Quine Roseman, Edge Lord Comedian from "When They Go Low, Punch Lower" (What the Fuck Is a Chicagofornian?)

 

Joey Styles vs. John Bradshaw Layfield

 

Your winner by KTFO: "Stocky Balboa" Joey Styles!

Heath Riggs the Clumsy Cowboy

 The sum’bitch who said hanging on isn’t a good thing never had to worry about their equilibrium over a mud pit. Have you ever tried to wash mud and pig shit off of clothing with nothing but a Tide Pod and a spinning machine? Neither of those stains are coming out without a fight. But it was a battle that Heath Riggs was not prepared or willing to fight. When I was contacted on Deviant Art in early 2011 for an RP request, I figured it would be some nice D&D fun with orcs chopping off elves’ heads and gnomes picking the pockets of arrogant kings who sat their asses on purple cushions. Unfortunately, it turned out to be anything but.

My recollection of this particular role-playing session is fuzzy at best, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I don’t remember this woman’s name nor do I remember the name of her character. No, I’m not just protecting her identity, I seriously don’t remember. All I know was that she was so adamant about me getting a Yahoo Messenger account so that we could do this in real time instead of posting it as messages on a board somewhere. 

Without coming off as rude, she did have a bit of an aggressive streak when it came to asking for this role-play. She MUST know when I’m available to play. She MUST know how she can reach me. She MUST know why I’m having trouble accessing a Yahoo account I haven’t touched since the W administration. Red flag city, here I come. Come to think of it, I do believe there is a place where red flags are prominent. John Cena knows of this place since he had to apologize to their government for calling Taiwan a country.

So what was the premise of this role-play that the mysterious woman was so desperate to get out of me? What could possibly be so important to require my writing skills and RPG knowledge? Is it a trip to outer space to shoot lasers at aliens? Is it a dungeon crawl that involves throwing axes and shooting arrows at fire-breathing dragons? Is it a wrestling RPG where Triple H is serving up sledgehammer shots and graveyard burials like he didn’t steal the latter gimmick from The Undertaker? No, no, no, not even close. She wanted this role-play to take place on a cattle ranch. She was the farm girl, I was the cowboy known as Heath Riggs. Why Heath Riggs? Because I chose it and she was okay with it. Heath reminded her of Heath Ledger’s role in Brokeback Mountain and Riggs reminded her of pickup trucks in the rural area in which the RPG took place.

Unfortunately, Heath Riggs’s name was the only badass thing about him. As the newest cowboy at the farm girl’s ranch, he came off as awkward to be in conversations with. Okay, not so bad just yet. I’m an awkward conversationalist in real life, so it’s bound to come out in my role-playing of Heath’s character. He and the farm girl talked about his newbie status. They talked about his past employment. They talked about his past relationships. They talked about how this totally ranks low on the weirdest experiences Heath has ever had. I don’t have a script with me, so this is the best I can do as far as show don’t tell goes. Pretty mundane stuff in the lives of socially weird people. Not exciting at all. The cowboy in question wasn’t of the Sergio Leone variety. He was just a guy who fiddle-fucked around with the animals.

And then…from out of nowhere…my role-playing partner decides that Heath Riggs will slip on a puddle of mud and pig shit and get his clothes stained beyond recognition. I didn’t decide it. She did. Her character laughed like she just watched an episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos. Come to think of it, if this happened in real life, it would probably take home the grand prize on that show. Maybe with the winning purse, Heath wouldn’t have to work at a mediocre ranch anymore! But until then…another slip in the mud (which sounds like a Pink Floyd song if they played country instead of classic rock). And another. And another. And another. Heath looked like his candy bar namesake, but less appetizing. Nobody would be eating him that afternoon, least of all the giggling farm girl.

Obviously, I wasn’t having a good time in this RP. I almost fell asleep on multiple occasions. My butt was numb. My jaw was clenched tightly. I needed to get the hell out of that Yahoo chat room. I finally told the woman that I had to get going for the day and secretly hoped she wouldn’t chew me out over it. She was aggressive enough in getting me to role-play with her in the first place, so why wouldn’t she be possessive over my spare time like an obsessed yandere? But to my surprise, she was understanding. We said our goodbyes in a way that was just as uneventful as it would have been for Heath Riggs and the nameless farm girl.

