesh. His neon green eyes bulged out of their sockets. Every vein in his arms and forehead looked like a stick of dynamite ready to blow. His fists were clenched tightly enough to turn even the strongest metals into powder.

In one volcanic scream, he belted, “Shut up!” before picking up a text book off of a student’s desk and smashing him over the head with it. The teacher and students alike gasped in horror as the unfortunate student’s head exploded into a pile of worms and maggots, his body limp and lifeless. The puppet strings had no choice but to pull him into the heavens while Scott watched in horror at his own sins. Students cried maggots out of their eyeballs while Mrs. Striker sobbed blood.

“Oh, Scott! How could you do such a thing to your own community?!” asked the teacher. “Now the whole system is going to crash down upon us! Why, oh, why! WHY?!” With his head hung and his voice sheepishly low, Scott muttered a nearly incoherent apology before Mrs. Striker burst into flames and clutched his wrist with purpling tightness yet again. “Oh, I’m afraid an apology’s not going to be enough, Mr. George! You’ve been causing grief to my class for far too long! Your refusal to obey even the simplest commands makes me sick to my stomach! I’m afraid there’s only one thing left to do!”

The puppet strings yanked every child back into the heavens while the classroom burst into a fiery hell all around Mrs. Striker and the convulsing Scott George. The teacher smashed every desk into splinters with one punch and in their place ascended a torture chair with leather straps and a ball gag.

“No, Mrs. Striker! Have mercy on me! I’ll be a good boy! I promise!” pleaded Scott, who was bound and gagged to the chair with constricting tightness. He tried to thrash around and break free, but with a ball gag cutting off his air supply, he quickly became exhausted. It became even harder to breathe when Mrs. Striker shoved a funnel up one of his nostrils and held it in place with duct tape.

“You’re going to conform, Mr. George, whether you want to or not!” warned Mrs. Striker in a deep, devilish voice. She tore open the flesh on her own wrist and pulled out a handful of worms with razor sharp fangs and hooks. Scott tried once again to squirm and thrash in his bindings, but they only cut deeper into his skin. With a sick smile and Scott’s gagged pleas, Mrs. Striker shoved the razorblade worms into the funnel and watched them fest up his nose and into his brain. The children descended back down into the hellfire scene and repeatedly chanted along with the teacher, “One of us!”

After an eternity of having his skull feasted on, the present day eighteen-year-old Scott George awoke from his nightmare with a deep gasp of air and pulsating nausea. As soon as he caught his breath, the teenager looked around the room for his digital clock, which read five-thirty in the morning. Relieved that this was a dream and that he still had hours before he had to get up for school, Scott plopped backwards into his bed and burped his nausea away.

“Why does this keep happening?” Scott whispered to himself. “I hate falling asleep.” Tears formed in his eyes when he realized that the only thing fake about his nightmare was the psychedelic backdrop in which it took place. He never dropped acid or smoked marijuana a day in his life. Why was he being punished for it? And most of all, why did he have to take a United States history class with a teacher who was basically Mrs. Striker with a penis?

Knowing that class was his first period of the day caused Scott to skyrocket out of his bed and dry heave in his garbage bucket. No matter how hard he puked, all that came out of his mouth was tiny streams of snot and orange stuff he couldn’t identify. Once he had finished, he sat next to his desk and breathed heavily while fighting the urge to go back to sleep. “Goddamn you, Mr. Simpson,” whispered Scott. “Why doesn’t somebody go Columbine on his ass already?”

Street Warriors

Kristen Miranda’s legs felt like they had blocks of cement tied to them. Running for that long in knee-high leather boots would do that to a skinny girl like her. The boots were a nice compliment to her black hoodie, black Pantera halter top, and black mini skirt with fishnet stockings. The mascara would have been a nice touch if she hadn’t spent the last hour with tears streaking down her innocent face. Her makeup looked messier than an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Her black lipstick dried out from all of the huffing and puffing she did.

Kristen wondered exactly how long she had been running away from home. She could still feel the sting of her parents grabbing her arms tightly as they argued relentlessly. What the hell were they fighting about? Did it matter? She was finally free in the outskirts of Paulson City, though dark red skies, graffiti-covered walls, and dumpster fires didn’t look a whole lot like freedom. The stern look on her previously crying face gave the impression that these greasy hobos would be better company than her parents any day of the week.

Most of these trench-coat and newspaper wearing folk were already asleep by the time Kristen reached the encampment (out of sheer luck). Their machinegun snores filled the air as did their whiskey burps and green-clouded farts. Kristen held her nose while gently treading across the garbage can fires. She rubbed her sore arms vigorously as if that would stop the chill.

She spotted an unattended dumpster fire next to a chain link fence and rushed over to hold her hands to the flames. Chills of warmth and sadness surged through her body. How would she survive out here on the streets? She only had a pocketful of one dollar bills and some spare quarters. There was a donut shop around the corner from here, but a Bavarian cream-filled pastry would only last her for so long. She sighed as her stomach rumbled like grinding machinery.

The gothic teen snapped out of her trance and gasped deeply when she felt a hand even stronger than her parents grab her by the arm. The strength at which this man squeezed was reminiscent of a blood pressure cuff and left purple impressions on her bicep. Kristen gazed at this man in wide-eyed horror while weakly trying to pull away from his grasp. Like the other hobos, he had a filthy gray trench coat, little underneath, and newspaper shoes. Why he was wearing a demonic clown mask with horns and a rainbow wig was a mystery in and of itself.

“Shouldn’t you be at home playing with Barbies and blowing your boyfriend?” asked the clown in a gravelly voice. “This is not your territory, bitch. This place ain’t no rave party.”

“P…please, sir!” stuttered Kristen. “I don’t have anywhere else to go! I just need a place to sleep tonight and then I’ll leave, I promise!”

“Sleep? You want a place to sleep?!” grimaced the clown, sending tremors throughout his victim’s body. “I wish I had a place to sleep other than this dumpster fire. I used to have a nice warm bed with lots to eat and a woman to snuggle with. And then do you know what happened?” With teary eyes, Kristen shook her head. “The bitch took it all from me!” shouted the clown, prompting even more tears from the teenaged girl. “In fact, you kind of look like her with those pretty brown eyes and black sexy hair.” The clown took a big sniff of Kristen’s hair. “Yeah, she used that same shampoo. Oh, I’m going to have some serious fun with you tonight!”

Kristen slapped the clown with her free hand, but it barely fazed him and only put an evil grin on his face. The clown grabbed the teen by her throat and bull rushed her against the chain link face. She tried to yell, but only gagging sounds and red spit came out. The clown quickly cuffed her hands to the fence and shoved a ball gag in her mouth the shape of a cheeseburger. While the teen moaned through her gag, the clown said, “You want to eat so badly? Choke on that, you slutty bitch!”

