Drunk as a Skunk

This would have been a perfect time for Sheriff Walt Magnus to begin again…if it wasn’t for the smell of alcohol radiating off of his body like nuclear energy. The burps exploding from his fanged mouth also included splashes of green spittle, a color that already looked horrifying on his scaly orcish flesh. The crotch of his blue jeans resembled a swimming pool, provided his bits and pieces were swimming in sewage. His red flannel shirt was glazed over with sweat, so much so that he had to air out his leather vest just to beat the desert heat. His snakeskin boots danced around on the sandy ground as he shimmied drunkenly from side to side. No doubt the Silver Star on his cowboy hat looked less and less believable with every near trip.

Passersby gazed upon their once beloved Sheriff with crinkle-faced disgust. Elven traders backed away as quickly as they could, probably hoping Walt’s drunken sweat didn’t get on their produce. Human families shielded their children, covering their ears with every passing burp. Even the shirtless, flabby-bellied, shit-breathed ogres held their nose in disgust as they waddled away from Walt. Despite his mind echoing with drunken harmonies, he could make out the various curses that his citizens said under their breath. Walt’s heart would have sunken if his emotions weren’t already numb. Instead, a vomit spill on the wooden steps of the Red Dragon Saloon would have to suffice. Now the citizens got the hell out of there in a big fucking hurry.

“I got this…I fucking got this shit…I can do this…just one measly arrest is all it takes…eh, who am I kidding?” With nobody around to listen to his monologue, Walt collapsed through the swinging doors of the saloon and face-planted on the floor, almost shattering his wide nose and a few fangs in the process. Almost. Drunken stupor be damned, he could still hear the squeaks of a rag cleaning off glass mugs. “Thank god you’re here, Murphy. You ain’t going to believe this, but…I need another drink…”

Walt grabbed the edge of a nearby piano and yanked himself to his feet, but not without dancing around some more. It suddenly dawned on him why the saloon was so quiet. Human corpses decorated the establishment, some bent over chairs, some sprawled out across the tables and the bar, all of them with blood pouring from their wounds like the tap itself. Walt could also smell elven blood, which was a daisy garden compared to the ogres lying about. Once his vision cleared up, he saw no sign of Murphy the Bartender behind the counter.

The one wiping the glass mugs (and shattering a few of them with her thick fingers) was a rotund anthropomorphic rhino dressed in a green leather apron. She gazed into Walt’s watery eyes and pointed her blood-soaked horn at him. “I ain’t Murphy, asshole. He couldn’t make it to work today. He’s taking a permanent vacation in the bowels of hell with the rest of these fat-shaming losers. It’s like they ain’t never seen a big woman before. Even these god-forsaken ogres couldn’t keep their flabby gums shut.”

“Yeah, I know how that is…” Walt burped before staggering and dragging his feet towards the bar, almost falling off of his stool as he parked his ass down. He could have sworn the deer heads on the wall were glaring judgmentally at him as well. Even the corpses looked like they wanted to drag Walt to hell with them, provided the rhino woman was right about their ultimate fates. “Can I at least have a beer?”

The rhino woman laid her palms across the bar after tossing the glass mug aside. “You sure about that, honey? Do you really need another bottle right now? Shouldn’t you be out cuffing people or some shit?”

Walt dropped his forehead onto the bar. “Yeah, like anyone gives a shit anymore. It’s always do this, do that, all without an ounce of thanks. You have any idea how many punks I’ve put in the pokey?” He lifted his head and tried to use his bladed fingers to count, but immediately lost track and chuckled. “I’m all burned out and nobody gives a rat’s ass. They whine and complain to me all day and now they’re fucking surprised that I’m piss drunk.”

“I certainly hope you’re not trying to pull a fast one on me, Sheriff. I might have to gore your ass too if you pull that negotiator 101 shit right now. Yeah, you’re one ugly motherfucker alright, but you’ve got that little narrow ass that the voters like. Me? I couldn’t sell a glass of water to a guy dying of thirst. They see my big ass and my big nose and automatically want to deduct a hundred IQ points. Ain’t nobody voting for me anytime soon.”

