Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction vs. Tim French

 

His last name is French, but he doesn't know why France calls it a Royale with Cheese instead of a Quarter Pounder.

Drew Carey welcomes you to my blog

 

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee

VERSE 1

He said:

“I crawled so you can run, now I’ll cut off your legs

Don’t fuck before you’re married, now some forced anal sex

You’ll get hired today and then laid off tomorrow

Ask for pocket change? That’s a loan you can’t borrow

I set you up for failure like a sick evil fuck

‘Cause some preacher man said that life’s supposed to suck

They’re not invisible rules, they were written in stone

Long before you were born and after you die alone”

 

CHORUS

Too big to fail? That ship already sailed

Too small to survive? They’ll debate your whole life

Too much in the middle of a roasted shit sandwich

Wake up and smell the coffee, that’s how life’s supposed to happen

 

VERSE 2

A teenaged mom who never had the chance

To go to the prom and ask the crown prince to dance

An autistic kid who didn’t know what they did

To deserve shock torture by the highest court’s order

A Disney fanatic who wanted to learn how to draw

He kept dreaming too much, so he got decked in the jaw

Abortion starts to seem like a better alternative

But the country church hillbillies insist that they live

‘Cause without a population of innocent souls

Who bears the brunt of the abuse so bitter and cold?

 

CHORUS

Too big to fail? That ship already sailed

Too small to survive? They’ll debate your whole life

Too much in the middle of a roasted shit sandwich

Wake up and smell the coffee, that’s how life’s supposed to happen

 

VERSE 3

God has a morbid and dark sense of humor

It’s gallows comedy for the toddler with a tumor

It’s a punch-down bonanza for the Mexican child

Who was thrown in a cell like an animal that’s wild

It takes a hideous demon to get a source of laughter

From a school shooting and the laziness after

From the politicians who broke all their promises

And then went on vacations to their summer cottages

A Cabin in the Woods is what I really meant to say

That’s where they store the bodies of kids who came out gay

 

OUTRO

None of us asked to be born in this bedlam

To be test subjects for an automatic weapon

To be born for five seconds and bombed right away

By racist sons of bitches who don’t like the way we pray

Wake up and smell the coffee

Harvested by little kids who were treated so awfully

By a social order that requires they get lashed

Until they work no more and get thrown out with the trash

Being a bunch of nothing isn’t the insult you think it is

Compared to life on earth, being nothing is bliss

Spit Out the Black Pill

“Woody! Unsweetened iced tea for Woody!” No response. “WOODY!”

Woody Silver snapped out of his gangsta rap induced trance long enough to pull his ear buds out and accept his drink. He did so with a nervous glance around the House of Roses and Chocolates (not a bad name for a coffee bar). He knew these people were gazing at him through figurative microscope lenses. If they adjusted the magnification, they could see his tiny ego shrivel up and die like a chopped off cock.

“What are you listening to?” asked the blond barista with the prettiest of grins.

“Uh…gangsta rap. You know, songs about shooting people in the face.”

The barista darted her eyes around as if she needed to know the nearest exit. “You like that kind of music?”

“Yeah. It’s good stuff. It’s not like I’m the one doing the shooting.”

“…Uh-huh…well, you go enjoy your violent music…Woody.”

This would have been a good time for Woody to put a sock in it and leave with at least a little bit of his shattered dignity intact. But he just HAD to make it worse and even more awkward than before. “Yeah, I get it. When someone commits murder, they blame rap music. When someone commits suicide, they blame heavy metal. Chris Benoit was probably a big fan of Rage Against the Machine.”

All eyes were on Woody now and they were large enough to crush his sense of self-worth ten times over. Whether it was the barista, the lesbian couple near the window, or the little girl and her mother not too far from him in line. After a while of allowing Woody’s anxiety to chill faster than his iced drink, the four-year-old princess said, “You fucked up.” Everyone gave a shocked laugh, though this was a pleasant kind of shock.

Woody didn’t find any of this pleasant. He robotically slumped to the nearest table with his drink, his iPhone, and his ear buds, hanging his head in shame. He wished he could be anywhere but that coffee bar. Even getting hit with a bolt of lightning and being sent to an early death seemed tamer than this incredibly public humiliation. Under his breath, he said, “If this ends up on You Tube, I’m going to be very upset…” Thankfully, nobody heard him and the target on his back didn’t grow a single centimeter.

But a metaphorical target he still had. His stomach turned and boiled and no amount of iced tea could calm his mild nausea. The whole world laughed at him and his defenses were gone. Then again, having shaggy blond hair and dirty clothing didn’t provide much in the way of defenses against scrutiny. But then he reached in his flannel jacket pocket and remembered he had a cure for all of this.

It was a small jar of black jelly beans he found on the internet. He couldn’t remember the name of the website or why these beans were advertised as medicinal. When desperation struck him like that much-wanted bolt of lightning, he didn’t ask a lot of questions. He unscrewed the lid and shoveled a handful of black jelly beans down his gullet, not even taking ample time to chew his food. Then again, choking wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to him that day.

Instead, the rush of energy he got from this candy was the best thing. His hands stopped jittering. He could effortlessly pick up his sunken head. The cloudy weather outside gave way to sunshine through the windows. His iced tea tasted like magic in a cup. The women around him made his heart flutter in ways he hadn’t felt in a long time. Whatever he paid for these jelly beans was worth it. He could be broke tomorrow and die a happy man the next day, as evidenced by the blossoming smile on his face.

His newfound eye-brightening joy led him to believe he could conquer the day, one in which he previously had no schedule and no plan of any sort. He could finally talk to the barista and not be an awkward mess. He floated by the seat of his pants to the beautiful blond, who was now decked out in a light blue dress with flowers and jewels adorned everywhere. But before he could open his mouth and allow poetry to pour from his lips…

The barista twirled like a fairy princess and showed off the wedding ring on her white gloved hand. She sang in an angelic voice with the rhythm of a nee-ner-nee-ner tune, “I got married! And you can’t have me! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha, ha!” 

Woody turned towards the lesbian couple, who were now in matching dark green dresses with forest insignias printed everywhere. Their black gloved hands showed off wedding rings of their own, sparkling like incel tears. “We got married! And you can’t have us!” The same nee-ner-nee-ner tune, the same enchanting high-pitched voices.

And then the mother joined in on the fun with her purple dress, golden crown, and heavenly diamond on her finger. “I got married! And you can’t have me!”

Woody clutched his ears and tightly closed his eyes, running out of the coffee bar and leaving his drink behind. He remembered the iPhone and ear buds, though. The violent rapper’s voice was the only one he wanted to hear…until he had a female guest vocalist who jovially sang, “I got married! And you can’t have me!”

“Oh, come on!” Woody sped down the sidewalk without giving a single solitary fuck who he weirded-out along the way. He was already as small and repugnant as bacteria. He was already lower than the worms crawling beneath the park’s grassy turf. But no matter how far he ran or how many times he actually opened his eyes for a change…

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang a white dress-wearing vixen in the sweetest voice.

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang Wonder Woman in the comic book shop window.

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang a woman in jean shorts and flip-flops, also in the loveliest high-pitched voice.

“Stop it! I get your point! I get it, I get it, I get it! I’m weird! I’m stupid! Enough is enough!” shouted Woody, though his words only echoed in his head, never once giving the public a shot at hearing his opinion of their love. “Stop it!” His voice grew deeper and more demonic. “No more!” His voice had a hint of ogre-like growling. “STOP!” Except they wouldn’t stop. These impossibly beautiful women from all around closed in on him, reminding him over and over again that they were not prizes to be won by loser men like him.