The clown’s ghostly laughter was silenced by an Indian-accent shouting, “Hey, Crackers!” The teen and her captor stared saucer-eyed at a hobo with torn sweat pants, newspaper shoes, and a dirty white turban, who could be seen carrying a wooden plank wrapped in razor wire. “That girl doesn’t belong to you!” he said. “You owe me for that box of donuts I gave you! If anybody’s taking that bitch’s cherry, it’s me!”

Kristen screamed through her foul-tasting gag and prompted Crackers to yell, “Shut up!” and slap her across the face. Tears flooded from Kristen’s eyes and burned the now open wound.

Crackers folded his arms and said to his rival, “Samir, I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. If you didn’t give me that box of donuts, I would have smashed your fucking face in and taken them from you. Are you new to this shit or something? You know how this works!”

“You better hand over that hot piece of ass or I’m shoving this plank up yours!” threatened Samir while he held his weapon high in the air.

“Oh, you want to go? You want to do this right now? Let’s go, bitch!” shouted Crackers as he threw his trench coat down and revealed bloody polka dot pants underneath.

Kristen watched the fight unfold with a sore jaw, sore cheeks, a whimpering voice, and hazy eyes. For every fist Crackers threw, for every swing of Samir’s plank, the gothic teen struggled in vain to jerk herself free from the handcuffs. The two combatants’ attacks missed wildly due to their initial drunkenness, but Samir was finally able to bury his plank into Crackers’ thigh, earning a wild scream from both him and Kristen in the process.

Despite the bleeding, Crackers yanked the 2 X 4 out of his leg and broke it over his good knee, earning more cuts in the process (he was too drunk to care). He then threw rapid fire punches Samir’s way and ended up punching the cage and various dumpster fires as he missed. Samir picked up a trash can lid off the ground and smashed it across Crackers’ face. The demonic clown no-sold that blow and head butted the Indian for his efforts, knocking the turban off his greasy scalp and sending him crashing to the ground.

Kristen continued to struggle and scream while Crackers hoisted Samir up by his neck and attempted to throw him into a nearby dumpster fire. The Indian braced himself by shoving against the metal structure with his feet. Just when he was getting forced closer to the flame, he reached down for another wooden plank, lit it on fire, and smashed it across Crackers’ face. Once again, the clown no-sold the offence despite the ashes forming on his cheeks.

With a wicked smile on his face, Crackers grabbed Samir by the armpits and tossed him against the chain link fence. The clown then grinded the Indian’s face against the wire and opened some massive cuts, even managing to pop one of his eyeballs and break some of the fencing.

Seeing how easily the fence broke under Crackers’ violent force gave Kristen the confidence to struggle harder. This time she pressed against the cage using her boots and grinded her metal studs across the wire. She even used the studs on her novelty gag to shred the wires even more.

Every time she saw Samir’s blood fly across the cage, Kristen missed her family more and more. Her parents could be a pain in the ass, but they were nowhere close to being as violent or psychotic as these two street warriors. How she longed for the taste of mother’s cooking. How she loved bullshitting with her father about classic rock bands they both loved. How she missed petting her dog across the back and feeling fluff and love. Each of these images and more fueled her passionate struggle against the fence. She heard a wire snap and struggled harder. She heard another one snap. And another. And another.

Her efforts were halted by Crackers grabbing her hair and yanking her head backwards. As Kristen breathed heavily through her nose, the clown said, “Nobody’s coming to save you, you dumb bitch! Not your parents, not the police, not even nacho nuts over there!”

Despite looking like a cross between a horror movie victim and a slaughterhouse cow with his splattered blood and popped eyeball, Samir managed to pick up a piece of broken razor wire and slam it against Crackers’ wrist (the rapid bleeding took away some of his equilibrium). This time Crackers sold it like a champ since his wound was juicier than a spilled soda truck.

What Samir unwittingly did in the process was slash the chain on Kristen’s handcuffs and allow her to jerk free from the cage. With nothing but adrenaline and a tearful love for her family, Kristen unfastened her cuffs and cheeseburger gag before bolting out of the hobo hideout with demonic swearing behind her. She didn’t care if running away from home made her exhausted. Running back home was sure to put her in a coma, but she ignored her burning pain and sprinted like a motherfucker.

Her legs felt like liquid shit. Her face felt like gonorrhea piss. Her ribs felt more crushed than Samir’s bloody eye. Yet she ran screaming and never looked back. She didn’t care about being covered in darkness. She didn’t care about the red sky polluted with industrial filth. She cared less about the car pulling up to her on the street potentially being filled with bad guys. She threw the back door open and leapt inside while screaming, “Go, go, go!” The car pulled away in a big fucking hurry, leaving skid marks underneath its tires.

Despite having gelatinous green fluid in her nose from crying so much, Kristen detected the familiar scents of a pine tree air freshener and old leather seats. She was in her parents’ car. They actually went out to find her. While Mr. Miranda was busy speeding away from the scene, Mrs. Miranda reached behind her shotgun seat and hugged her daughter tightly while showering her with kisses. “Don’t ever run away from us again, Kristen! We love you! We love you forever!”

“I love you too, Mom!” sobbed Kristen. While she and her mom continued hugging it out, Mr. Miranda turned on the radio and played “Pigs On the Wing” by Pink Floyd, a love song with no hint of shallowness or perversion. Oh, how good it felt to hear “old people music” again. Kristen couldn’t help but smile through her tears at the sound of such a familiar tune. She was finally going home to a warm bed that didn’t feel anything remotely like a dumpster fire. Crackers and Samir could bleed each other dry for all she cared. It was over now. It was all over.

A Weasel and a Thief

The early morning darkness did wonders in comforting Private Laurel Tate’s battle scarred mind. Maybe it was the way her platoon snored like little kittens as they laid in their sleeping bags on the desert ground. Maybe it was the vanilla ice cream-like texture of the full moon that night. Maybe it was the way the stars twinkled brightly across her field of vision. Whatever this comfort was, Laurel envied her platoon mates as she marched back and forth with her AK-47 drawn ready to shower any insurgent with bullets at a moment’s notice.

There seemed to be no need for such a brutal weapon that moment. It was surprisingly quiet for a war-torn desert. No bombs going off, no machinegun fire, just peace and quiet. Because of the strangeness of it all, Laurel had to be extra vigilant and the caffeine pills she took before her shift would help her do that. Every once and a while she would drift off while she was on her feet, but only for a few seconds at best. A lifetime of drinking coffee made her somewhat immune to these military-grade caffeine pills. Nevertheless, she remained steadfast in her night watch.