Walt burped again, spilling bile down his already messed up shirt and vest.

“Ain’t nobody voting for you either if you keep that shit up. Seriously, go take a bath or something. There are horse stalls across the street that smell better than you.”

Walt almost leaned back too far for his comfort. “You know what? You’re right. Maybe I don’t need a beer today. But…there’s no way in hell I’m going out there in that heat…not like this. You won’t mind if a sleep here for a few hours, would ya, miss?” He took the rhino’s hand and kissed it in a vain attempt to sweeten the deal.

She smiled. “I don’t see why not. Everyone else around here is taking a nap, I guess you could too. Maybe I’ll play something on the piano, like a lullaby or some shit. Or I could just stick my horn right through your fucking chest, either one would be fine.”

Walt lurched forward and a vial of amber liquid fell out of his sleeve. His eyes widened as his façade was exposed to the now growling rhino. She picked it up and shattered it between her fingers, confirming that it was indeed alcoholic perfume.

The Sheriff chuckled hoarsely. “Dina Octavia Lord…you’ve got this entire town scared shitless of you...Nobody’s got balls big enough to confront your big ass…But I will. Come with me, babe. You’re under arrest for mass murder!”

Dina roared a windstorm in Walt’s face, assaulting his nostrils with bad dentistry and knocking him on his back. “Oh, shit!” he said as he put his blown off hat back on and scrambled to his feet, bolting out of the saloon.

The thunderous sound of massive rhino legs charging behind him caused Walt to hold onto his hat and pick up speed. Everybody else scattered like cockroaches, screaming and crying while their arms flailed in the air. As Dina’s feet clomped and shook the ground, Walt’s heart thudded even louder and his mind cluster-fucked itself worse than if he actually was drunk. The footsteps pounded his eardrums like they were actual percussion instruments. “Just a few more steps…a few more!”

Once he could feel the tip of Dina’s horn piercing his ass crack, Walt dove through one of the horse stalls and covered up in the hay. The wooden walls exploded like dynamite once Dina crashed through them. Walt was certain he was going to be flattened like a pancake and crushed like peanut brittle. But then…horse whines belted through the stables and were accompanied by hooves smashing and kicking out of intense fear. Dina bellowed out of both anger and pain, her face and ribs covered in horseshoe marks, broken bones, and blood.

Walt covered up and cowered some more as the horses stormed out of their stalls, leaving a trail of shit and piss behind them, not to mention Dina’s thick blood. Speaking of Dina, she lied on the ground clutching her broken body and coughing up blood. Her horn even broke off to where it was a jagged mess rather than a clean blade.

Sheriff Magnus slowly stood up and pulled out his six shooter, aiming it at the wounded and battered Dina, who just suffered through a kung fu assault from a house full of frightened horses. “You see that, Miss Lord? That’s what happens when you try to use fear to control your enemies. When the people get scared, they do scary shit. In the case of the horses…well, we knew how that story ended. I know you don’t like being called fat and ugly. To be honest, nobody does. But if the whole town followed your example and went on a mass murdering spree…I might have an actual reason to be drunk as a skunk instead of doing my duty.”

Kneeling down beside Dina, he said, “Now listen, lady: I ain’t got cuffs big enough for them wrists of yours. No, that ain’t a fat joke, that’s god’s honest truth. I guess I’ll just have to hold your ass at gunpoint as I take you to jail.” He stood back up and motioned for her to stand up with his gun barrel.

Spitting out chunky blood and broken teeth, Dina said, “There’s no way in hell I’m going to jail before these jokers and clowns do. I don’t see you arresting the dickheads who signed their own death warrant a long fucking time ago. They didn’t have to kiss my ass. They just had to keep their damn mouths shut. Is it too much to ask? I SAID IS IT TOO MUCH TO FUCKING ASK?!” Despite aggravating her rib injuries, Dina found a way to reach Walt’s ankle. She got what she probably hoped for this whole time: suicide by cop. Walt shot her in the chest multiple times, putting an end to her reign of terror for good.