“Pick up the brick!” shouted an evil bass voice from behind. The clouds grew dark once more, giving way not to a halo of sunshine, but to the brightness of hellfire. The once lovely women in their dresses turned into pitch-black monsters with razor-sharp claws and mocking goblin voices. Woody looked around to see where the original evil voice came from, but couldn’t find the source except in his own head, booming like movie theater speakers.

“The world never loved you anyways. Your parents think you’re a disgrace. Your friends think you’re dragon shit. Society wants to kill you. Pick up the brick and make them all go away. Murder every last one of those undeserving femoids. Pick up the brick, haul back, and let her ho.”

Woody’s anxious sweat quadrupled into a clay-like substance, like his skin was peeling off and revealing a more sinister side to a world that could already see his weaknesses. He gritted his teeth so hard that his gums bled black. He listened to the one voice who understood him beneath the lovey-dovey mockery. He had a mission. It was his job to smash the world into pieces with that one brick. He smiled like a villain, though his clay sweat masked most of those features.

He learned down and picked up the brick, which would ordinarily weigh him down, but was so natural in his hand, like it was a gift-wrapped present from the forces of evil. He wanted to use it. He wanted to make the world suffer the way he did. All those times he was laughed at for simply existing. All those times he was rejected for being just mildly annoying. All those punches he took in the name of creep control.

But then as Woody strode up to his would-be victims, he passed his reflection in the comic book shop window. He saw what he looked like for the first time since this transformation…and empathized with those calling him a freak. His face was melting and folding over. His eyes were coal black. His nose was dripping like chocolate off his face. His body was bloated with monstrous red goo. His dirty blond hair resembled a den of snakes rather than a simple unkempt appearance.

“What are you waiting for?! Use the brick and end the world! KILL THEM ALL!”

But no matter how the voice vibrated in his brain, no matter how hard it made his nerves convulse, he couldn’t do it. He slowly put the brick down…because he hated what he had become. All this hatred turned him into something ugly and unrecognizable. Finally, society had a reason to hate him and his own self-hatred wasn’t manufactured either. His stomach burst and boiled. It exploded with bile and death sauce. Acid in his throat accumulated like the clay sweat. And then, he let go of his anger and all of his fabricated grudges…in the form of black throw-up on the sidewalk.

In one vomit spell, he cleansed his disgust for himself. Every horrible feeling within him stretched his insides out as the black goop flooded the concrete. And then…emptiness was all that remained. An empty stomach. An empty soul. But best of all, an empty mind free from the judgment of a booming voice and lighthearted fairy laughter. He sat on a part of the sidewalk that wasn’t drenched in puke and breathed in and out, as if the cool morning air soothed his throat.

Speaking of throats, a familiar voice cleared hers. Woody opened his dewy, red, puffy eyes to see that the barista was there holding the drink he left behind. No royal dresses. No punch-down comedy. No scorn. Just concern. “Forget something?” she asked. When Woody reached his hand up to grab his drink, she pulled away. “Give me those jelly beans.”

“The…the jelly beans? These ones?”

The barista nodded and Woody Silver did as he was told. She read the label and analytically curled her lips downward. “Black pills. Of course. Medicine for the involuntary celibate.”

“Those were black pills?!”

She nodded again before throwing the jar in a nearby rubbish bin like she was shooting a basketball. “Two points. I used to play basketball in high school. You could have figured that out if you hadn’t gone on about your…murder music, and let me talk for a change.” Woody hung his head in shame once again. “You just need practice, that’s all. Not with me, of course. I’m married.”

“That’s nice. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. No backlash? No insults? Nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Those black pills are out of your system. Here. Drink this instead. I’ll help your stomach.”

“Thanks.” He grabbed the drink and had a few swallows. The coolness was so gentle on his throat that he wasn’t in a hurry to chug it all. He wanted the easiness to last as long as he could draw it out.

“Guess I’ll see you next time you come in. Word of advice, though: I’d retire that Chris Benoit joke if I were you. Send it to the old folks home in Florida.”

“Good idea.”

“Very good. I’m Elizabeth, by the way. But you can call me Liz.”

“Woody. Woody Silver. You already knew that, though. Nice to meet you.”

“Same. Enjoy your tea!” Liz waved goodbye and strolled away.

When she walked out of sight, Woody said under his breath, “Nice to meet you indeed…” He sipped his tea and relaxed against the wall, not caring what the world thought of his vulnerable state. In fact, they didn’t seem to have much of an opinion at all given how the pedestrians mostly ignored him.

Mr. Poopy Pants

The lifelessness in Earle Saint’s eyes told the story of a man whose inner tiki torch had burned out a long time ago. The heat was there in the form of ashes, but the flame was long gone. Working for a software company operated by elitist screamers tended to do that to a man’s soul. “Work harder!” they said. “Lose weight!” they said. “You’re too fat and lazy!” summed up the bosses’ earworm rhetoric. The effects of their words were broadcast to the world via dark circles, a receding hairline, aging lines, and a saggy frown on Earle’s face.

Where does a man with blasting head voices go to take his bosses’ unsolicited weight loss advice? To McDonald’s, of course, but not for a cheeseburger or McNuggets. The only menu item Earle could stomach at this point was a cup of black coffee. No cream. No sugar. Nothing that would make it taste better than the shit sandwich he had to eat every day at that tech company. Just a standard cup of black coffee from a place famous for ball pits and constantly smiling clown mascots.

When Earle placed his order at the counter and paid for it with some pocket change, the clerk gave him his receipt with the order number on it. And he thought to himself, What’s stopping them from getting my fucking coffee right now? He shrugged his slumped shoulders and dragged his sorry keister to the nearest table, a small exercise, but one that left him even more tired than his office job.

He plopped down on the seat, took his glasses off, and held his battered face in his hands. The white dress shirt several sizes too big for him still managed to keep him claustrophobic in this public space, as did his green slacks. He just wanted to shower and change into a bathrobe. But the act of getting on with his day couldn’t be achieved without a steaming hot cup of black coffee, caffeine thundering through his veins. But the longer he waited, the more he tapped his foot long before the caffeine kicked in.

Earle wanted so badly to go postal at this moment. The demon had been building up inside him for years. His overworked mind still raced with thoughts of his father telling him he wasn’t good enough before spanking him with a belt. His dying brain cells conjured images of his mother telling him he wasn’t a real man for being unable to lose weight and lift heavy objects. His ashen head jelly flashed memories of him being beaten and kicked by jocks twice his size, but half his girth. All the pain and heartache culminated in a lifetime of work at a job he couldn’t wait to retire from, if he would at all.

And then a child’s scream jolted him awake like a black coffee shot to the heart. Earle had completely forgotten that he was in McDonald’s and school was out for the day, hence running children in the restaurant while their parents read the newspaper or fingered through their smart phones. Earle would have envied the happiness of these children if they weren’t so fucking annoying to him. They ran around like they were playing tag, weaving between tables without caring if they stepped on Earle’s foot. But the screams. Those screams that were like an acid trip without actually doing drugs. Schizophrenia in the real world.

“HEY!” Earle screamed in retaliation, getting everyone’s undivided attention. “Keep your voices down, you little bastards! I can’t take that noise!”

One of the previously screaming children burst into tears and ran into his formerly inattentive mother’s arms. She hugged him and gently said, “It’s okay, Devon. He didn’t mean that. He’s just being a Mr. Poopy Pants.” That got a laugh out of the rest of the children, but a tighter jaw clamp from Earle Saint himself. The children started chanting “Poopy-Pants!” at Earle, probably thinking his gut would bust with any more stress.

“Stop calling me Poopy-Pants, you little assholes!” The parents joined in on the action as well. “I mean it! Knock it the fuck off! You know what?! Some days, I wish I could buy a shotgun and blow your heads off!” This earned a collective gasp from the McDonald’s crowd and immediately shut them up. Earle’s face almost sagged with guilt for a moment. Almost. But not really. A victory was a victory.