Now…one thing you need to understand about me is that I had and still to an extent have a hard time saying no to people when I’m feeling uncomfortable. It could be a trauma response, but agreeing to unsavory conditions to keep the peace was what I did best back in 2011. I was never prepared to deal with getting yelled at or being made to look like the bad guy for standing up for myself. Maybe it’s because I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up and keeping friendships was too important to me, even if they weren’t healthy ones. Even as I type this, I realize that I’d rather be lonely than share a space with toxic people. The woman in question wasn’t what I’d consider toxic, but I did have qualms about telling her that the RP wasn’t working out. I ghosted her for weeks on end. I didn’t go anywhere near Yahoo Messenger.

I dreaded the day when she would eventually contact me on Deviant Art and ask me where the hell I was. I knew it was coming. I knew I couldn’t get through 2011 without having to face that day. So when she finally asked where I was, I took a chance. I told her the RP wasn’t working out for me. I told her that I preferred fast-paced adventures like the D&D campaigns promised. I told her that it wasn’t anything against her. I told her that Heath Riggs’s clumsy cowboy gimmick was boring me to tears. I was expecting to get chewed out like a wad of bubblegum. I was expecting to look more villainous than Voldemort and Dolores Umbridge put together.

But instead…she understood where I was coming from. No grudge. No backlash. No venom of any kind. She understood and it was okay with her that I didn’t want to continue. I gave her a digital hug and the two of us went our separate ways. The name Heath Riggs would eventually be recycled into a debt collector character in a cyberpunk short story who went on a local news show to spill industry secrets and make the pervy anchor look like a buffoon on live TV. There was no real reason for him to be named Heath Riggs other than the fact that it sounded cool. There was no Brokeback Mountain reference. There was no need for an eighteen-wheeler. Just a guy named Heath who betrayed the debt-collection industry by exposing their greatest weaknesses. At least Heath didn’t slip in pig shit this time, although, one would argue that the news anchor more than qualified for the role of pig shit.

The lesson of the day, my young grasshoppers, is to speak up when you’re uncomfortable. It takes a lot of bravery to do in the face of kind people. It takes even more bravery to do it in the presence of your family and friends. But if they don’t know, then nothing will change. Yes, you may be labeled a villain for saying no. But the bigger question is, why isn’t the other person a villain for forcing you into a situation you don’t want to be in? You’re chaotic neutral at worst, but the pushy bastards who want to keep you under their thumb are fifty shades of lawful evil. 

You can wear the dark cloak, but they can wear the QAnon shaman furs. And besides, what’s the worst that could happen to you for playing the role of villain? You’ll have fewer friends, sure, but being on your own is better than being surrounded by toxic assholes. At least you’re good company. At least the darkness of your solitude will give you some cool rumination. A toxic asshole will give you trauma and heartache, neither of which are worth retaining for their comfort.

This is a lesson I have yet to learn myself even though I’m preaching it like a mega-church wing-nut. I haven’t prepared myself for ultimate loneliness. Maybe it’s something I should talk with a therapist about. Maybe when I do, I can bring up the Heath Riggs example as to why it’s beneficial for me to stand up for myself. For some toxic people, I’m risking not only a lack of friendship, but sometimes a beating and ridicule. You know what? Put me in the ICU for all I care. I’ll get the best medical treatment I’ve ever had while you’re rotting in a prison cell. As it turns out, taking toxicity too far is fucking illegal. I’m not worth going to prison over, no matter who you are. You think losing my friendship is lonely for you? Prison is lonelier. It lasts longer, too. So, bring it on, world!

"Kind of Like Life" by Christina McMullen

BOOK TITLE: Kind of Like Life

AUTHOR: Christina McMullen

YEAR: 2014

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Psychological Fantasy

GRADE: Extra Credit

When you put The Matrix and fantasy elements in a milkshake blender and mix them together, you get a delicious treat from Christina McMullen called “Kind of Like Life”. You start the book thinking it’s going to be a utopian love story. Everything that can go right for Renee Ward does go right. And then the world around her is revealed to be a lie. The reality of it all is horrifying as hell. Can she wake up from her nightmare long enough to make things right in the real world? That’s a question you’ll be asking yourself throughout your entire reading adventure. You don’t know what the solution to these problems will be, so nothing is predictable. Hell, you’re not even sure if a happy ending was meant to exist. I love surprises and I love plot twists. Christina McMullen delivers on both of those fronts, which is part of the reason her book is getting five out of five stars.