She reached for the radio on her hip and said into it, “Coast is clear, over.” But when she hit the button, the entire device popped like a balloon and gave Laurel a quick jump scare. “What the hell?” she asked herself as she saw that her radio was indeed a clown’s balloon. With wide eyes and a tight trigger finger, she looked around at her platoon and saw that their weapons had been replaced by balloon animals and their radios were replaced with bicycle helmets.

“Hey! Wake up! We’ve been made!” shouted Laurel, but the mechanical snoring continued. “I said wake up, goddamn it! We’re under attack!” Still no answer from the drowsy crew. “Fucking morons! Wake your asses up, now!” she barked with even more sauce in her voice. She even squeezed off a few rounds of her assault rifle in the air, but that too turned out to be an exploding balloon animal. “What the fuck is going on here?!” she asked while tightly squeezing the remains of her inflatable giraffe.

“You can yell all you want, sweetheart, but they ain’t waking up!” said a cartoon voice with two honks of a bicycle horn to follow. Private Tate’s what-the-fuck face was cranked up to eleven when she saw a tiny gnome in a clown suit waving at her and peddling a child’s bike with a wagon full of AK-47’s and other military equipment. “Turn that frown upside down! Without these bad boys, you won’t have to go to war anymore! Smile, you silly goose!” From the gnome clown’s gigantic sleeves shot a volley of crepe paper in Laurel’s now red hot face.

The marine private slowly wiped the paper off her face while maintaining a contorted look of disgust and vitriol. “You little shit weasel! You better give that shit back or else…”

“Or else what? You’ll get a spanking from your daddy?” mocked the gnome with a sarcastic hand of concern over his mouth. “You really need to loosen up, baby cakes! Here, have some music to brighten your day!” The clown flipped the switch on a radio mounted to his handle bars and played church organ circus music. He laughed like a hyena and started peddling away in his little bicycle while waving goodbye.

While she wouldn’t get “a spanking from her daddy”, Laurel would get an earful from her commanding officer if she allowed this little freak of nature to get away so easily with expensive military equipment. Physical training until her body resembled a skeleton. A firing squad that put more holes in her than a mesh fence. God knows how many years in a military prison that would rival most shit houses. Any one of these possibilities shook Laurel to her core and her nerves fired off like the assault rifles stolen from her platoon.

“Get over here, you little creep!” grunted Private Tate through gritted teeth while she darted after her thief at a deadlier speed than when she ran obstacles in boot camp. With every ounce of strength she pumped into her thick legs, she crept inches closer to her elusive assailant. Her heart pumped at a million beats per minute and sweat poured from her brow like a water park. She reached out her hand only inches away from her slick thief’s rainbow-colored hair. Two fingertips turned into three and three turned into an entire handful of clown hair.

With one clean jerk, Private Tate yanked the little fucker off of his bike and started raining punches down on his face. She could feel the molten lead pumping through her veins as well as the blood and juices splashing against her already red eyes and face. She finally relented her attack when she saw that she had been punching a watermelon this entire time. The burgundy in her face flashed a mixture of boiling anger and douche chills of embarrassment.

Standing right beside her and laughing like a lunatic, the gnome clown said, “Gotcha! I gotcha good, didn’t I!” before cooling off Laurel’s face with a spray of lapel water. The clown rolled on the floor laughing and kicking the air while slamming his fists into the desert sand.

With her anger hot enough to make her head explode like a car bomb, Laurel finally got her hands wrapped around the little bastard’s throat and squeezed so hard that the gnome’s facial redness was easily visible through his white makeup. “Alright, you little shit head! Tell me who you are and what the fuck you’re doing here! I’ll make your death quick and painless if you listen to reason!”

The clown’s head popped in balloon fashion once again and his real head slid through the neck of his jacket. “Gotcha again!” said the diminutive booger as he rolled around laughing yet again. Laurel could do nothing but remain on her knees and watch this nut job with burning red eyes.

Upon witnessing the marine’s frustration, the clown stopped laughing and changed his expression to mock sadness. “Aww, what’s wrong? Don’t be sad, little girl. I’m just having some fun with you tonight. I suppose introductions are in order. My name is Ozzy May. Nice to meet you!” The two of them shook hands only for Laurel to get a jolt in her fingers and for Ozzy to have another reason to chuckle and hee-haw.

“I give up. I fucking give up,” said Laurel with a low and solemn voice. “I didn’t sign up for this goofy shit. I’m supposed to be shooting terrorists, not little shit stains like you!”

Ozzy nipped up and sat on the seat of his bicycle with his legs crossed and big red feet swinging. “So what of it? You want to go home? You want to see your husband and daughter again? Have you finally had enough of this god awful war that nobody needs to be fighting?”

“I need to fight it!” barked Laurel. “I joined the marines so that I could protect my country and if I have to protect it from little punks like you, then I’ll gladly do it!”

Ozzy May rested his jaw on his fingertips and said, “Really? Who told you that? A politician? A recruiter? A TV pundit? Come on, little girl, you can’t really be serious about all of that rhetoric. The only reason why there aren’t any bullets flying tonight is because nobody’s alive to shoot them. I’m not just talking about whackos with bombs. I’m talking about women and children too. You’ve seen their bodies up close and you can’t get those images out of your mind. Those aren’t caffeine pills you’re taking. That’s trauma medication!”

Laurel’s facial expression melted into softness upon realizing that this little guy had a point. The tears were building in her eyes, but she didn’t want them flooding and Ozzy noticed that. She couldn’t let this clown see her cry. Instead her sorrow turned to rage when she bolted to her feet and spear tackled Ozzy to the ground with her fist raised high. “What do you know about the shit going on in my head?! Huh?! What makes you a fucking authority?!”

“I know this because that’s how my gnomish race was wiped out,” said Ozzy with rare seriousness in his voice. “Too many of them were blown to bits while others lynched themselves into a peaceful death. That’s the reality of war, but no politician will ever tell you that. But of course, what does a gnome like me know about war? I’m too small to fight other people’s battles for them. Even if I wanted to be a soldier, nobody would recruit me because I’m small enough to get my ass kicked by normal sized men. If you need proof, just look at you and that raised fist!”

Slowly lowering her hand, Laurel’s tears burst from her eyes, but she refused to sob in front of this tiny man. “Why are you telling me these things? You’re just a clown. You’re here to torment me!”

“Exactly!” said Ozzy. “If I don’t set you straight, these desert warriors will. I’d much rather you’d be pranked by a clown instead of blown up by a rocket launcher. Is that really what it’s going to take to get you home? A blown off leg? A mindful of shitty memories? A hole in your chest the size of a sewer lid? Or maybe you prefer to travel home in a wooden box with an American flag draped over it!”