Despite having an obvious victory under his belt, Walt frowned at his handiwork. His body shook in anger as onlookers clapped for him. He couldn’t help but think there was a little bit of truth to what Dina said during her final moments. Walt spun around and confronted his admirers. “What are you fuckers cheering at?! This is your damn fault!” The clapping died down and faces sagged in somber reflection. “Hell, none of you would give me the time of day when you thought I was drunk. You were ready to vote for the other guy once you had enough of my jolly green ass. Shallow bastards!”

Walt ripped the Silver Star out of his cowboy hat and tossed it aside before marching away, his middle finger waving proudly in the air like a patriotic banner. These people were freaks too, but maybe Dina was a little too freaky even for them. Then again, so was Walt Magnus, which was why he stamped away from these ingrates in the first place.

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!

A Weasel and a Thief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am…am I busted?” asked Laurel.

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

Shadow-Pie

For Lance Bradley, driving out to the Ophidian Valley Desert was the longest journey he had ever embarked on. It had nothing to do with how much gas his white Honda used to get there. It had everything to do with his mind racing even faster than his vehicle. With his father’s ashes in a golden urn in the back seat, why wouldn’t his mind be racing at a hundred miles per hour. His pale face hadn’t seen a smile since the day his father passed. His pony tailed brown hair was a disheveled mess. His black rimmed glasses did a piss poor job of blurring out the tears forming in his eyes.

It was a thirty minute drive to the desert with a lifetime of sorrowful thoughts and heartache to go with it. When he parked by the side of the road, he shook and staggered his way to the back seat to get his father’s ashes. Stepping out into the desert sand was even more of a chore for his aching body. Who knew depression could hurt so badly in more places than just the mind. After a while of dragging his heavy feet, Lance finally dropped to his knees and let the urn crash onto the ground, though the soft sand kept the golden container from breaking. The tears were coming much more rapidly and his face was turning beet red.

“You must be Lance Bradley,” said a sagely voice. The grieving son picked his burdensome head up and saw that an elderly black dog with hints of gray fur and an Indian head dress was the source of that voice. Lance had the urge to go over and give her endless belly rubs and ear scratches. Hearing her actually form words with her dog muzzle made him reconsider. This wasn’t an ordinary animal. This was the shaman of the Ophidian Valley Desert, Shadow-Pie.

The sagely dog went on to say, “My condolences for your loss, Mr. Bradley. I’m sure he was very special to you.” The pawl bearer cringed and shivered as he stood up with the golden urn in hand. Shadow tilted her head to the side and asked, “Did I say something offensive?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that…well…I wasn’t expecting a dog to carry out this ritual. No offense,” said Lance without making eye contact with Shadow.

“None taken, my child. I get that kind of reaction no matter who comes out here. That golden urn of yours. Bring it here so that I may perform the ritual. I take it you don’t want to spend the whole day out here. Let’s get this done so that you can go home and rest,” suggested Shadow.

Lance stumbled over to the talking dog with the urn clutched to his chest like a child’s teddy bear. Something was bothering him other than the fact that his father was dead. Not even a wise being like Shadow could make out what it was. The pawl bearer set the urn down in front of the sweet-hearted beast and unscrewed the lid.

“Are you absolutely sure you’re okay, Mr. Bradley? Is it just grief from the loss of your father or is it something else?” asked Shadow.

An agitated Lance said, “I told you, Shadow, everything is fine!”

The elderly dog barked at her charge and said in a stern voice, “That’s not the way you talk to a shaman, young man. I was merely trying to figure out if everything was okay. You don’t need to take your aggression out on an animal spirit like me!”

Lance stuffed his hands in his tan khaki pockets, looked down at his feet sheepishly, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“If it means so much to you, then we can discuss this later. Until then, I have a ritual to perform. Stand as far back as you can, because the air is about to get dusty. Wouldn’t want a fine young man like you to have a sore throat,” said Shadow.