Another reason why she gets that grade is because the entire book is a celebration of creativity and imagination, a break from the ordinary. Genres can bend at the drop of a hat. One minute you’re in a lush faerie forest full of magic, phoenixes and wonder. Another minute you’re in a Wild West desert being chased by a sheriff and his posse. And then you’re flying through space unleashing pew-pew lasers upon other spaceships that want to gun you down and watch you burn. You know how people say that imagination has no limits? Neither does this book. Crossing genres is creative in and of itself, but telling a cohesive story with compelling characters to keep it from being shallow? That takes a lot of skill and Christina McMullen has that in spades.

Speaking of compelling characters, how can you not like the chemistry between Renee Ward and the man who rescues her from the cracking utopia, Blake Carter. They start off being suspicious of each other and sometimes annoyed at their presences. But the more they learn about each other, the closer they become. Blake’s past of being abused by his parents isn’t just an empty attempt to make him appear sympathetic. It’s a trust builder and it ties into the story in a way that sensitively deals with such a traumatic topic. The descriptions of the abuse he went through and how his parents got away with it Scot free are heartbreaking to read about. I came within a hair of shedding some tears for this scene. Renee Ward doesn’t necessarily have to heal Blake through her relationship with him, but she does understand his pain and she does handle his trauma in a delicate way. Does he want to talk about it? Does he want to avoid the subject? Renee is there for him either way. These two characters don’t complete each other; they complement each other. That’s the stuff healthy relationships are built on. We need more of this in fiction today.

This book has an uncanny ability to play with your brain like silly putty as you try to piece together the puzzle of the plot or wrestle with your emotions through all of the heartache. I like being surprised. I like having my darkest emotions triggered. I also like having my lighthearted emotions triggered as well. There’s something for everyone in this novel. You want a thriller? You’ve got one. You want fantasy? It’s all yours. You want a psychological rollercoaster? Have at it. As I’ve said before, “Kind of Like Life” deserves a five out of five star rating for being everything I wanted it to be and more. I know full well that anybody else who picks up this book will have the same glowing opinion. Christina McMullen is awesome like that. It makes me look forward to reading other novels in her catalog as well.

Matthew Must Die

My voices tell me that I am hope

I forgot to take my dosage of dope

Smoke wagon tucked in my pocket

Blast off like a motherfucking rocket

Roll into this rundown ghost town

The birthplace of slanderous sounds

My old foe has a price on his head

Bring him alive, but I prefer him dead

Some things are more important than coin

Like never forgetting that kick to the groin

Like never forgetting his evil laughter

And the bigoted slurs shortly thereafter

Has anyone seen my man Matthew?

I promise it’s all I’ll ever ask you

Drunk in the gutter is what you tell me?

Criminal rap sheet loaded with felonies?

Shoplifting and trespassing while stoned?

Burglarizing other people’s comfy homes?

Easier than shooting fish in a barrel

It’s time to make his gene pool sterile

Sure enough, he was a cinch to find

Drowning in a bottle of cheap wine

Scraggly beard no different from Chewie

The cigarette odor so thick and dewy

Every drug on the street in his system

Let’s find out if anyone will miss him

Pull out the smoke wagon and aim

Should I shoot to kill or shoot to maim?

Ah, who cares? He’s already dead

Among the living, but not in his head

He fucked up his life so very badly

That nothing else could be so damning

I give him another twenty-four hours

Before he dies in his own golden shower

I’m going home for the rest of the day

To my feline friend with whom I lay

Spaghetti Western

VERSE 1

A harbinger of things to come

Foreheads spitting out bubblegum

Mexican guitarists playing their strums

Spaghetti western, come get some

CHORUS 1

Hey, Sergio! Keep that camera rolling

Hey, Ennio! Keep that music lulling

Hey, cowboy! Should I shoot your ass again?

Spaghetti western! You’re fucking dead!