But then the “Mr. Poopy Pants” chants started again and Earle’s eyeballs bulged out of his skull. The train tunnel veins in his body became visible through his corporate slave uniform. Foam was slopping out of his tightly clamped teeth. His fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails nearly broke against the weight of his ham-hawks. And then the literary descriptions resembled real life as Earle Saint transformed into a seven-foot tall powerhouse monster with fur everywhere, razorblade fangs, and a roar that would make the gods themselves cower in fear.

Forty-five years of child abuse, fatphobia, anti-male sexism, and attempted murder came pouring out of this monstrous form like hot lava. Children and their parents alike scrambled underneath the tables as they trembled and screamed in horror. Earle would cause them to scatter like cockroaches whenever he’d uproot a table or chair and toss it haphazardly around, almost getting the McDonald’s workers killed. They too took cover wherever they could find it, which in their case was the kitchen, where the boiling of the fry machine oil couldn’t compare to the solar Armageddon that was burning within Earle’s demonic form.

“I! WANT! COFFEE!” he shouted while chucking uprooted furniture around and smashing the walls upon themselves. Probably thinking it would calm him down, one of the female workers brought him a whole machine filled with boiling hot coffee. Once Earle snatched it from her hands, she darted back into the kitchen and screamed her head off.

He ripped the top off the machine like it was an ordinary bottle cap and chugged the entire contents like he was a caffeinated Supreme Court justice who loved beer too much. The scalding hotness soothed his bloody throat and bathed his bladder in liquid heaven. And for the first time since the Reagan administration, Earle Saint gave a tiny smile, which soon formed into a bigger one. And a bigger one, showing off all of his meat grinder teeth.

The kids and parents slowly crawled out of their horrified crouching positions and shakily made their way for the door thinking this McMassacre was finally over. But then the frown returned. The hideous saggy frown that weighed him down more than his human form belly. Forty-five years of hatred didn’t go away just because he drank an entire machine full of black coffee. A warm heart and a warm feel-good story were very different from a warm caffeinated drink. Earle tossed the machine aside like it was a stuffed toy from his murdered childhood, which he still missed to this day.

Another scream came, but it was quickly snuffed out upon the machine’s impact. Terror turned to sorrow. Rage became homicide. Death was inevitable with this much destruction happening all at once. Unfortunately, it happened to the kid named Devon, whose head was bashed beyond recognition from the impact of the machine, his mother crying over his slaughtered corpse.

Earle Saint knew his rage would get him into trouble one day. He just didn’t think it would involve taking another’s life by accident. He regretted not going to therapy. He hated that he couldn’t get a better job. He despised his owns selfishness. It all showed when his monstrous body shrank into a smaller version of his human self, with the anger of an entire audience looking down upon him like the microscopic criminal he was.

One of the kids, who looked like she could be Devon’s sister, slowly dragged herself towards the shrunken Earle, wiped the tears from her own eyes, and said, “You’re not Mr. Poopy Pants. You’re a dumpster fire!”

The audience gasped while the mother pulled the sister away in shock. Earle’s only sensible response at this point was…”Same thing.” He had no idea what was going to happen to him in the aftermath of this heinous day. Jail time? Another attempted murder on him? Suicide? But what he lacked in answers, he made up for in caffeinated heaven, which would be the only kind of heaven suitable for someone of his sins. “Can I please go to hell now?”

He asked and he received. The mother angrily strode up to him and squashed him underneath her high heels, spreading his bloody shame all over the floor. He never had the chance to heal himself. He never had the chance to atone for his worst moments. His entire life had been a chronicle of negative shit. But it was too late to save him. He got his coffee and that was all he could take to the afterlife with him. At least they made it how he liked it.

Limousines and Lattes

VERSE 1

He rides the limousine from the holy mountains

He drinks like a camel from the youthful fountain

He rides the limousine over the mass graves

And tells the disenfranchised they need to behave

He rides the limousine to the enchanted forest

He runs over the faeries in the middle of a chorus

He rides the limousine to the spiral dragon tower

He meets up with his cult to consolidate his power

He rides the limousine

He rides the limousine

VERSE 2

A thousand dollar latte is warming up his hand

As he sits and listens to some elevator bands

He sips on his latte and it tastes like puppy blood

He tips the clerk enough to buy a suicide gun

A thousand dollar latte is sliding down his throat

As he is out at sea in his golden Viking boat

Kids drowning in the water are reaching for help

He tells them to get a job in the ninth circle of hell

A thousand dollar latte

He sips on his latte

VERSE 3

He rides the limousine into the gates of heaven

He sips on his latte at around half-past eleven

He rides the limousine over the angels’ wings

He sips on his latte as the dying cherubs sing

He rides the limousine over the godly throne

He sips on his latte sweetened with powdered bones

He rides the limousine under the lovely rainbow

He sips on his latte underneath his own halo

He rides the limousine

He sips on his latte

VERSE 4

He’s bored of his affluence, all his money is useless

He’s bored of all his power, the lattes go sour

He hates his limousine, wants to go to the other place

He was there this whole time, terror on his saggy face

He hates his limousine

He hates his lattes

He has everything he wants

But the devil is the boss

He rides the limousine!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 5

Tom Simpson had a strange feeling this would happen: sitting in the office next to his classroom with a cup of coffee glaring at the clock on his wall. Three o’clock turned into three-fifteen. Three fifteen turned into three-thirty. The teacher’s face scrunched downward as though he drank warm piss instead of hot coffee. “I knew it…” he silently groaned to himself. “I knew it!” He punctuated that sentence by throwing his coffee mug against the brick wall and watching the brown liquid drizzle down onto the carpet. He huffed and stomped out of his office without bothering to clean up the mess he made.

As Mr. Simpson stormed down the hallway with fists clenched and brows furrowed, several students (who actually showed up to their respective dentitions) tucked their faces away in fear. Some of them even swerved right past him in a big hurry to get their asses out of school. Mr. Simpson’s sniper sight zeroed in on the Principal’s office. He took a few deep, raspy breaths before fixing his shirt and throwing the door open.

An older black woman in a flower-patterned dress shirt and black slacks typed away at her computer before noticing Mr. Simpson standing furiously in her doorway. She gave him an awkward stare before asking, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, Miss Williams, you can.” Mr. Simpson took a seat next to the Principal and said, “Scott George was supposed to show up after school for detention at three o’clock sharp. It’s a half hour later and he still hasn’t shown!” Tom pounded Linda Williams’s desk and asked in a disturbingly calm voice, “What do you plan on doing about it?”

Miss Williams took her glasses off and folded her hands around her belly before leaning backwards in her chair, clearly no-selling Mr. Simpson’s silent rage. “While I don’t condone skipping out on detention, I also can’t condone you pounding your fist on my desk demanding things from me. Slow your role, Tom. Tell me exactly what happened and I’ll see what I can do about it.”

With animated body language and a silent voice, Mr. Simpson said, “Scott George has zero respect for my authority. He frequently back sasses me, he swears in class, and today was just the day where I’ve had enough of him. Can you blame me?”

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t,” said Miss Williams. “But this seems to be a pattern with you throughout your career. You push your students to their breaking point and wonder why they’re tipping over the edge. What I’m trying to say is, you’re not exactly the easiest teacher to get along with.”

“So what?!” squeaked Mr. Simpson. “Lots of people in the world have to put up with authority figures they don’t like. It’s a hard fact of life. Sometimes in this world, you have to get along with people who don’t necessarily have to get along with you. In this school, you get either an F or detention. In the job market, you get fired. Or if it’s a judicial situation, you go to jail. It’s not the most pleasant system of authority, but if we could all just democratically elect our own authority figures, we’d get nothing done. Haven’t you learned by now that democracy is dead?”