Even more tears poured from Laurel’s eyes as she rolled onto her back and gazed at the night sky. It still looked beautiful despite her tormented mind. She could have more nights like this if she came home alive and well to a family that depended on her for income and love. She didn’t want to admit it, but Ozzy May was right. But the more she pushed away his talking points, the stronger they hit her.

“How the fuck am I supposed to go home now?” asked Laurel wearily. “It’s not like my commanding officer is just going to let me go. He’ll probably punish the shit out of me before that happens.”

Wrapping his tiny arm around her shoulders, Ozzy said, “Did I mention that those weren’t caffeine pills you were taking? At least those are allowed. Illegally obtained prescription drugs? Not so much. The marines don’t want drug addicted trauma victims on their team. They want young healthy soldiers who can run into battle and beat some ass with the best of them. Your CO will find out sooner or later. But in your case, it’s as soon as you decide to wake up!”

That final sentence was punctuated with a cream pie to Laurel’s face. She coughed and spit up the pieces of whipped cream before angrily wiping it from her field of vision. By the time her eyes were clear enough to see, it was the break of dawn and her once snoring marine friends were gathered all around her with scornful looks in their eyes. Was this whole thing just a dream? A fucked up god awful dream about midget clowns?

One of them had a prescription bottle of pills with the name Dr. Ozzy May on the top of the label. That same marine knelt down to Laurel’s side and said with stern conviction, “We need to talk.”

“Am…am I busted?” asked Laurel.

“You’re goddamn right you are,” said the head marine.

I'm Back From NOLA

***I’M BACK FROM NOLA***

If you’ve seen my Face Book posts about this particular vacation, you’ll notice the central themes of exhaustion and crabbiness. Truth is, though, it wouldn’t be right to complain about sleep schedules and lack of private time when many of my readers would kill for a chance to have fun in New Orleans, Louisiana. Why wouldn’t they? The food is next-level delicious, the eye-candy is sweeter than their actual desserts (that’s saying a lot!), and the weirdness of the late-night partying gives the city its individuality. Aren’t vacations supposed to be about having a good time anyways?

The first day of the vacation was Sunday, which means lots of airplane and taxi riding. If you’re traveling to New Orleans, your ass-numbing patience will be rewarded with a delicious dinner of tender and juicy rib-eye steak, soft and salty French fries, and some fried oysters that everybody can share (with good reason). Even before entering the restaurant, if you’re in this scenario, you get to meet a crazy guy who calls his little doggy a “reincarnated angel in animal form”. Come to think of it, if I didn’t know how weird New Orleans can be, I’d swear that guy owns a windowless van. Hehe! Nah, that’s mean. He had a good puppy-duppy, I mean, angel from heaven.

The second day was all about riding a boat through the swamplands and getting to see some awesome creatures in their natural habitat. There were so many gators in that swamp that you’d swear Karen Russell’s novels took place in New Orleans instead of Florida. We also got to see some wild piggies, some of whom were affectionately named Male Chauvinist Pig, Piggy Smalls, and Notorious PIG. Goddamn, that tour guide had a wild sense of humor. He even made a few wisecracks about throwing his guests overboard since they were “live bait”. And when we pulled into the dock, we got to pet small kitties hanging out at the ticket office. There was a tuxedo kitty, a panther-looking kitty, a gray and white beauty, and a shy Siamese sweetie that reminded me of Luna-Tuna. So many animals in one day!

Dia numero tres (forgive me if my Spanish is off) was spent going on a van tour of the city and learning all about the history of this wild and crazy city. Houses were purposefully raised to deal with flooding, some of them high enough to fit an entire level underneath. When Hurricane Katrina did its damage, it wasn’t he levies that broke. It was the rising level of the lake, a lake which feeds off into the Gulf of Mexico. From what I’ve seen, New Orleans still has quite a bit of work to do in recovering from this environmental disaster. Theme parks need to be restored, buildings need to be used, and schools need to be reopened. It can and will be done. If there’s anything you can learn from the people of New Orleans, it’s that they can persevere through anything and keep their smiles alive in the process.

The fourth day was easily the most eye-opening and educational part of the vacation. We visited Whitney Plantation and got to learn about the oppressive lives of black slaves. Our tour guide, Ali, even said that the alternative right racists have nothing on the slave owners back in the 1700’s and 1800’s. Owning slaves wasn’t just about physically beating someone into submission. It was psychological torture as well. The slaves lost their names, their culture, their education, and their family structures thanks to this disgusting business of treating human beings like property. Visit Whitneyplantation.com to see just how fucked up of a past we have. Racism is real, slavery is real, and both still exist in other forms in today’s world.

The fifth and final day was spent wandering around the French Quarter looking for various shops to pay a visit to. My mom got a facial at a beauty shop and the European lady who performed that service told me that I was “cute and handsome” and that she wishes she had a mommy like mine. My face was redder than the Communist Manifesto. I’m just kidding, I don’t write like that. Hehe! Dale visited various candy shops and got his fill of chocolates and pralines. I got a full body reflexology massage that relieved the stresses of travel and lifted a huge weight off of my shoulders. I also went to the toy store and bought a Lego dragon from the Ninjago franchise, so expect Toy Universe photos in the near future.

This is the second time I’ve been to New Orleans, the first being Halloween in 2011, where I walked down Bourbon Street dressed as a druid. If I ever go there again for Halloween, I’m going dressed as Corey Taylor from Slipknot. Even the late-night partying weirdoes of that city would back away in fear, just like they do in Port Orchard. Hehe! All in all, the tiredness and travel was worth it for five days of necromantic culture and educational history. I’m not sure I’d want to do another long-distance vacation again for a while, but hey, that’s what I have concerts for, which are really just one-day vacations. In June, it’s Roger Waters. In July, it’s Brit Floyd. In August, I have separate dates for Green Day, Metallica, and Incubus. And now in October, it’s Linkin Park with Snoop Dogg opening for them.

It’s easy to feel crabby and whiny when you’re tired all the time, but never forget to be grateful for all of your positive experiences. Home is always waiting for you, sleep is not too far behind, and your best memories will last a lifetime. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

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

Now that Demon Axe is in the rear view mirror (at least until I recruit Marie-Pie to help me edit it), I’m going back to writing short stories to include in Poison Tongue Tales 2 and American Darkness 2. With the theme this week being “Call of Nature”, my story will be called “The Geomancer” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Bryan Valencia, Geomancer
2. Ally Bennett, Hiker

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Geomancy requires the wizard to be in touch with nature. It is, after all, the Greek word for “earth magic”.