VERSE 2

Bullets flying in the Spanish sunset

Dynamite blasting, we ain’t done yet

A fistful of dollars, a bellyful of lead

Spaghetti western, bleed them red

CHORUS 2

Hey, Luigi! Take the role of hero

Hey, Giuseppe! Be my Robert Di Niro

Hey, cowboy! Are you ready for a fight?

Spaghetti western! Let’s light up the night!

BRIDGE

We’re taking over the silver screen

Making the bloodthirsty cream

Is it rated R or somewhere beyond?

This ain’t no time for a family bond

VERSE 3

Another sunset darkens the horizon

Another victory is all mine, son

Another masterpiece caught on film

Spaghetti western, shoot to kill

CHORUS 3

Hey, Mario! Put down the pizza pie

Hey, Nero! Be my blackheart bad guy

Hey, cowboy! Comfy in your grave?

Spaghetti western! You can’t be saved!

Yee-haw!

Stupid Rabbit

***STUPID RABBIT***

It’s no secret that Looney Tunes had a huge influence on me as a kid and still does as an adult. Many of my Poison Tongue Tales entries have been compared to Looney Tunes cartoons and I take that as a compliment. My mom is also a Looney Tunes fan, so much so that I got her a DVD collection of the cartoons as a Mother’s Day present one year. I guess you could say that it’s a family tradition to be a fan of this genre. That’s why when I saw a You Tube video of Yosemite Sam’s piano bomb prank on Bugs Bunny, I had to make it a part of my motivational self-talk.

What happens in this cartoon is Yosemite Sam rigs a grand piano with dynamite that’s set to go off when a certain key is struck. He then challenges Bugs Bunny to play a song on that piano where one of the notes is the detonation key. Bugs cracks his knuckles and plays the song without striking the key. Furious, Yosemite Sam yells, “No, that’s not it! Try again!” Bugs tries again and still fails to hit the trigger key. Sam then screams, “Oh, you stupid rabbit! Like this!” Although Sam played it the correct way, he triggered his own trap and blew his facial hair off. This piano bomb gag was common in Warner Brothers cartoons, but Yosemite Sam’s version is the one that sticks out to me the most.

Now whenever I make a grave mistake in either my writing or my drawings, I mentally yell to myself in Yosemite Sam’s voice, “No, you stupid rabbit! Try again!” It sounds negative on the surface, but it’s Yosemite Sam’s voice, so it’s actually a giggly form of motivation. And it’s true: in the world of creative work where introversion is the key to getting shit done, you get an endless supply of chances to make things right. You’ve written a first draft novel? Try again! You’ve miscalculated the limbs on a drawing? Try again, you stupid rabbit! Although, you won’t ever have to worry about your keyboard or colored pencils being hooked up to a bomb.

In a world where everybody is telling artists to give up and get STEM jobs, you need as much positive motivation as you can possibly get. Even though Yosemite Sam is yelling “Stupid rabbit”, I get a chuckle out of it instead of getting down in the dumps. Being able to laugh at yourself is the most powerful thing you can do as an artist. If you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?

Although having a massive ego is completely natural (we all have one whether we admit it or not), being able to tame that ravenous beast is one hundred percent necessary. That doesn’t mean you can’t believe in your own ability to improve. It just means that not all critical advice is bad. I paid Marie Krepps to critique Beautiful Monster and she delivered the goods and more. Now I’m contemplating rewriting the whole story from scratch to accommodate the radical changes she suggested. And while I’m doing it, I’ll be hearing Yosemite Sam’s voice echo in my brain.

“No, you stupid rabbit! Try again!”

You have no fucking idea how good that feels. I love the Looney Tunes, damn it! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***PROVERB OF THE DAY***

“There are two motives for reading a book. One, that you can enjoy it. The other, that you can boast about it.”

-Bertrand Russell-

The Hydromancer

Clint Magnus barreled through the forest like a stampede of buffalos. His metal boots pounded into the ground with resounding thuds. His exhaling released clouds of steam into the chilly morning air. His ribs and legs felt like they were on fire. His tongue was drier than desert air. But if he stopped now, that twenty grand bounty was as good as gone.