Miss Williams gave a closed-mouth chuckle, shook her head, and said, “So that’s what you’ve been teaching your students, huh? You’re a history teacher who tells his own kids that democracy is dead. Maybe that’s why they don’t want to hang around you anymore, because you suck the hope right out of them. I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but part of your role as a teacher is to guide your students to a better life. If you can’t do that, then you’re not a teacher.”

“But see, that’s the thing, Linda,” said Mr. Simpson while flailing his hands around. “The only people who I can guide to a better life are the ones who’re willing to meet me half way. This is the land of opportunity, not the land of milk and honey. Scott George doesn’t give a damn about earning anything from me, hence why he didn’t show up to detention this afternoon.”

Miss Williams typed on her keyboard and said, “Well, that’s funny, because judging from his other grades, he seems to be well on his way to the Promised Land. Look at my computer screen for a moment. Algebra: B+. Graphic novels studies: A-. General art class: A-. Physical education: A+. Chemistry: B-. Not bad so far, huh? But the one place where he struggles the most is US history, your class, where he’s currently sitting pretty at a C-.” She leaned back in her chair again and asked, “Tell me, Mr. Simpson: why is Scott George struggling one class and doing so well in the others? Is US history his weakness or are you just not helping him through his tough times?”

“I could have helped him through whatever he needed if he’d just show up for thirty minutes of detention,” said Mr. Simpson with folded arms. “He’d be getting his very own tutor session.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Tom, you know full well that’s a bunch of BS,” warned Miss Williams.

“Oh, so you’re going to use foul language too?” asked Mr. Simpson. “And I’m the bad influence on my students? That’s part of the reason why Scott was supposed to show up today. Oh sure, he gets detention for saying it here, but what if he said it front of a bunch of small children? Or churchgoers? Or his own boss, if he’s actually able to get a job once he’s out of school.”

“He’ll cross that bridge once he gets to it. In the meantime, you’d better stop worrying about the stuff that comes out of your students’ mouths or what they do when they’re not in school. Let’s not kid ourselves and pretend that these teenagers are just sitting around being squeaky clean. That’s not what life is about for these kids. The only thing you’re teaching them by holding Scott George hostage is how to resent tight-asses like you!”

Mr. Simpson pounded Miss Williams’s desk again and asked, “Are you going to do anything about him not showing up or are you just going to turn a blind eye to the bigger picture! He needs to be made an example of!”

Miss Williams’s temper exploded when she stood up, towered over Mr. Simpson, and belted, “I’ll deal with Scott George in my own damn way! I’ll have a talk with him first thing tomorrow morning! If it makes you happy, I’ll even leave a message on his house phone telling him to show up!” He continued her vengeful oratory with finger pointing at a stoic Mr. Simpson. “As far as you’re concerned, you’re leaning on the precipice of career suicide by talking to me that way! You don’t give the orders, I do! This is my school and you’re not going to disrespect me any further!”

Mr. Simpson smiled and shook his head before standing up to meet Miss Williams’s coffee brown eyes. “You’re angry, huh? Now you understand my frustration with people like Scott George. I’m glad we could reach an understanding.”

As Mr. Simpson patted Miss Williams’s shoulder, she shrugged him off and snapped, “Get your hands off of me and get the hell out of my office before I fire you!” The history teacher held his hands up defensively and strolled out of the office, shutting the door behind him. He could see through the glass door that the Principal plopped back down in her seat and rubbed her aching temples.

The teacher turned around and saw a semi-circle of wide-eyed students fixating their gazes upon him. Mr. Simpson threw his hands up and yelled, “Boogedy-boogedy-boo!”, causing the crowd to quickly disperse in several directions.

Off in the distance, Mr. Simpson saw that another student glaring at him was his own daughter Adrienne, who had her arms folded and was leaning against the wall. Seeing his estranged flesh and blood in that mood brought a sinking feeling to his own heart. He let out a sigh and turned around to walk away.

“What am I doing?” he whispered to himself. He began to think there was a little bit of truth to what Miss Williams said, as much as it stung. Maybe that was why his wife divorced him and took Adrienne away. Maybe that was why he had a crappy car waiting for him in the parking lot. Maybe that was why he dined on TV dinners every night while watching the news alone.

He slapped himself in the head for thinking such “horrendous” thoughts. He knew he had to stand his ground if he was ever to get a victory against his own students. It was too late for him to win the war against his own wife and daughter. But the battle lines had already been drawn between himself at Scott George. If he had it his way, he’d bring back corporal punishment just for that one student. But now that he was fighting this war, he had to figure out what exactly he stood for. As a history teacher who taught various wars in his class, he needed to figure this out quickly. Otherwise, history would repeat itself over and over again.

Bloodstained Paycheck

Owen Edge took a sip of his black coffee out of a thermos and smiled at the strong flavor. He sat in his car as the morning sun peaked over the horizon and gave him that little burst of sunshine he needed to start his day. He loved orange clouds and pink skies since they reminded him of eating sherbet ice cream as a kid. What he didn’t love was the fact that his car was parked outside of a porn theater. Sure, masturbation was a natural function, but pressing sticky white fluids against the walls was straight up disgusting. Nonetheless, Owen had a job to do.

He took one last sip of his coffee, straightened his brown jacket and blue tie, and exited the vehicle after popping his trunk. He pulled a gigantic blue tarp along with some cleaning supplies out of said trunk before sighing heavily and trudging his way into the porn theater. Because his arms were full, he kicked at the steel door to let the bouncer know he was here.

A little slide on the door opened up to reveal harsh eyes staring bullets into Owen’s soul. The cleaner asked, “Are you Dennis McKay?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Owen. I clean messes for a living. Mind if I come in?”

Dennis slid the eye hole shut and opened the door for Owen, who was hurried inside and patted down by the hulking bouncer. Dennis’s muscular frame made the skinnier Owen look like a small child by comparison. The bouncer wore a black security T-shirt that magnified every muscle in his body along with a pair of blue jeans that were conversely too baggy.

Once Dennis found no weapons or contraband on Owen, he said, “Security protocol. I’ve got to do it with everybody…even if you are earning a bloodstained paycheck today.” Mr. McKay handed Owen a taped up stack of freshly laundered one hundred dollar bills, to which Owen dropped his cleaning supplies and thumbed through it quickly to see if it was real money.

Satisfied with his findings, Owen picked up his acidic spray bottles and sponges and said, “Grab that tarp. It’s time to get busy. Show me where the body is.”

The two of them strolled to a glass booth only protected by a thin black curtain. As if the semen stains on the glass and curtain weren’t disgusting enough, the bloody corpse of a young man with a college logo T-shirt made the claustrophobic booth look like a slaughterhouse. “Jesus Christ, Dennis, what the fuck did you do to him?”

“The bastard had it coming. Yeah, it was a little rough, but come on, if you saw the shit he was doing, you’d go berserk too. He thinks he can do whatever he wants just because he’s got a liberal arts degree from some faggot university.”

“Fair enough,” said Owen. The two of them rolled the dead body in the tarp like a burrito so that not even the head and feet could stick out. The cleaner then gave the beefcake bouncer a book of matches and ordered, “Take the corpse out to the dumpster and burn that motherfucker. If some cop sticks his nose where it shouldn’t be, just tell him some homeless fucker got drunk and fell into his own fire.”

“Got it,” said Dennis. “Just make sure you’ve got all that blood cleaned up and I’ll give you the other half of your payment. My boss paid good money for you.”

Owen patted the hulking ogre on his shoulder and assured him, “Trust me, Dennis, by the time I’m done with this place, people will be able to eat off of it, in more ways than one.” That last joke was punctuated with a wink, to which Dennis smiled and hauled the corpse out to the back alley.