After the grieving son stepped backwards as he was told, Shadow stuck her snout into the urn and breathed in the ashes deep within her system. A few more deep breaths later and the ritual was underway, which consisted of her blowing the ashes out into the desert in the form of a high speed wind. The black cloud eventually turned green. The high winds became even more powerful. Spiritual chanting could be heard from Shadow’s throat as she simultaneously blew the ashes.

The green smoke began to form a dark circle around Shadow and Lance, making the latter of the two shiver and dart his eyes from side to side. If he wasn’t scared before, he was now that the shaman dog’s eyes were dark red and her currently razor sharp teeth were trembling in anger.

Lance tried to talk down the normally friendly dog by saying, “Good girl. She’s a good girl. Would you like a belly rub?” The possessed Shadow barked angrily at her charge and growled at him with white spittle running down her jowls. “Okay, um…how about some beef jerky! I have a whole bag of it in my car!”

The diplomacy of the dead man’s son was unconvincing to the ferocious beast as she leapt through the air and landed on Lance’s chest, pinning him down and barking relentlessly in his screaming face. Lance stopped screaming for a moment when Shadow spoke to him in his father’s gruff voice: “It’s about time you dragged me out here, little boy. There’s nobody around here to save you this time. No cops. No social workers. Not even your clueless mother! I’m going to enjoy every single bit of this torture I have planned for you. The first thing I’m going to do is bite off each of your little fingers one at a time!”

As Shadow slowly went for the first bite, Lance’s pants-pissing fear was replaced with a berserker’s courage. “Screw you, Dad!” he yelled as he landed a palm strike on the possessed dog’s nose. Shadow stumbled backwards long enough for Lance to stand up and put his dukes up.

But this wasn’t going to be an epic fight to the death. A dog’s nose was the most sensitive part of the beast’s body. Instead of charging at the dead man’s son with bloodlust, Shadow began to suck in air quickly before sneezing a hurricane of green spiritual energy. Lance was blown backwards into his car, where the back of his head bounced off of the hood and knocked him temporarily unconscious. As his vision was going black, all he could see was the green energy of his dead father cursing at him with venom in his voice.

It felt like an entire year had passed since this incident took place, but only because Lance Bradley had a monstrous headache as he awakened from his TKO at the hands of Shadow. The sky was a dark blue and the golden sun was setting underneath the horizon. Just exactly how much time did pass? Lance didn’t care. He rubbed the back of his sore head as he was coming around. He had a little bit of a bump there, but nothing more.

Shadow seemed a bit wobbly herself as she waddled over to her client, who sat against his car door with his butt on the desert ground. Shadow also seemed a little upset with Lance as she stared into his eyes with a little bit of a furrow in her brows. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Mr. Bradley? Is there a reason why the spirit of your ‘loving’ father caused me to nearly kill both of us? I want answers, Lance. I want them now!”

“I can’t talk about it, Shadow. I just can’t,” said a whimpering Lance.

“Listen to me, son,” said the sagely dog. “You came all the way out to this desert for a reason. Someone obviously sent you out here to carry out your father’s final wishes. But your father’s final wishes weren’t necessarily yours, were they, Lance? You don’t have to give me all the details of your father’s sins, but maybe a surface-level description would satisfy me. I need to know why I transformed into that horrible beast.”

A teary silence befell Lance before he finally mustered up the strength to say, “I was…I was…”

“You were what? Don’t run away from your past, my dear. Face it head on and create a better future. You were almost denied that future when I inhaled your father’s spirit. Are you going to let him do this to you from beyond the grave?” said Shadow.

After taking a few deep breaths, Lance Bradley spilled the beans on his father’s transgressions. “I was only eight years old. You don’t make an eight year old do those things. You don’t make him taste those tastes. You don’t make him feel embarrassed like that. You don’t touch your own son that way!” The last sentence was shouted with all of Lance’s pent up frustrations. The tears were pouring like rain at this point.