SYNOPSIS: Ally is hiking in the mountains when she stumbles upon Bryan casting some sort of spell on the summit. When she asks him about it, he openly admits to wanting to cause a volcanic explosion. He’s a misanthrope who’s fed up with the atrocities humans have committed over the years whether it’s rape, war, genocide, or street violence. One blast from this volcano will be powerful enough to literally set the world on fire. It’s up to Ally to talk him down since she’s the only one who believes in Bryan’s geomantic powers.

***SPEAKING OF POISON TONGUE TALES***

I got feedback from my awesome friend Andy Peloquin regarding this lysergic collection of sci-fi, fantasy, and horror stories. Unfortunately, he couldn’t complete it because it was “too trippy” for his tastes. I don’t feel bad at all about that. In fact, I take it as a compliment that he thought he was on acid during his reading adventure. Hehe! I’m the same guy whose favorite movie of all time is Pink Floyd the Wall despite the creepiness of the schoolchildren’s faceless masks. This is a blog entry about New Orleans, so that only adds to the trippiness of it all. If Andy is reading this, I want to thank him for taking the time to read what he could and that there are no hard feelings, only yuk-yuk chuckles.

***BOOGER THE CLOWN***

During the flight home to Washington state, I jotted down ideas for novels in my Lego journal and came up with…”Booger the Clown”. Before you laugh like a donkey at that title, know that it’s an urban fantasy novel idea that deals with depression. Watch You Burn deals with schizophrenia, Occupy Wrestling deals with hair-trigger tempers, and most recently Demon Axe deals with PTSD. Now it’s time to talk about depression, so without further delay, here’s a beginning and middle synopsis for “Booger the Clown”:

CHARACTERS:

1. Andrew Gale a.k.a. Booger, Depressed Clown
2. Stupid Dog, Stray Schipperke
3. Orc Army
4. More to be Named

BEGINNING SYNOPSIS: After a tour of duty in the Middle East, gangsta rap-loving ex-marine Andrew Gale comes home with crippling depression and can only find work as a birthday clown named Booger. On his way to a party, his car breaks down and all he wants to do is sit on the side of the road and drink beer while listening to violent music. When an orc approaches him with a blade and an attitude, Booger thinks it’s just a drunken hallucination and encourages the beast to kill him. The orc becomes stunned at Booger’s suicidal behavior and ends up getting his ass kicked himself. After the battle, the clown finds an abandoned schipperke on the side of the road and calls him Stupid Dog due to his finger biting habits when being fed.

MIDDLE SYNOPSIS: Booger reveals that he didn’t join the marines because of personal politics or even the thrill of war. He joined at a lied-about age so that he could one day be physically and mentally strong enough to kick his abusive father’s ass.

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

Just once I’d like to buy a birthday cake for someone, put candles in it that look like penises, and tell the birthday boy to, “Blow them out”.

Demon Axe, Chapter 1

Shrouded in darkness, the Lord of the Pit swirled his wooden ladle in the bubbling red concoction before him. The thickness of the liquid was like lava flowing in a volcano. The Lord, with his face painted as a skeleton and his long hair grayer than a cantankerous witch, looked down at his cauldron creation with a sadistic grin. His three cohorts, each of them donning black robes and vicious-looking masks, held out their steel bowls while the Lord of the Pit scooped and poured the demonic liquid into their dishes. “Drink it in, minions,” he said in a gravelly, haunting voice.

The first to consume his bowl of unholy soup was Pig Man, who as his name suggested wore the mask of a gray-skinned pig with tusks on either side and a brass nose ring through his snout. He also drank like a pig: quickly and sloppily, getting some of the brew on his robe. Pig Man let out an obnoxious burp to signify his satisfaction with his “meal”.

The second to feast upon the bubbling red muck was Vulture Man, whose mask bore a sinister scowl and a blade-like beak. Unlike his hoggish cohort, Vulture Man took small sips at first. Any trace of good dinner manners disappeared when he buried his face in his bowl and slobbered the liquid down. Instead of a burp, he let out a prolonged “Ah!” in a relaxed voice.

G-Pac, who wore the mask of a rotten-toothed, black painted, hollow-eyed clown, shook his head at his friends and chuckled with delight. “I’d say that hit the spot, wouldn’t you agree, Master?” The sinister clown drank his potion in one gulp and smashed the bowl over his head, shattering it into pieces. The mouth hole in his mask showed traces of an evil grin while a small trickle of blood ran down his forehead and into the cauldron.

“I truly am surrounded by pure gentlemen tonight,” said the Lord of the Pit, who took a swig from his own bowl and splashed it all over his gray trench coat and Demon Axe T-shirt. He threw his bowl off to the side and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. “And now my minions, join hands as I recite the Demon’s Prayer.”

With all four of these unholy clerics holding hands and bowing their heads with closed eyes, the Lord of the Pit spoke in his ominous voice. “Oh, Demon of Death, grant us your fire, your strength, and your passion. Let the masses join together in the circle pit and release their vicious energy. Don’t let our newest member, Pig Man, screw up tonight. And for god’s sake, Demon of Death, don’t let me be an asshole on stage. Don’t let any of my band mates say, ‘Too late!’”.

“Too late!” chimed in Vulture Man.

“And punish those who do!” said the Lord of the Pit, which earned a modicum of laughter from Pig Man, G-Pac, and even the smart-assed Vulture Man. The Lord pointed to the ceiling with his index finger and said, “That last one was for you, Master Carlin.” He ducked his head back down and said, “Alone, we are warriors of the music industry. Together, we are…”

“Demon Axe!” said the band mates in unison.

“Who are we?!” shouted the Lord.

“Demon Axe!”

“Amen, motherfuckers. Now let’s go out there and fuck shit up!”

The four members of the band released each other’s hands and marched their way beyond the stage curtain. With the stage lights dim and the audience chanting Demon Axe’s name, the band took their positions to the loudest of cheers. G-Pac sat at his drum kit, with his drum sticks resembling bloodied clubs. Vulture Man started strumming heavily on his electric guitar, the neck of which looked like the blade of a broad sword. Pig Man took his spot at the bass guitar, an instrument with strings that looked like pieces of ground up sausage.

The last band mate to take his position was The Lord of the Pit, who upon adjusting his battleaxe-shaped microphone received a thunderous ovation from the wild and crazy outdoor crowd. “What the fuck is going on, Paulson City?!” he shouted in his throaty voice, earning an even louder response from the audience. “You want to talk about some crazy shit?! We’re kicking this motherfucker off with Zombie-Ogre! Get that fucking circle pit going! One! Two! Three! Let’s go!”