The cleaner evaluated the work he had cut out for him with a mixture of disgust and professionalism. The blood and semen would be the easiest part of his job. It was the pieces of brain, skull, and god knows what else that would prove to be difficult.

Nonetheless, Owen knelt down, wetted his sponge with the acidic cleaning spray and scrubbed down the mess as hard as he could. Despite being a skinny guy, he scrubbed like he had Dennis’s 24-inch pythons, working his arms and hands down to the bone. Even with this tiring effort, the stains wouldn’t come out so easily, so he sprayed them some more.

As he was wiping the carpeted floor, he could hear rapping underneath. His eyes darted from side to side in confusion, but Owen Edge ultimately shrugged his shoulders and continued scrubbing. The rapping got progressively louder until Owen threw his sponge in frustration. “What, has he got fucking rats down here or something? Shit!”

He scoped his general vicinity to make sure all was clear before spraying acid on the corner of the carpet and ripping it up with ruthless force. Underneath the carpet was a trap door that took the brunt of the light rapping. Soon that rapping turned to kicking. And then the kicking turned to muffled female moaning. Owen squirted acid on the wooden door and used the newly formed hole as a leverage point to heave the heavy son of a bitch. The cleaner gazed into the hole with wide eyes and shaky hands before whispering, “Holy shit…”

Fifteen minutes later, Owen Edge stood cross legged and arms folded against the wall of the porn shop’s lobby, preferably a wall that wasn’t decorated with dildos, ball gags, whips, chains, gimp hoods, god knows what else. With the way the cleaner drummed his fingers against his arm, he knew there was going to be hell to pay for Dennis once he got his giant ass back in here. What was taking him so long to burn the body?

“Owen? You’re done already? Holy shit, you are the best! High five, buddy!” said Dennis as he sneaked back into the lobby with his hand held high in the air.

“You know, Dennis, I’d love to high five you right now, but I actually figured out where that hand has been. Not even my superior cleaning skills can get that mess off. You need help, buddy,” said Owen sternly.

“You’re in a porn theater, dumb ass. Get used to it!” barked Dennis.

“Oh, I’m fully aware of my current location. In fact, I seem to know this place up and down, backwards and forwards…first floor and underground.” Dennis’s arrogant smile melted off of his face like a popsicle. “That girl has a name, asshole: it’s Felicia Strom. She told me everything, every goddamn detail, although I could figure most of it out by the fact that she had a ball gag in her mouth and she was in a leather thong and bra. Were you planning on telling me this minute detail?”

Dennis chuckled nervously and said, “What her? She works here. She needs the money just like we all do in this life. You know something about that, don’t you, Owen. Besides, when did you get a moral compass all of the sudden?”

“Yeah, who knew that fucking with teenaged girls would be one of my berserk buttons?” said Owen as he sized up his bouncer nemesis. “Everybody has standards, Dennis. Everybody has a line that they don’t cross. I don’t know what yours is, but mine happens to be kidnapping young ladies and making them…do the things she did.” He gagged at that last sentence.

“Where is she?” asked Dennis before screaming the same question and grabbing Owen’s suit jacket.

“She’s long gone, probably going back home to her parents for the first time in forever. But you? You’re going straight to hell if you don’t get your splooge-covered hands off of me,” threatened Owen.

Dennis burst into a rage and hoisted Owen up by his arm pits before slamming him repeatedly against the wall. The cleaner felt the air being driven out of his lungs with every hard slam as well as his head popping and his neck creaking. Dennis’s barbaric anger caused him to slam Owen into other parts of the wall, knocking sex novelties off their display holders. Owen tried to grab a dildo off the wall and pound Dennis over the head with it, but the bouncer no-sold it, smiled, and chucked the cleaner over the counter.

Owen could feel his muscles weakening, his bones chipping, and his brain fogging up. He also coughed up a liberal amount of blood as he grabbed the counter and gingerly pulled himself to his wobbly feet. He fell down a few times and coughed up more blood, but found his footing after the third or fourth try. His vision was dark and hazy, but he could make out the shape of Dennis with his arms folded. The bouncer laughed at him with a demonic voice, one that was ear-splitting enough to keep Owen from falling asleep. The only words Owen could muster at that point were, “Felicia…run!”

The sex slave teenager stood in the doorway naked, shivering, and teary-eyed. She also had Owen’s thermos of black coffee, which was still steaming hot even after all of the time spent cleaning the crime scene.

Dennis mocked her by spreading his arms out and saying, “You’re going to throw that in my face, bitch? Go ahead. Do it. I fucking dare you! Come on! Throw that shit in my face! It’ll be like what my customers do to you every night, but with a different liquid!”

Felicia continued shivering and crying while weakly holding the coffee thermos out to potentially throw. “I…I…I won’t let you…I…you can’t…”

“Leave her alone, Dennis! Felicia, run!” shouted Owen as he still struggled to maintain his equilibrium.

“That’s what I thought, bitch. Give me that fucking coffee, I’m thirsty!” grunted Dennis as he yanked the thermos out of his victim’s hand. He gulped it down in a hurry, not giving a damn how hot it was. He sighed and said, “That’s some damn good coffee, bitch! Mmm-mmm-mmm! What flavor is this? Taster’s Choice?”

“Actually, Dennis…” squeaked Felicia. “There’s vanilla…some caramel…some whipped cream…and…Viagra! Lots and lots of Viagra!” The last list item was punctuated with a confident stance and deadly eyes.

Dennis’s own eyes bulged out of his head as he coughed violently and clutched his chest with a death grip. He dropped to his knees and hacked some more. He tried sucking down air, but it came out raspy and sweat poured off of him like a fire hydrant. “How could you?” he said weakly. “We gave you everything. A home…good money…and…” Dennis coughed up blood before rolling on his back and passing out with a bulge in his jeans. His breathing became shallow and his eyes rolled back in his head. His skin whitened like glue. And then, his head twisted to the side to signify his otherwise limp body.

Owen kept holding onto the counter for balance, but he struggled even more when he couldn’t stop laughing. “Dennis McKay takes Viagra? Holy shit! All that muscle mass and….god, what was I saying?” The cleaner lost his balance again and collapsed to the floor.

Felicia rushed to his side and held his hand. “Are you okay? Speak to me!”

“Oh, I’m fine, Miss Strom. This ain’t my first rodeo and it won’t be my last. I’m more worried about how you are.” Owen dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out the wad of one hundred dollar bills. Felicia’s eyes widened as she handled all of that money. The cleaner said, “Listen, babe: that bloodstained paycheck belongs to you. Get your ass home, spend that money on college or some shit, and don’t ever come back to this place again. Got it? Don’t worry about me, I’ll find my way out of here. I’ll get to a hospital…or hell…or heaven…who knows where I’m going from here…”

Owen nodded off while Felicia pounded his chest in an attempt to wake him up. The further he drifted off, the harder she shook him. During his last few moments of consciousness, he kept wondering if being in the cleaning business was worth it anymore. Would there be other scummy clients like Dennis McKay? Of course. Would they go to his extremes? More likely than not. Being neutral and coldhearted was Owen Edge’s mantra for so long. Now that he was about to meet his maker, all the laundered money in the world couldn’t help him in the afterlife.

Weirdo Alert

In Louise Bradbury’s mind, she could have been paid a million dollars per week and it still wouldn’t have been enough for what she had to go through. Making a decent cup of coffee was the easy part. Dealing with the “loony toons” who waddled through the shopping mall was where she believed she deserved a raise. Old men who couldn’t shut up about the 1920’s, teenagers who laughed like hyenas at every minor occurrence, middle aged men who kept trying to get the baristas’ phone numbers, that kind of shit.