“Do you feel that?” asked Shadow. “Inside each of those tears is the spiritual energy of your past agony. They’ve stayed within you for so long. You were afraid to let them out for fear of reliving those days. I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to live those days anymore, my son. The truth set you free. You set your father’s soul free. And I am right here beside you. I always will be. Dogs like me were put on this earth to give comfort to those who need it. I am giving all of my comfort to you. Keep those floodgates open and learn to love again.”

Shadow nuzzled her soft head against Lance’s chest while the sobbing son wrapped his trembling arms around his new doggie. “Your fur is so soft. I could pet you all day long. Is it okay if I pet you?” asked Lance.

“You don’t have to ask me, my child. You can pet me for as long as you want to. Take your time and don’t let up until you’re ready to hit the road again,” said the loving Shadow-Pie.

The petting session, the flowing tears, and the heartache of it all lasted for hours that night. The sun had gone to sleep for the day and the full moon glowed brightly for the sagely animal and her new owner Lance. Peace and tranquility had come to Ophidian Valley once more.

Wasteland

Sweat poured down Faye Blood’s dark skin like a desert rain. Her fiery red hair was pasted to her forehead like horse glue. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her baggy white pants were draining even more sweat her already exhausted legs. Her orange monk’s sash clung to her upper body like a wrestler’s bear hug. Then again, all of this was to be expected from wandering the wastelands with a short supply of water and a hunched over body. The sun’s rays punished Faye’s body to where everything hurt. And to think, this much foot travel was all in the name of making a pilgrimage.

Pilgrimage? What kind of cruel and sadistic god would ever encourage his followers to walk aimlessly through these unforgiving sands? Couldn’t said deity at least have the decency to splurge for some camels? What about barrels of ice cold water and buckets of dry rations, was that asking too much as well? Faye would be lying if she said these thoughts hadn’t crossed her mind at least one time. But as quick as they haunted her, she pushed them back out of devotion to Salaam, the God of Benevolence. Her religious zeal trumped any complaints she had about doing this much exercise in one day.

The things Faye Blood would do at that moment for even a teardrops of fresh, nearly frozen water. She could strangle somebody. She could disembowel them. She could commit genocide and completely ruin her zealous track record with Salaam. An hour of zombie-like walking later and she would have two reasons for sudden violence. Just to make sure it wasn’t a mirage, Faye rubbed her eyes with balled up fists. With clear vision, no, this wasn’t a heatstroke-induced illusion.

What Faye saw at that moment could have been described as sensually pornographic, even from her outside perspective. A blue tent had been pitched and judging from the shadows of the two occupants, a man and a woman, there was some serious hanky-panky going on in there. The dominant male rained kisses upon his lovely female and touched her in places that made her squeal with delight and giggle with pleasure.

She didn’t have a whole lot to puke up, but if Faye did, she would spill her breakfast, lunch, and dinner all over the desert ground. Public display of affection was more disgusting to her than a battlefield full of dead bodies. To make matters worse, the male in the tent opened what looked like a bottle of water and was pouring it all over the female’s chest and face, causing her to arch up in orgasmic ecstasy.

Now Faye was pissed off. That was valuable water that could have gone to anybody dying of thirst in this god forsaken land. Instead it was being used for a cheap aphrodisiac between two equally cheap people. The monk’s fists were clinched and her muscles were tensed. Any tiredness she felt beforehand was replaced with energetic rage. Adrenaline pumped through her veins like the river she so desperately wanted to drink from.

The religious warrior stomped over to the tent and jerked it open with one frustrated rip. The lusty couple jumped backwards in surprise and scrambled to put their clothes back on. All the male had to put back on was a black mesh tank top while the female had a black leather breastplate. Their lower halves were completely covered with black baggy pants and black combat boots.

Faye actually allowed these two the time they needed to dress just by standing there in her muscle-tensing pose with the ripped tent still in her balled up fists. She couldn’t stand looking at them half-naked anymore. She didn’t care how smooth and toned their “sexy” bodies were or how lovely their long hair looked. Faye was thirsty. Whether she was thirsty for water or blood was a question that couldn’t be answered just by looking at her viciously angry pose.