The members of Demon Axe banged their heads and pumped out a heavy metal tune with a grinding guitar, a funky bass, and rapid-fire drums. The mosh pit in the audience intensified with every shove, resulting in bruises, bumps, and bloody gashes. With pyrotechnics bursting in the background, The Lord of the Pit began his lyrical assault on an already banged up audience.

“Eat, sleep, shatter, repeat! / Ultra-violence for human meat! / Winner, winner, chicken dinner! / The glutinous one is a true sinner! / Blood on his fangs, flesh on his tongue! / Poison in his gut, disease in his lungs! / Zombie-Ogre is coming to kill! / Cannibalism, a sadistic thrill!”

As Pig Man and Vulture Man screamed the chorus into their bone and skull microphones, The Lord of the Pit stopped head banging for a moment and had a faraway look in his eyes. He was probably accustomed to looking at ghosts all the time with his dark fantasy gimmick, but this time, he actually looked like he saw a ghost. His eyes were wide, his body was still despite the heavy metal thrashing going on, and he frowned his worst frown.

“Stop the music! Stop the goddamn music! Do it, now!” ordered the Lord of the Pit, to which the band mates reluctantly complied. The antsy audience cheered at their wildest level, clearly suffering from heavy metal withdrawal. The Lord pointed his finger out in the distance and said, “Stagehands, I want you to shine a big red light on that guy in the back. The one with the brown robe and the hood over his face. You’ll understand why in a minute. Just fucking do it!”

The red light was shining down upon the robed figure in the far back of the venue. Such an evil color seemed appropriate considering he was carrying a lengthy machete in his hands with blood dripping down from the blade. Audience members screamed and slowly backed away from him.

“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Security Detail! You guys are sure earning your money tonight!” said a sarcastic Lord of the Pit with his arms flailing about. “Seriously, where the fuck are you guys?! How is it that not one bouncer has tackled this guy yet?! I guess he’s just a really good fighter, right? A whole group of three hundred pound men and not one of them can take down a jackass with a machete! It’s a simple matter of physics, people! A guy with a blade cannot fight off that many fat-assed bouncers! I don’t care if he’s the love child of Bruce Lee and a Xiaolin fucking monk! It’s damned near impossible!”

The audience booed and flashed downwards thumbs and middle fingers at the machete-wielding warrior, who didn’t flinch one bit. He just stood there as still as a statue and as stoic as the heartless killer he was. The Lord of the Pit continued his rant with, “I’ll tell you guys what. Since security is too lazy to do their fucking jobs, I’ve got a better idea on how we can handle this. Normally, I don’t encourage this kind of thing at my shows, but this asshole is giving us no other choice. How about this: you, the audience, form a circle pit around that guy and see how tough he really is when he’s got a whole army going up against him!”

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers and leonine roars, raising their fists to the skies and letting their mostly pierced tongues hang down from their mouths. “Are you ready?!” shouted the Lord of the Pit, to which the crowd cheered even more aggressively. “One! Two! Three! Get him!” The rowdy and animalistic crowd descended upon the machete fighter ready to beat his ass into powder.

Nobody counted on the mysterious warrior removing his hood to reveal green flesh and elongated ears, to which the crowd backed off and the Lord of the Pit shouted, “Holy shit!” The machete fighter threw one slash and lopped off the heads of several audience members, their necks gushing like volcanoes of blood and their bodies dropping to the ground almost instantly.

Audience members wailed and ran with their arms flailing in the air while the elfish murderer stabbed them in the gut, hacked off their arms and legs, and slashed their throats. In such quick and unrivaled movements, the elf turned this outdoor concert venue into an ocean of thick blood, splattered organs, shredded skin, and shattered bones.

Among the frightened people desperately trying to escape were the members of Demon Axe themselves. They looked like anything but unholy knights as they ran like Olympians behind the curtain, past the backstage area, and through the cheaply-built door, which the Lord of the Pit battered down with one shoulder tackle. With his mind scrambling in different directions, his heart beating like G-Pac’s double bass drums, and sweat raining from his painted skin, the Lord of the Pit shed his gray trench coat and bolted toward the Demon Axe tour bus. He shot up the stairs and made a football tackle onto the soft plushy couch.

The Lord’s breathing was heavy and raspy as he closed his eyes and sprawled out on the couch. He heard the bus doors close and the driver attempting to start the engine, which snapped him out of his exhausted state and forced him to look around for his band mates, none of whom were on the bus.

“Hold on a second! Driver, where the hell is everyone?! We can’t just leave them out there with this psychopath! Open the goddamn doors and let them in!” demanded the Lord of the Pit. As he frantically looked around, he saw something out of the window that made his bloodshot eyes shoot up in horror and load up with tears. The elf warrior stood outside the tour bus with a frightening smile on his face, audience members screaming and running in the background, and the severed heads and spinal columns of Pig Man, Vulture Man, and G=Pac in his fists.

While the elf was laughing evilly to himself, the Lord of the Pit banged on the window and shouted “No!” repeatedly in prolonged cinematic fashion. The bus’s engine finally started and the vehicle drove away into the night, the elf never taking his burning orange eyes off of the screaming and traumatized singer.

With the arena far behind him, the Lord of the Pit continued to scream and cry in agony at the thought of his former band mates decapitated by this monster of a human being, if he could be called that. He scrambled toward his mini refrigerator and pulled out everything from its confines whether it was lunch meat, ice cream, or what he was truly looking for, a gigantic bottle of booze.

The Lord eyed the bottle with heavy tears and heavy breathing. “This is just what I fucking need.” He quickly unscrewed the top and chucked the entire bottle in only a matter of minimal gulps. Once the bottle was empty, he smashed it against his head several times. The bottle finally broke after the fifth strike. With a bloodied scalp and a drunken, traumatized mind, the once mighty Lord of the Pit dropped down to his knees and fell flat on his face. He intended to sleep that way for the rest of this god-forsaken night.

“I’d get that wound wrapped up if I were you, Daniel,” said the driver, which earned him a lazy middle finger from the Lord of the Pit. Lord of the Pit? Who was he kidding? His band mates were dead. Most of his fans were dead. The whole dark fantasy gimmick was just bullshit. And now the man legally known as Daniel P. Mercer was just a sad drunk with paint and blood all over his face.

Tiger Bullet Kick

Bob Rua had been through every kind of battle and shed tons of blood in his day, but even he admitted that he hadn’t seen anything yet. There would always be stronger challengers and they would always come in greater numbers. The anthropomorphic tiger wore his battle scars as badges of honor. He purposefully walked around in baggy shorts with no shirt to remind himself of the many hits he had taken. His thick striped orange fur could barely contain the bloody slashes he had endured. Most of his fur was getting grayer with every passing generation. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he would often say to himself.