Louise looked absolutely miserable behind the counter of her coffee bar with a hunched over body and a dull expression on her face. Customer service protocol always dictated that she had to have a positive expression, but she just couldn’t fake it anymore. Her attempts at smiles were more see-through than a wet T-shirt. Her engagements in small talk were so boring that she almost fell asleep on the job. And to think, this minimum wage money was supposed to mean something later down the line. What it meant, Louise didn’t know.

When a powerful sneeze sounded off in the background, that was when Miss Bradbury’s “weirdo alert” went off in her head like a police siren. She tucked her head down in her palm at the embarrassing entrance of a regular customer known as Denny Smith (she knew his name from his debit card information).

With a bucket of ice cream in one hand and a tablet in the other, Denny dragged his big ass over to one of the tables closest to Louise’s counter. With ice cream stains on his Snoopy shirt and blue sweat pants, the other customers couldn’t help but stare at him for the longest time. He sneezed so hard that it sounded like he blew his whole sinus cavity out, to which some customers got up and walked away in disgust.

Louise was one of the people looking on in wide-eyed terror as Denny shoveled huge scoops of vanilla ice cream in his mouth with no regard for the sweet treat dripping down his double chin. The big man even coughed up huge wads of snot and then swallowed them again, prompting even more horrified customers to power-walk away. Denny managed to thin the herd even more when he let out the world’s largest fart, which sounded a lot like a shotgun blast.

In between bites of ice cream, Denny said to the leaving customers, “It’s a natural function! I’m an American! I can fart if I want to! What are you going to do, arrest me for farting?!”

Digging deep for a silver lining in all of this, Louise thought to herself that Denny could have been doing her a favor by not making her deal with these other obnoxious customers. But if that was her only positive, then she still had the right to shiver in disgust and gag on snot herself.

Normally, the customer was always right (at least that’s what it said in Louise’s training video). But when her “weirdo alert” was going off in her head, it sounded too much like a schizophrenic nightmare. She clutched her head and gave off a subtle “Ugh!” before racing around the counter to confront Denny.

“Excuse me, Mr. Smith,” said Louise with her hands behind her back in feigned politeness. Instead of undivided attention, Denny gave her another nuclear bomb fart, to which she plugged her nose and shivered like she was having a seizure.

Only then would Denny look up from his ice cream and his tablet and say, “What? What’s your problem? It’s a free country; I’m allowed to fart whenever I want. It’s in the constitution.”

This sense of American entitlement sent Louise into a screaming rage complete with waving hands and a shrill voice. “There’s nothing in the constitution that says you can scare off my customers with your weird ass behavior! If you have to fart so badly, go to the bathroom across the hall! If you have to sneeze so hard that your tiny brain falls out, go to the goddamn bathroom, you fucking weirdo!”

Louise covered her own mouth in shock after dropping that F-bomb, as did several customers who were just passing by. The barista held her hands up in defense and whispered an apology before the customers shook their heads and strolled away.

With her new whispery calm demeanor, Louise patted Denny on the shoulder and said, “Look, all I’m saying is that you should try to act just a little bit normal and be a decent member of society like the rest of us. That way, people won’t want to run away in horror whenever they want to come here for a cup of coffee. You might even get a girlfriend one day, I don’t know!”

“First of all, dumb-ass” said Denny while pointing his sausage finger at the barista. “I can’t help it if I have to fart or sneeze. I’ve had allergies to pretty much everything since I was five years old. You think walking all the way over to that bathroom is going to solve anything? Hell no! Besides, do you think I give two shits and a flying fuck what anyone thinks of me? I’m supposed to conform to everyone else’s system so that I can have a slightly better chance of getting laid? Look at me! This is not the body of a man who goes around stealing women! This is the body of someone who’s addicted to ice cream like it’s crack cocaine, which sugar pretty much is!”

Folding her arms, Louise said, “Look, I understand if you want to be your own person, but come on, is farting and sneezing really a part of who you are? Is that the person you want to be? Do you really enjoy driving people away and being obnoxious?”

“I don’t know, missy, do you like standing behind the counter like you’ve got a stick up your butt?” Louise’s expression softened into solemnity at Denny’s accurate statement. He licked the ice cream off of his fingers and said, “You think I just sit around here every day like a dumb-ass and not notice everything around me? I see your looks of horror. I see you guys walking away like I’m the boogeyman. I guess a simple case of allergies will do that to people. I had no idea that medical conditions were so freakish. You think I enjoy having a runny nose and a snotty throat? Go back behind your counter and do your fucking job. I’ll stay here and do mine.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say something about a job?” said Louise while placing her authoritative palms on Denny’s table. “You mean to tell me that you get paid to shovel ice cream down your throat and make disgusting bodily noises everywhere you go? Shit, if I would have known that was even a career, I would have given up making coffee a long time ago!”

Denny yelled, “You fucking bitch!” while shooting up to his feet and accidentally knocking his tablet over. “Shit, now look at what you made me do! I bet that damn thing’s cracked!”

Louise knelt down to pick it up and waved Denny off while saying, “Don’t worry, it’s not cracked. I’m sure the cover on this thing…” The barista had a wide-eyed expression as she flipped through the photos on the tablet, but for reasons other than Denny’s farts and sneezes. “These paintings are beautiful,” she said. And they were, too. Paintings of armored medieval warriors, lightning elemental dragons, shadow magic-using wizards, and fiery ninjas. This kind of skill could have easily landed Denny a job at a comic book publishing house or even an art museum.

While Louise stared at the paintings with a bright smile she hadn’t formed in years, Denny said, “That’s the job I was talking about. I paint for a living. Well, I’m not really a professional. I’m not much of a marketer. It doesn’t matter how much effort I put into these paintings, because only one or two people want to actually buy them.”

Louise placed a hand on her chest like these paintings took her breath away, but then gave a sullen expression to Denny before saying, “Look, I don’t want to give you a lecture about…”

“I know! I know, damn it!” said Denny. “I know my weird ass behavior is keeping people from buying my paintings. But you know what? Nobody gives a shit about artists anymore. Everyone wants me to be an engineer or some other kind of science nut. As long as people are going to turn their noses down at me, I might as well act as crazy as I want.”

“Denny, I’m so sorry,” said Louise in a sheepish voice with her head tucked.

“Yeah, you’re sorry now that you’ve seen these paintings! You could have been sorry long before you saw them, but no, you had to be like every one of these ignoramuses here at the mall and gag in disgust like a bunch of bitches! Maybe I’ll get over my allergies someday! Maybe I’ll also get over my sugar addiction! But until then, you can feel free to forget about me, because I don’t want to be famous in a city that doesn’t give a shit about art!”

Denny yanked the tablet from Louise’s hands and threw his bucket of ice cream in the trash before marching away. Everything the pudgy man said was right and Louise didn’t want to admit it to herself (regardless of having no choice). The barista sat down at one of the tables and held her face in her hands while sobbing quietly. She chastised this poor man over bodily functions when really he was the most beautiful person in this entire mall. Louise had no artistic talents of her own and those paintings made her jealous. She tried so many times to be as good as Denny, but everyone laughed at her and told her to get a “real job”.

Then she thought to herself, “Fuck this real job!” Louise took off her apron and threw it behind the counter before running after Denny screaming, “Hey, wait up! Wait!” She didn’t know what she would expect once she caught up to the “weirdo”. Would Denny teach her how to be an individual? Would he teach her how to be an artist as good as himself? Would he turn her away like Louise tried to do a few moments ago? No matter what the outcome, Louise Bradbury had to find out before it was too late.

The Reflection of Perfection

Ian Flagg’s mouth watered at the plate of Indian curry sitting before him and another plate of the spicy treat across from him. Yet, the old man’s sniper sight focus burned a hole through the newspaper he was reading. Besides, he wouldn’t want to get any of that messy food on his clean white dress shirt and silver tie. Accountants of his social status can’t afford to look like that. A waitress came by and refilled his coffee mug, yet Ian never took his eyes away from whatever news story was assaulting his mind.