The bounty hunter could smell the fear emanating from Fatima Rose. It was a sweeter scent than any perfume and gave Clint a massive boost of energy. He was so close that any minute during this chase he could grab a hold of that wet raven hair and have her to himself. The sweat pouring off of the witch’s body as she ran smelled like sweet autumn rain. Clint continued to dash after the witchcraft practitioner until he was fingertips away from clutching that heavenly neck of hers.

Clint was so distracted by this maiden’s terrified charm that he didn’t realize until falling face first that she had led him to the river. The bounty hunter’s heavy breathing caused him to suck water through his nostrils before pulling his head out and coughing up a storm. He shivered from the sudden cold splash like he was trapped in a meat locker.

While on his knees catching his breath and coughing out the water from his lungs, he saw Fatima lying on the other side of the river breathing heavily and holding her ribs. She looked so beautiful to him in her vulnerable state. Her wet green dress clung to her body like a chilling, frostbitten embrace. She was so exhausted that Clint could just scoop her up and take her to the authorities anytime he wanted.

When the middle-aged cowboy stood up and brushed his damp gray hair back, however, he saw two fountains of water bursting up from the river on either side of him. Another one formed behind him and another in front. Clint Magnus danced around in fear and shivered for a different reason than being soaked.

The bounty hunter could see Fatima’s hands raised from her sides while she was still laying down. They were clouded with a blue and purple mist of energy while her eyes glowed a brilliant and hauntingly beautiful neon green. The hydromancer levitated to her feet and gazed at her assailant with scorn and power.

“You…you really are a witch!” said a shaky Clint Magnus while pointing his wrinkled finger at her.

“Witch?” asked Fatima. “And what exactly is a witch? Is it supposed to be one of your disgusting slurs? Is it a label you put on anybody you disagree with? Or do you just reserve it for someone you want to exploit for money? I know this is a post-apocalyptic nightmare for all of us, but you, sir, are out of excuses!”

The four fountain bursts of water grew taller as Fatima’s energy-covered hands rose over her head. “Oh, shit!” said Clint to himself before the rising water came crashing down over his head, pinning him to the river bed and drowning him as well. He struggled and flailed in the raging waters to where his face was turning purple.

The water torture was mercifully over when Fatima swept her hands to the side and cast the freezing liquid away from Clint, who was hacking and wheezing while pathetically on his knees. “Get up, you fool!” ordered Fatima. “You’re supposed to be a goddamn bounty hunter, not a fucking amateur.”

Huffing and puffing, Clint Magnus slowly made it to his feet while his teeth clicked together from the hard convulsing. As soon as he got his bearings, he pulled out his Desert Eagle pistol and said, “I’ve had just about enough of your bullshit, lady!” When he pulled the trigger, only sand and rocks came out of the barrel.

“Well, look at that! Your pistol’s shooting blanks. Your wife must be so disappointed in you right now. So disappointed that she’ll run off with another man while you’re busy chasing little old me,” taunted Fatima while she giggled.

“That’s grounds for getting your neck snapped, little girl,” growled Clint. “What the fuck do you know about my family? I have to support them every damn day in this screwed up world! Chasing you was all about the money. It was never personal. But if you’d rather mock my family instead of supporting them, that’s fine, I’ll beat your ass anyways!”

“And I’m sure you’ll make an excellent role model for your children one day,” said Fatima sarcastically. “While turning me in will ensure that your family gets paid, you’re also teaching them how to label others. That’s how we got into this post-apocalyptic mess in the first place: by judging each other and slapping labels on our neighbors. And what do your politicians do when they can’t play nicely? They don’t work things out. They drop bombs on each other. Is that what your children are going to grow up to be: bomb-dropping politicians?”

“My children have a better future than that!” shouted Clint.

“Your children have no future at all!” retorted Fatima. As the uncomfortable silence took over, Clint hung his head in sorrow while the hydromancer maintained her authoritative gaze upon him. “Then again, nobody has a future around here. They call it Armageddon for a reason: because it’s all over. As long as we continue to cast hatred on each other, we will never, and I mean NEVER, rebuild to what we once were.”

Clint kept his chin tucked to his chest as he contemplated this harsh talking point. There were even hints of tears in his eyes, which caused Fatima’s deadly stare to soften. The bounty hunter picked his head up and said, “So that’s your solution? We just throw down our weapons and love each other? That hippie-dippie shit sounds good on paper, but how many assholes out there actually want to do that? You can’t make them be nice people!”