Old he may be, his job of guarding the Moon Temple Mausoleum was no less important. He patrolled the inside of the stone sanctuary and marveled at the golden treasures buried in caskets with their dead owners. Taking these jewels to the afterlife would make the “clients’” journey into heaven that much richer. Any lowlife bandit who dared rob these caskets would be met with a swift kick to the gut, a punch to the jaw, knees and elbows to wherever Bob felt like throwing them, or he could employ the infamous martial arts technique, the Tiger Bullet Kick.

Bob reflected on all of the times he was forced to use such a brutal maneuver. It not only obliterated anybody who stood in its path, but it took a lot of energy out of the user. Sometimes Bob would be bedridden for three weeks straight after executing the Tiger Bullet Kick. Sometimes he would cough up blood and vomit bile. It was amazing he lived as long as he did. The thought of having to perform such a technique again made him quiver with anticipated sickness and anxiety.

Elderly age afforded him the wisdom to show restraint when it came to the technique. It also caused him to be lost in thought whenever his alertness was needed. It wasn’t until he heard feint whispering that he was snapped out of his old man gaze. With his lantern guiding his way in the dark, Bob shouted out, “Who’s there? Show yourself! Family visitations ended much earlier in the day!”

Bob was getting closer to the source of the whisper and was able to hear that the speaker was using mystical tongues. “Necromancy? Is that why you’re here? Not on my watch, you scoundrel!” The tiger monk’s sandaled feet slapped against the stone floor as hard as they could when he approached the voice further. The whispers grew louder and faster until Bob’s lantern shone on the source.

Standing over a nearby coffin was a woman in red samurai robes with her orange hair pinned in a bun and her arms extended as she was casting her spell. She slowly turned her head around to reveal her monstrous, creepy clown smile complete with sharp teeth, a bloody nose, and bloodshot eyes. Bob let out a small shiver, but at the same time maintained his fighting stance.

“So you’ve come to my temple looking for your own personal minion? You necromancers disgust me! Being dead is hard enough without freaks like you trying to make puppets out of their corpses! I could vomit all over this floor right now!” said Bob.

The clown lady laughed like a horse and arched backwards like Bob’s warning was the greatest comedy in the world. She unsheathed her katana and spoke to him in a raspy voice. “Trust me, tiger man, Viktor the Warlord is hardly the man I came here for! I’ve got much more work to do on these sacred grounds!”

The necromancer samurai licked her blade seductively before leaping into battle with the martial arts tiger. The two warriors threw kicks, punches, and slashes at each other with whooshing sound effects behind them as they dodged like athletes. They continued to fight even faster than before, causing their dodges to resemble acrobatic flips and slides. During one of the slides, Bob Rua slipped on his ass and was vulnerable for a rushing stab from the samurai clown. But as the bladed warrior bolted towards him, he shot right back up and delivered an oxygen-draining spin kick to her stomach, causing her to double over and gasp for air.

 Bob shook out his shoulders and said to his victim, “Is that all you’ve got? Are you going to finish this fight or are you just going to lie down and moan?” The clown’s answer came in the form of mocking laughter, to which the tiger monk marched over to her and lifted her head by her hair. “You think disrespecting the dead is funny? I should snap that skinny neck of yours right fucking now!”

The coffin the necromancer was working on exploded into green fire, knocking pebbles into Bob’s chest and stinging him slightly. Out of the fire came his worst nightmare, Viktor the Warlord, a seven-foot tall mummy wrapped up in filthy tape with maggots crawling all over his rotting purple skin. Viktor’s moans at first sounded like someone getting out of bed on a Monday. The moans then started to become animalistic, like a pack of wolves hungry for meat.

Bob tossed the samurai to the ground and rushed up to Viktor to deliver a furious beat down. His punches were like wrecking balls, his kicks were like sledgehammers, his elbows and knees were like battering rams, but all they did was stagger Viktor a few inches backwards.

The mummy wrapped both of his worm-infested meat hooks around Bob’s neck and hoisted him in the air while squeezing the life out of him. As the tiger man struggled to pry Viktor’s hands off, he threw even more jackhammer-like kicks to the midsection and groin area, but all he did was expend energy and darken his vision even more. Before he could completely fade away, Viktor released his grip and dropped Bob’s nearly limp body to the stone floor, causing him to nearly lose his lunch and his lungs as he coughed violently.

“Come on, tiger man,” taunted the necromancer. “Why don’t you use that Tiger Bullet Kick you’re so proud of. I know exactly who you are. You’re a dying breed of the Rua clan. You’ll probably be dead if you use that Tiger Bullet Kick one more time. Go ahead. Try it. You’re all alone in this temple. Nobody’s coming to help you. It’s do or die, my friend. Mostly just die, but you get what I’m saying.”

“Yeah, like I’m going to let you sneak out of here with the treasure once I’m dead and gone. Get lost, punk!” said Bob in a raspy voice as he staggered to his feet. This time Viktor grabbed him by the fur on his head and hoisted him high off the floor.

“It’s kill or be killed, Bob! What’s it going to be? You know you want to do it!” taunted the samurai as she did cheerleader-like hops and flips in evil happiness.

Viktor smiled at Bob with worms swirling around his teeth and tongue. His breath smelled like cow shit, almost bad enough to earn himself a KO victory. But then a bright yellow aura glowed around Bob Rua. The light radius grew beyond his prone body and the samurai clown was cheering him on. She knew what was coming and danced around like a madwoman. Viktor challenged him with an even nastier smile and said, “Do it!”

“It could kill me, but I don’t fucking care anymore! Tiger Bullet Kick!” shouted Bob. With fire and light surrounding his legs, he threw one powerful flying kick to Viktor’s chest, sending a heavenly show of golden aura throughout the temple, turning night into day and turning the moon into sunshine. The mummy warlord laughed like the monster he was before turning into a heap of dust and leaving Bob on the ground taking short and weak breaths.

The samurai spun around and tiptoed up to Bob’s lifeless body, to which she saw blood pouring from his mouth and nose. She clapped her hands happily and extended her arms to cast another necromancy spell. After her obligatory haunting whispers, she explained, “Truth is, Bob, I didn’t come here for Viktor the Warlord’s services. He was just a byproduct of a much bigger plot. I came here for you, tiger man. Forever more, you will be my undead minion. You will know your master as the great and powerful Makoto Lionheart, Gatekeeper of Souls. Now rise, you worthless scum! Rise from your slumber so that you may do that lovely Tiger Bullet Kick over and over again! Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with you!”