“I could snap both of your necks right now and nobody would even try to find you two nitwits,” said Faye through gritted teeth. “If you’re not going to use that water intelligently, then at least give it to someone who will. Show me where you keep your jugs of water and I’ll be on my way.”

The male paramour, identified as Marco Torres, drew a rather long blade from its leather sheath and said in a smooth Spanish accent, “Hold on a second, babe. Who the hell do you think you are interrupting a beautiful thing like lovemaking?”

“Trust me, macho-nacho,” said Faye. “There’s nothing beautiful about wasting water just so your little harlot over here can have a fifteen-hour orgasm.”

The female paramour, identified as Rook Maxwell, drew a claymore from its sheath and heaved up a metal tower shield before saying, “Now sugar bear, if it’s water that you want, you don’t have to threaten to rip our heads off. By all means, you can have as much as you want. You’re not getting it from those jugs, though. This kind of water comes from spending seven minutes in heaven with the two of us!”

Faye instantly knew where the source of “water” was supposed to be and screamed in disgust while covering her ears with her palms. She then sang an agonized, tone-deaf version of “La-la-la-la-la!” before Marco and Rook got annoyed and lunged at her full force.

The two lovers swung their respective blades full force and made heavy “woosh” noises as Faye Blood cart wheeled and back flipped out of the way of these deadly strikes. With two people attacking her at once, Faye couldn’t find a split second of offence and spent most of this battle acrobatically dodging attacks. If she kept moving around this quickly for much longer, she would have another reason to collapse in exhaustion other than her desert travels.

As Faye continued to tuck, roll, flip, and fly out of the way of Marco and Rook’s tireless slashes, the monk noticed how they were concentrating only on the upper half of her body. Therefore, Faye did the splits and went down low with five knuckles of death right into Marco’s testicles.

The Spanish thug doubled over and howled in a raspy voice before dropping to his knees and rolling around on the ground. With him dispatched of, it was only Rook Maxwell swinging her heavy blade at Faye Blood, who continued to flip and fly around the battlefield to avoid getting struck.

Evasion was much easier for Faye with one opponent, but not for long. Rook pointed her lengthy hunk of metal at her opponent and shot little black energy grenades that exploded into smoke. Faye could try to run, but the thick smoke enveloped her and she soon found herself on her knees hacking and wheezing, much worse off than being dehydrated in the desert.

Rook sauntered over to her vulnerable victim with a kinky smile and a clear path through all of her magical smoke. Faye was passing in and out of consciousness by the time Rook waved her sword and blew her own smoke away. The dark paladin held her blade against Faye’s coughing and bloody mouth with the intent to make the final kill.

“Look at it this way, sweetheart: at least now you won’t have to worry about dying of dehydration. I plan on making this as quick as possible, but only because I really like you,” said Rook.

She slowly positioned the blade to Faye’s throat when the monk shakily and languidly made it to her feet. Rook thought this was some kind of last ditch effort, a second wind maybe. But all Faye had to come back with was vomiting in the dark paladin’s face. Blood, ashes, and desert sand filled her stomach with enough contents to make the projectile vomit that much more disgusting.

All of that biological slop was enough to deter Rook Maxwell from carrying out a murder, however. She danced around and clutched her “beautiful” face as the stomach acids burned her eyeballs. Some of it even managed to go down her throat, so she was choking as well.

They weren’t dead, but Faye was satisfied with her combat results long enough to spot jugs of water with her blurry vision. “Must…have…water…” she said over and over again to herself when she crawled on her hands and knees over to the leather skins. She pulled the cork from one of them and chugged like it was her last chance at fresh water. And oh, did it taste fresh. It was like a waterfall of icy coldness soothing her throat and energizing her stomach. Chills went up and down her flesh as she gulped some more. This was heaven to Faye Blood. Pure, wonderful, lovely heaven.

“Thank you, Salaam. Thank you so much!” she said in a prayer position. But soon all of that heavenly coldness turned to drugged dizziness. Her vision was blurry and everything around her was spinning into darkness. The cool sensation was turning to uncomfortable warmth and sweat. Before long, Faye Blood passed out with her face buried in the sand.