“What about you, cowboy?” asked Fatima with her finger pointed at him. “Can you be convinced to carry a message of love across the world? Can one act of kindness spread into several others? Or do you just want to shoot people for the rest of your life and collect your blood money?”

Another beat of uncomfortable silence washed over the scene. Clint had a decision to make. Would he continue to perpetuate the hateful sins of the apocalypse or will he show them that they are all capable of change? He shook his head and said, “You are so full of shit, lady. You are so full of disgusting shit!”

Clint quickly pulled a knife from his belt and chucked it into Fatima’s shoulder, causing her to drop to her knees and scream demonically in pain. The bounty hunter had a ghoulish grin on his face as he slowly approached the wounded witch. He even cracked his knuckles, wrists, and neck for dramatic effect.

He held his hands out in an attempt to grab Fatima by the throat and choke her, but the hydromancer still had one good arm and used it to work her magic. The river turned into a violent whirlpool that sucked Clint Magnus into the center. He flailed his arms and kicked his legs like a small child, but it was hardly any resistance against the much stronger waters. The river rose and Clint’s head sunk beneath the freezing liquid. He swam and stroked as hard as he could, but soon enough, his eyes would close and body would go limp. His last few bubbles of breath reached the surface and popped just as quickly as his life faded out.

Clint bathed in darkness with nothing but his final thoughts. He saw his wife’s beautiful face and gorgeous brown locks while she donned her favorite while dress. He saw his two toddler sons clinging to their mother’s legs and bouncing up and down while waiting for daddy to come home. Daddy would be coming home soon, Clint kept telling himself. But those twenty thousand credits were out of reach the minute he drowned in Fatima’s watery magic.

And then the cowboy coughed up another puddle of icy water while shivering some more. He slowly opened his eyes and found that he was lying alongside the river while holding a shining blue pendant with a note attached to it. Clint took a few more deep breaths before rolling over onto his knees and letting his eyes adjust to the fading light of the day.

The note read, “Water is something we all need in this dying world. Your family can’t drink money, but they can drink clean and healthy water thanks to this pendant I’ve left with you. The pendant is charged with hydromantic powers. Use it on any source of water and it will multiply and purify it for drinking. Neither you nor your family will ever go thirsty again. One act of kindness can soften the heart of even the coldest people. I hope it softened yours as well. Don’t give up on humanity just yet. Yours forever, Fatima Rose. P.S.: Don’t worry about my shoulder wound. I’ve suffered worse wounds from worse people.”

Clint stared at the pendant in his wrinkly hand and began to shed tears over the marble orb. “Thank you, Fatima,” he sobbed silently. “Thank you for everything!” He spent the last few moments of the day crying to himself, something his “manly” stereotype wouldn’t allow him to do for the longest time. Getting it all out felt as good as a nice chug of clean drinking water.

Lisa Roberts

I’ve never been much of a John Wayne guy. I also never condoned the idea of cowboys shooting at Indians for no particular reason other than to be dicks. So why then would the western genre interest me enough to almost write a story about called Tombstone Technique? Because everything, and I do mean everything, can be made better…with magic! Cowboys shooting magic bullets at each other and Indians firing lightning arrows at their attackers. Bank robberies being done with shadowy skull staves and ten-pace shootouts being done with bone wands. My idea of a western story would be a sick hybrid of A Million Ways to Die in the West, Diablo II: Lord of Destruction, and Harry Potter.

That’s where Deputy Lisa Roberts comes in. You want to know where I got the name Lisa Roberts from? I stole it from NCIS: Los Angeles. It was a cover name used by Kensi Blye when she was going undercover as a warehouse thief. Actually, that’s an episode I’d rather forget, because it ends with Kensi getting punched in the jaw to the point where she can’t chew her food.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time or patience to expand Tombstone Technique beyond a genre hodgepodge and a roster of names. That means of course we have a lot of work to do when it comes to developing Lisa Roberts. And no, the word “development” has nothing to do with her breasts, you sick freak. It simply means we know nothing about her. She’s a clean slate and we need a piece of chalk to create art.