Bob started moaning like he had sleep apnea as he got on his hands and knees and slowly stood up to face his new master. In a zombie-like drone, he said, “I shall do whatever you wish, my lord.” Makoto spun around and cheered to herself while smiling like an innocent child. “There’s just one catch,” Bob said before reaching out and grabbing Makoto by both sides of her head. “I said that the Tiger Bullet Kick could kill me, not that it would.” Makoto trembled in his vice-like grip. “I’m ready for the world’s longest nap. Would you care to join me?”

With his tiger claws buried deep into the sides of Makoto’s head, he spun her skull around multiple times before her neck muscles loosened and her neck bone snapped in two, leaving her a lifeless heap on the floor as soon as Bob released her. The tiger warrior smiled at his handiwork, but not without coughing up chunks of blood and sprawling over the corpse of his victim. As his body relaxed on what might be his last night on earth, he softly said to himself, “Man, I’m getting too old for this shit.”

Dance Like You're Dumb

***DANCE LIKE YOU’RE DUMB***

This journal shouldn’t be confused with the short story I wrote a few weeks ago called “Laugh Like You’re Dumb”, which was about a college student laughing at a rape joke from a movie. I stole that title from an Incubus song and paraphrased it to fit the content. “Dance Like You’re Dumb” is much different and much more lighthearted. In fact, it’s a song WWE COO Triple H can probably relate to if he saw the lyrics. Hehe! Oh, those nepotism jokes never get old. Here are the lyrics to my new favorite Incubus song:

Ohhhh

Nobody gets whatcha got without gettin all hot

With the boss' daughter

Taking her out on the town, dizzy up, spin her round

Makin out with her dress turned upside down

Have a drink! Whatcha think? She's all heels and kink

Betcha thought you'd landed

Then like a pink Boba Fett, she calls you on your bet

And your hat is the least of... what you're handed

Dance!

Because

You're young

And you don’t need a reason

Dance!

Just like

You got

Your legs from a cartoon

Dance!

Just like

You're dumb

Like you don't need the money

Dance!

Under

The moon

Cause you never know, never know

You were kissed with a fist, now you're tied at the wrist

To the boss-man's daughter

You thought singing her praises would get you a raise

Now you're just like a horse being led to the water

Is fine, come on in! Takin one on the chin

Is a price worth payin

For a glimpse, just a look. Let's have one off the books!

She's a pink Boba Fett

And that's all I'm sayin

Dance!

Because

You're young

And you don't need a reason

Dance!

Just like

You got

Your legs from a cartoon

Dance!

Just like

You're dumb

Like you don't need the money

Dance!

Under

The moon

Cause you never never never know

(Never know, never know)

(Never know, never know)

Like you don't need a reason

Yeah, you don't need the money

Yeah, you don't need a reason

Yeah, you don't need the money

Like you don't need a reason

Like you don't need the money

Like you don't need a reason

Like you don't need a money

Just when you thought you were done, catch ya breath

Too much fun, now the red lights flashin

She kept a rainbow of pills, she was up on her thrills

Both her brains and her body liked

A good bashin

Of course, they're not mine! Officer, I'm not tryin to put it all on her

Put it on who? City boy, take a look, it's just you

Now I'm just like a lamb headed to the slaughter

Dance!

Because

You're young

And you don't need a reason

Dance!

Just like

You got

Your legs from a cartoon

Dance!

Just like

You're dumb

Like you don't need the money

Dance!

Under

The moon

Cause you never never never know

Yeah, you never never never know

Dance!

Look it up on You Tube if you get the chance. It’s worth it! We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***WSS: MONTHLY CONTEST***

It’s a new month, which means I’m on double duty when it comes to short stories, one for the month of June and one for the week of May 4^th, 2016 (May the fourth be with you, Star Wars nerds; this is a good day to Google pictures of chicks in Leia’s metal bikini). For the monthly contest, we’ve got a picture prompt given to us by the wonderful photographer and WSS admin Alex-Pie. It’s basically a picture of roman pillars protecting what could be the entrance to a sacred building. Therefore, my story for the June issue of WSS’s online magazine is called “Tiger Bullet Kick”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

Bob Rua, Tiger Monk

Makoto Lionheart, Clown Samurai

Viktor, Mummy Warlord

PROMPT CONFORMITY: The entrance of the mausoleum is marked with the pillars in the photograph.

SYNOPSIS: Bob is the loyal watchman of a mausoleum containing mummified bodies and ancient treasure. Makoto sneaks into the building and uses necromancy to raise Viktor from the dead. It is revealed that Bob was the one who put Viktor in his grave using a martial arts attack called the “Tiger Bullet Kick”. In his old age, Mr. Rua can’t afford to use such a powerful move again lest it completely drains his spiritual energy and kills him. Sacrificing himself to put Viktor back in his tomb would leave the treasure and other mummies readily available to Makoto. Being an elderly martial arts master affords Bob a lot of wisdom, but even he can’t wrap his head around this one in a matter of crucial seconds.

***WSS: WEEKLY CONTEST***

You can’t have double duty without two stories. The weekly prompt is “Force” (again, Happy Star Wars Day), though I’m going to interpret it to be something much darker than a light saber fight with Kylo Ren. It’s called “Vex Ed” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

Martin Hitch, Sex Ed Teacher

Jennifer McHenry, Sexual Assault Victim

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Jennifer’s sexual experience was forced upon her.

SYNOPSIS: When Martin teaches sex education at Ocean View High School, he takes the abstinence only approach by putting emphasis on sexual diseases, pregnancies, and low social status. In his booming voice, he compares teenagers who have had sex multiple times to chewed up pieces of gum that lost their flavor. Jennifer, a victim of sexual assault, takes offense Martin’s oratory and bursts out of her seat to attack him. It takes multiple students to pull her off, but they won’t go unscathed either since the act of restraining reminds her of the rape she experienced.

Damn, I sure have a lot of American Darkness 2 characters named Jennifer!

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

These drawings are pretty much my go-to creative task whenever an exhausting day takes over. You all saw drawings I did of Clint Magnus, Tetra Engel, and Gargoth Trencher. The next one will be Stinger Crushwar, the obnoxious rhino barbarian from “Unleash the Animal”. Although, his name should be Stinker Crushwar seeing as how he took a shit in Rosie Moonbender’s magic pool. Either way, it’s another barbarian on my long list of them.

Speaking of toilet humor…

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“There’s a diet pill on the market where one of the side effects is anal seepage. If you’re taking this pill, I don’t care how much weight you’ve lost, ‘cause you’re not looking good in those jeans.”

-Jeff Foxworthy-