It must have been hours before the monk awakened. When she did, she felt so weak and crippled that even opening her eyes took a lot of physical and mental energy out of her. All she could see was Marco Torres’s blurry face looking down on her while he stroked her sweaty hair. Every word he said to her from that point on had a little bit of an echo behind it with some reverberation off the walls of the tent.

“You feel that, my love?” asked Marco in a sensual voice. “That wasn’t water you drank. That was a cask of Salaam’s most magical wine. Granted, it was laced with other lovely drugs, but hey, you wanted to make your pilgrimage to the heavenly lands and now you’re here.”

“Wha…wha…what the fu…”

“Shh-shh-shh! There’s no need for talking, my sweet. Just relax and let Salaam’s holy cocktail wash over you. You often wondered what exactly it was you were traveling to. And this is it, my love. Your priests sent you on this mission to find me. I am Marco Esteban Torres. Rook Maxwell was one of my wives. But she won’t be joining us tonight. Salaam has taken her to a better place. But you, Faye Blood, will make a suitable replacement for my lost fifteenth wife. Welcome to the good life, sweetheart. This is the true definition of Salaam’s Heaven.”

The setup to be Marco Torres’ wife was sealed with a passionate kiss between himself and an unwilling, yet unresponsive Faye Blood. The monk would soon find out what had happened to her this whole time. And when she did, it was doubtful she would be so zealous to her religion anymore. “Fuck you, Salaam. Fuck you badly!” said Faye in her own mind.

"Holes" by Louis Sachar

A lot of people don’t know if they’re unlucky or not, so I came up with a little test to try and help them out. Things like, if you’ve ever been sent to a boy’s detention center called Camp Green Lake for something that wasn’t your fault, you might be unlucky. If your overseers are complete douche bags who would rather watch you die of dehydration than give you an adequate amount of water, you might be unlucky. If your workload at Camp Green Lake consists of digging a five foot hole in all directions during the hottest part of the day, you might be unlucky.

Or you could just be a kid named Stanley Yelnats, who personifies unluckiness to the nth degree. A pair of stolen celebrity shoes literally fell from the sky and landed in his hands. An officer stopped and arrested him before he was eventually sent to Camp Green Lake to do tedious and body-shredding work. If that’s not an odd coincidence, I don’t know what is.

Or it could be that his great grandfather was cursed by a witch for not keeping a promise. It seems petty to blame an entire misunderstanding like Stanley’s story on a witch’s curse. However, the more Stanley digs these holes and finds interesting artifacts, the more he realizes that his family history plays a huge role in this story. Suddenly, this tale of bad luck turns into a conspiracy theory that almost kills Stanley multiple times.

That’s a lot for a small child to take in as he reads “Holes”. Then again, “Holes” is the kind of story that both children and adults can enjoy despite the former being the target audience. It is read in grade school, after all. It just wasn’t read in my grade school, because “Holes” came out in 1998 and I was already a teenager.

I found out about this gem after Disney took it upon themselves to make a movie out of it. I never watched the movie, I just saw portions of it. I didn’t even realize Camp Green Lake was a detention center until I heard about Stanley Yelnats having a lawyer. So when I saw this novel in a bookstore in Asheville, North Carolina, I knew I had to have it.

Yes, most of the book consisted of harsh treatment toward the unfortunate, but since it was geared toward children, it had things that distinguished it from “bully porn” as I like to call it. It has a fast pace, dark humor, and an overall creative story that left no stone unturned in terms of interweaving plot devices.

You don’t have to feel like a toddler for reading this wonderful book. On the contrary, you might actually learn something from this despite having qualified for retirement benefits from social security. Chew on that for a minute.

　

***PARODY DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

DR. CUSHING: What’s wrong, Crazy K? You don’t like being strapped to a spinning torture table? Well, you should have thought about that before you agreed to behavioral modification.

CRAZY K: Mmmmmmmmmmm!!!

-Tales From the Hood-