As soon as the waitress strolled away, a young man with a black ponytail, a green polo shirt, and tan khaki shorts entered the restaurant hunched over with exhaustion and stress. Then and only then did Ian take his eyes off his newspaper. The young man sat across from Ian and hung his head in exhaustion, the scent of the curry doing no favors for his energy level.

“You’re late, son. Is that acting schedule of yours keeping you down? For god’s sake, get some sleep, Payton,” said Ian.

“Sorry, Dad,” said Payton in a slow and medicated voice. “I’m assuming there’s a review of my new movie in that newspaper of yours. I stayed up until midnight reading those goddamn reviews online. What the fuck is wrong with people?”

Ian folded up his newspaper and said, “You can’t fault your critics for feeling the way they do, son. It’s a free country. Everybody’s entitled to their own opinions, even if they are overwhelmingly negative and come from a website about spoiled vegetables.” The father folded his hands across the table and said, “Son, you need to get out of this movie business. It’s not good for you. You can’t take criticism and it’s only going to get worse from here.”

Payton lifted his unshaven face and said, “So what’s the alternative to having my dream job? Doing what you do and crunch numbers all day long? No thanks, I’d rather roll around on a pile of actual rotten tomatoes.”

“Being an accountant sounds boring on the surface, I agree. Hell, most of the comedy movies out there make fun of this idea. But it’s a stable income and you don’t have to worry about where your next meal is coming from. You’re welcome for the curry, by the way,” said Ian.

Payton languidly stirred his fork around in his food and said, “Listen, pops. I spent way too much time and money just to get my acting career of the fucking ground. I’m not going to give up on it just because of some negative assholes online. Shit, man, there’s negativity everywhere I go, so I have to get immune to it sometime. Maybe not right now, but eventually.”

“But that’s the thing, Payton. You don’t get used to harsh criticism. You don’t improve your craft. You don’t get better in life. You feel like this world owes you something and you don’t cash in on that opportunity.” Ian leaned his face closer as if to intensify the seriousness of this conversation. “Payton, you need help. You need to start making some real money so that you don’t have to live like a goddamn bum.”

“So that’s it, huh?” said the actor as he shrugged his shoulders. “One failure and I should just give up on my dreams?”

“We’re not just talking about one failure, son. We’re talking about being universally panned by every critic in the country. I don’t care how good of an actor you are, because nobody can recover from something like that. You wouldn’t have to worry about this kind of thing if you got a math degree and took up accounting like me.”

After a while of glaring in disbelief at his father, Payton stood up, slammed his palms on the table (nearly knocking his curry on the floor), and screamed, “Fuck you, old man! Fuck you! You talk about stable incomes and the world not owing me anything, yet you sit here thinking that I owe you my dreams and my hard work! You’re a conformist! You’re a soul-dead son of a bitch and you want the whole world to be just as boring and sad as you! I don’t care how much money you’re making, because all the money in the world can’t buy you a charismatic personality!”

Ian stood up and slammed his own palms on the table before shouting back, “I’m trying to look after you, you goddamn fool! I don’t want you to end up homeless and begging for handouts! If you keep spiraling out of control like this, you’re going to hit rock bottom and you’re never coming back!”

Some of the restaurant patrons stared at the father-son duo with shock on their faces while others turned heel and walked away altogether. The waitress who filled Ian’s coffee earlier approached him and said, “Excuse me, sir, but the two of you need to calm down or else I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Ian held his palm in the waitress’s face and said, “I’m trying to get through to my idiot son, so if you could stay out of this conversation, that’d be wonderful!”

“Idiot?! You think I’m an idiot because I actually believe in myself?! You think I’m an idiot just because I refuse to give up?! I’d rather be an idiot than a boring piece of shit like you!” shouted Payton.

“This so-called boring piece of shit is alive and well thanks to his steady income, which is more than I can say about a fuck-up like you walking around in those slob clothes! You have a decision to make, young man! Either accept your responsibilities as a grown adult or live like a child and die of starvation! Life may be boring and sad, but it’s not going to change anytime soon just because you like to rebel against the system! The system is in place for a reason, son, because it works!” yelled Ian.

“Hey!” snapped the waitress, who finally found her footing in this conversation after shaking nervously throughout the screaming matches. “I’ve had it up to here with you two scaring away the customers! You can either calm down and eat your lunches or I can get my supervisor and have the two of you blackballed from here! Do you understand me?!”

The father and son slowly sat back down and glared at each other with fiery vision. “You know what?” said Payton as he dug in his shorts for his wallet. “I’m going to go ahead and pay for my meal and leave on my own terms. I don’t have a whole lot of money in my bank account, but not to worry, because that’ll all be fixed once I start crunching numbers in a plain old office. Here, take my goddamn card.”

The waitress eyeballed Payton’s debit card for a while before a small smile formed on her face. “You’re Payton Flagg? The actor?”

“Guilty as charged, though I don’t know if ‘the actor’ fits me anymore,” said Payton in a bummed out voice.

The waitress’s smile grew wider as she said, “You know what? I don’t care what any of those morons on Rotten Tomatoes think. I thought that movie was hilarious. I love dirty humor!”

A look of shocked disbelief formed on Ian’s face while one of surprise formed on Payton’s. The actor said, “Do you really mean that?”

“No, I’m screwing with you. Of course I mean it, you silly goose!” said the waitress with a giggle. “I’m training to become an actress myself. You wouldn’t mind letting me in on some of your connections would you?” The waitress playfully elbowed Payton in the arm.

“I don’t know. My connections aren’t exactly…”

“Come on, Payton, what’s the worst that could happen? You got your foot in the door, didn’t you? That’s more than I can say for myself right now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be working here. What do you say? Will you hook me up?” said the waitress with a Hollywood smile.

Payton smiled himself and said, “You know what? I think that’s a good idea. I’ll come back here when you get off work and I’ll introduce you to some of my guys.”

“Yes!” squealed the waitress before hugging and thanking Payton repeatedly. It was an awkward hug, but Payton wrapped his arms anyways. He also gave his father a smart-assed wink before the tie-wearing sad sap rested his forehead in his hands. Even though Ian knew his son wasn’t the reflection of perfection, it hurt even more to know he was bested by the little hipster. Blind conformity seemed like a foolish route after all.

A Million Dollars

(A parody of rich people who sue for ridiculous reasons.)

VERSE 1

To make money, you have to have money

I’m laughing to the bank, it’s so damn funny

I’ll take you to court for every fucking penny

Spend your money on hookers named Jenny

You don’t have much, but it’s mine anyways

It’s not my fault you work for minimal pay

The coffee you served me was too damn hot

Someone has to pay for my scarred up crotch

CHORUS

I am going to sue you!

I am going to screw you!

I’ll make you holler!

I’m going to sue you for a million dollars!

VERSE 2

Telling lies about me, that’s called slander

Choke on your bullshit, choke on your candor

Spreading misinformation, that’s defamation

Kidding yourself with mental masturbation

The judge has no sympathy for liars and cheaters

Even if you’re nothing more than a bottom feeder

You have a welfare check? Try to make it stretch

In your financial future, I’ll throw a monkey wrench

CHORUS

I am going to sue you!

I am going to screw you!

I’ll make you holler!

I’m going to sue you for a million dollars!

VERSE 3

It’s not your fault that the system is crazy

It’s all your fault that you’re too damn lazy

Keep manning the grill while I crack the whip

Keep fairytale lies from coming out of your lips

EXTENDED CHORUS

I am going to sue you!

I am going to screw you!

I’ll make you holler!

I’m going to sue you for a million dollars!