First and foremost, I want Lisa Roberts to be tough and sexy at the same time. I want her to rock a pair of jean shorts and to kick the balls of any man perverted enough to stare at her legs. I want her to have a revolver in one hand and a skull wand in the other. Whenever she has assholes on both sides of her, she can pump some lead into one side and shoot lightning bolts, bone spears, poison daggers, and fireballs on the other. But what if she got the crazy idea of imbuing her bullets with magical powers? Fireball bullets. Lightning bullets. Ice bullets. How about bullets that contain all three of those mystic elements? I have to fan myself off for a minute and it has nothing to do with the summer weather.

But of course, if I made Lisa Roberts into a male fantasy sex machine, she wouldn’t do well with the female members of my audience (unless they were lesbians, but chances are, they’re not). What kind of likeable qualities could we give this woman to make her stand out as a super heroine of the wild west? Toughness, as I’ve said earlier, will go a long way in giving her popularity. A silver tongue might also do wonders for her. A take-no-shit attitude will sure as hell give her some staying power. I’m liking Lisa already! She reminds me of Wonder Woman!

It’s funny, because just a few weeks ago at the WSS Contest and Company group on Good Reads, I confessed to everybody that I didn’t know how to make likeable characters, that I just threw everything together willy-nilly. I’m still doing that with Lisa Roberts. The difference is, if I want Lisa to become the fully-developed badass she’s destined to be, I can’t put her in a short story contest entry. She has to go through a whole journey that can only be told within a full-length novel. And unlike most characters in my novels, Lisa Roberts will live to see the next novel, should she be a popular hit with my audience. She’s a survivor, damn it! Put her in the move “The Purge” and she’ll still come out smelling like roses and gunpowder!

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“My wife Stacy is good at getting heel heat with the crowd at wrestling shows. Hell, she gets heat with me around the house.”

-Jim Cornette-

"Country Song" by Seether

From childhood to my early teens, I played with toys and exercised my imagination so that one day I could use it to make my dreams come true as an adult. Now that I’m an adult and have four e-books to my name, I continually look for tributes to my childhood either on the internet, in movies, or in books. I recently saw The Lego Movie and my nostalgia needs were on orgasmic overdrive.

Long before that movie came out, I saw the music video for “Country Song” by Seether, which front man Shaun Morgan once called “Toy Story on crack”. He wasn’t kidding. The video shows a kid playing with action figures on the beach and whatever he’s doing to the toys happens in the world that Shaun Morgan and his band mates inhabit.

The band members are cowboys in the wild west (as the title “Country Song” would suggest) and the other toys are the villains of the story. You’ve got a Mexican luchador, a teddy bear, a space man, all of which occupy a wild west story, by the way.

But that’s the great thing about having a budding imagination: rules don’t matter. If Shaun Morgan wants to shoot an imaginary chain gun at the other “characters” in the music video, so be it. If a big fuzzy teddy bear wants to stir up trouble in an anachronistic nightmare, let him do it. And if the kid’s little sister wants to bring her Barbies along, they can stand by Shaun’s side like the smoking hot cheerleaders they are.

When you’re a kid playing with your toys, any object can be whatever you make it. If I was eight years old and saw a lead pipe lying on the ground, I’d probably interpret it in my play world as a big ass flame cannon. If I had a human-sized stuffed panda on my bed, he’d be one hard ass motherfucker for a Lego man to kill. If I saw a rubber stamp from the library lying on the ground, I’d probably use it to flatten my action figures into pancakes (in my imagination, of course).

I was born in 1985, which means I’m physically a grownup now. Emotionally? Far from it. While I prefer to play with characters in my stories instead of action figures, I’m still the same kiddy-pie I was in the 80’s and 90’s. A boy has the right to dream, but a man has the means to make those dreams come true.

Did I mention that I have four e-books to my name? Go to Smash Words and search for Garrison Kelly if you’re interested. Go to You Tube to watch the music video for “Country Song” by Seether as well. Seether is a hard band not to love, but in case you don’t, at least you can have a nostalgia boner when watching the music video.

　

***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

INTERVIEWER: What will you tell your children when they ask about what mommy did with her talents?

TEMPERENCE: I’m not going to have children.

-Bones-