I’ll show up to court in a suit and tie!

Watch as you curl up in a ball and die!

See you on the streets, your brand new home!

See me vacationing in the city of Rome!

I, Barbarian

“So your name is Corey Darkside, huh? Is that the name your momma gave you or are you just being cute with me? You wouldn’t happen to be an injun, would you? Either way, missy, it’s time to cut the crap. You’re here for a reason, which happens to be that vagrancy is illegal and you’re being accused of it. You have anything to say for yourself, sweetheart?” said the heavyset Sheriff Ace Hank, who sat across the interrogation table eating a pink-frosted donut and sipping a cup of coffee.

“This is the way you treat your homeless? By locking them up in monkey cages? Even a barbarian like me would be disgusted by the behavior of your world, which is why I prefer living in solitude,” said Corey Darkside, a muscular female warrior dressed in bear skins, furry boots, and metal armor. She looked like she leapt out of the pages of a Dungeons & Dragons player’s handbook.

Ace, on the other hand, thought she looked more like a loony as evidenced by the look of puzzlement on his chubby face, which was now covered in donut sugar. He said, “Listen, lady, I don’t know where you came from or why you decided to wander the streets of my city looking for handouts, but whether you want to believe it or not, you’re in serious shit, my friend. And you’re not doing yourself any favors by arguing vagrancy politics with me. I for one support clean streets and working folk.”

The unimpressed Corey spit at her inquisitor and happened to get vile green fluids in Ace’s coffee. The unhappy sheriff threw the rest of the coffee in the barbarian’s face. The coffee had gone tepid, so it didn’t burn her face that badly, but it still had all of that oral muck Corey shot from her mouth earlier. “Now we’re even, bitch,” said Ace.

The barbarian wiped the snot and coffee off of her face with her bear skin tunic. She said, “I don’t know what kind of information you hope to get from me, but as long as you sit there with your arrogant ways and your disgusting junk food, I shall tell you nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“That’s okay, sweetie pie. I don’t need anything from you. I’m just here to tell you to get ready for a court hearing sooner than later. Until then, my men are going to transport your smelly ass to jail so you can think about what you did.”

“There’s nothing to think about, fat boy. All I did was wander into your town and you’ve shown me how you treat your less desirables. It’s a sad day when barbaric tribes behave better than those who claim to be civilized.”

Ace reached across the table to slap Corey in the mouth, but the steadfast barbarian caught the massive hand and squeezed with a vice grip at the wrist. The sheriff grimaced in pain as he tried to suck it up and free his hand, but the woman’s grip was too powerful. The cop’s fingers began to turn purple when a swarm of other police officers descended upon the interrogation to pull Corey off and restrain her arms and legs.

Miss Darkside thrashed around and screamed in a guttural voice, but the many cops who came to hold her still were too powerful. They even managed to get her wrists behind her back and zip-tie them together while pressing her face-down to the floor.

With the barbaric warrior still howling like an animal, Ace shook off the pain in his hand and wrist and said, “There, are you happy now?! You can add assaulting an officer to the list of charges! Get this crazy bitch out of here! Jail is too good for this renaissance fare freak! She’s going straight to the rubber room where she’ll really have some fun!”

After a count of three, the many police officers hoisted Corey up by her arms and legs and carried her out of the interrogation room. She was still thrashing and screaming, but again, the officers were too powerful for her. It wasn’t until a thunderous bang resounded throughout the police station that the fierce action stopped.

“What the hell was that?!” asked Ace.

Corey managed a smile with razor-sharp teeth and said, “He’s here. He wants to put an end to our rivalry once and for all. If it’s a brawl he wants, it’s a brawl I’m going to give him!”

“Who the fuck are you talking about, lady?” asked Ace.

Even more monstrous bangs blasted throughout the building. The source of the tremors came rushing in like an F5 tornado, slashing and throwing around any police officer who would try to stop him. It wasn’t a mere mortal, but a 7’5” grizzly bear decked out in metal armor and carrying steel claws on his already massive paws. He let out a deafening roar at the officers who were holding Corey, who were then so terrified that they dropped her on the floor and drew their pistols to open fire.

A storm of bullets that powerful would send anybody to heaven. Instead the bullets either deflected off of the bear’s armor or served as a mere annoyance like a fly landing on his fur. “Pathetic! You all are pathetic!” screamed the bear before spinning like a hurricane again and bulldozing the officers into a pile of ripped flesh, bitter blood, and shattered bones. Corey had long gotten out of the line of fire before she too could become worm food.

The bear had his sights set on Sheriff Ace Hank, who was shivering in terror with his eyes wide open while sporting a urine stain on his oversized trousers. With one gigantic paw, the bear lifted Ace in the air and pressed him against the wall before asking in a throaty roar, “Where is she?! Where’s Corey Darkside?! I know that bitch is in here! She fucked with my tribe for the last goddamn time!”

“Sheriff, I want you to meet my rival, Magnus Warcry, leader of the Warcry Nation. Do you want to arrest him for vagrancy too? Well, do you?!” said Corey, who stood next to a pile of dead cops with her arms folded.

Magnus tossed the pudgy sheriff aside and focused all of his attention on Corey, who cracked her knuckles, back, and neck before getting into a martial arts-esque fighting stance. The malevolent bear let out a destructive roar and then charged into his fierce rival, who wasted no time in throwing kicks, punches, knees, and elbows to the bear warrior’s ribs and stomach. These stiff shots rocked the monstrous creature back several steps, but it wasn’t until Corey threw a flying kick to the bear’s face that he was knocked on his back.

Corey jumped up in the air and planted both feet in Magnus’ gut, but the pissed off grizzly smiled a devilish grin at her and grabbed her ankles before standing up and spinning her around in a dizzying circle. The circular pressure made Corey so nauseous that she projectile vomited right in her opponent’s face, causing the big guy to drop her near one of the cops’ desks.

The human warrior was exhausted and was ready to pass out at any moment while the bear warrior, who just wiped the puke off of his face with his paw, was still ready to go. He even let out a battle cry that was so loud it could have waked the dead. But still there were cop corpses lying around everywhere bathed in blood and broken beyond repair.

The one cop who decided this vagrancy case was too important fired a shotgun blast right into Magnus’ ribcage. Hell yeah it hurt, but no more than a bee sting or spider bite. Instead of being in tremendous pain, Magnus just looked annoyed as he stared down Ace Hank with the intent to rip him to shreds.

As Ace shook while keeping the shotgun trained on the bear, Magnus Warcry said to Corey Darkside, “You know what, babe? I think I may have found someone who’s more of an asshole than you.”

The human barbarian was just coming around when she said, “Tell me about it. This guy cares more about his stupid vagrancy laws than he does about the people he’s paid to protect. Hey Magnus, I got a proposition for you.” She stood up and shook off her battle wounds. “What do you say we call a temporary peace between our tribes and instead beat the shit out of this guy. Hell, we can tear down his building for all I care. Truce?”

After Corey Darkside extended her hand, Magnus reluctantly shook it, but the mutual agreement was there nonetheless. He even said, “Don’t forget, woman, this is a temporary peace. Now let’s beat some ass!”

Ace Hank was terrified by what he just saw: two vagrant barbarians agreeing on the fact that he deserves to die and this building deserves to burn. He tried to aim the shotgun, but his hands were convulsing too hard to keep his grip and he eventually dropped it. He turned around and tried to run away, but his shaky legs and overweight body kept him from getting too far. He even stumbled over the dead body of one of his coworkers and just laid face down crying his eyes out and begging for forgiveness.

With Magnus grabbing Ace’s wrists and Corey grabbing the sheriff’s ankles, the bear warrior said, “On the count of three, were rip this chubby piece of garbage in half! One! Two! THREE!!”

RIP!!