Marcus Brock, Dirty Detective from "Virtuous"

 

The Chemical Brothers vs. Angry Cops: "It Doesn't Matter..."

 

Shayna Baszler vs. J. Edgar Hoover: Untapped Potential

 

David Aceveda from The Shield: Captain of The Barn, Which Is Full of Pigs

 

Judge Jeanine Pirro: Her Media Literacy Skills Are Sharper Than RFK's Heroin Needle

 

Brandi Regal, Detective from "Jumping For Jesus"

 

Vic Mackey from The Shield vs. Milo Yiannopoulos

 

C.C.H. Ground n' Pounder, Queen of Barbarians

 

Detective Jeri Lodge, Bull Rope Police Department

 

Her job is to arrest incel gangsters, but when she interrogates them and breaks them down, she takes no prisoners and even less bullshit excuses.

William Lewis and Liv Benson from Law & Order: SVU

 

Landon Bryce (Millennium) X Elly Chandler (Chandler & Co): Trauma Buddies, Not Lovers

 

Those are lyrics from "Invisible Sun" by The Police. And yes, the asshole who kidnapped Elly would in fact kill her for a cigarette. Hell, he'd kill her for less.

Dutch Wagenbach from The Shield vs. Michael Knowles

 

Black Tar Kiss, Chapter 3

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Black Tar Kiss, Chapter 2

“Hey yo, Scar Tissue, I’ve got a question for you, buddy. What exactly does Me Encanta Femicidio mean?”

 

“I love killing women.”

 

“I know, but what does that sentence mean?”

 

This was pretty much a normal conversation that someone could have with White Snake. Normal by his standards, not normal by decent human being standards. Most people have at least some of their marbles rolling around in their heads. He doesn’t have a goddamn thing in there, not even a pebble. He laughed at his own joke while Scar Tissue gave a satisfied little smirk. Me? I was probably staring holes through our beloved gang leader, but ain’t nobody called me out on it.

 

The three of us got out of the car and surveyed the situation before us. Battleground Park used to be this beautiful forest full of life and greenness. Squirrels running around with nuts in their mouths, sometimes bulging their cheeks out. Birds chirping away and singing better than most auto-tuned pop stars could ever dream of. Hell, you might see a deer pitter-pattering up to a creek to get himself a little somethin’-somethin’ to cool his throat and quench his thirst. Nature photographers would never long for employment in a place like that. But like I said, it USED to be this way.

 

Instead of oak trees that looked like nature’s hard-ons, it was just dirt, grass, some picnic tables with vulgar nonsense spraypainted on them, and some port-a-potties that smelled like they were bursting at the seams with dead bodies, which was probably why they called it Battleground Park, ‘cause that’s where all the corpses typically were.

 

And speaking of people who hadn’t seen a shower since the Nixon Administration, there they were in numbers that grossly outmatched the three of us: Me Encanta Femicidio. Not one Latino among them, or at least anyone with half an appreciation of the culture. Just a bunch of out-of-shape white dudes with whole-ass forests under their chins, like what Battleground Park used to be. Heavy metal T-shirts with the sleeves cut off so that the rest of us could get a good whiff of their goopy armpits. Black jorts, blue jorts, tan cargos, anything at all as long as we could see their tarantula-like legs, even though there were only two of them on their bodies. There they were hooting and hollering like idiots, pouring beers down their throats, sucking down cigars that somehow stank worse than they did, and bending a little cheerleader chick over one of the picnic tables before pulling her skirt up and spanking her red with their meaty paws. SPANK, SPANK! “Naughty girl!” SPANK, SPANK, SPANK! “Bad, bad girl!”

 

The more I listened to that baby girl cry her guts out hoping some invisible dude in the sky would hear her, the more I wondered why White Snake and Scar Tissue were just standing in front of the corvette with their arms folded. Discussing strategy, maybe? Yeah, I was kind of curious about the strategy myself. My fists and jaw were clamping down tight as I watched those hayseeds spank that cheerleader. If I ever needed a blood test done, I now know where my arm vein is, to hell with the tourniquet. Maybe I could have used some dental work, too, if I clenched my teeth any longer than I did.

 

I stomped up to the trunk and popped the sucker open, hoping for some weapons. Some CD’s, some T-shirts and jeans, some candy bars, an old vinyl record of Dark Side of the Moon, but not a weapon in sight, although I’ve thought about shoving candy down Me Encanta Femicidio’s throats and triggering a mass diabetic coma. I shook my head in disbelief and slammed the trunk down. “White Snake! We got a situation over here!”

 

He barely turned his head to look at me, forgetting that eye contact was supposed to be a thing. “What kind of a situation?”

 

“Well, I was just checking out this here trunk and, uh…no weapons. No guns, no knives, no brass knucks, not even a little sewing needle. How the hell are we supposed to fight that many douche-canoes if we ain’t packing heat?”

 

“Ah, don’t you fret, little Doggie Meat. I got all the heat you could ever want right here. Come on over. Get a piece.” He pulled something out of a little tin and started chewing on it. He sprinkled some in Scar Tissue’s hands and he was munching like no tomorrow, smacking his lips, too.

 

I strolled up there to see what it was. “Chewing tobacco? This is your secret weapon? We’re gonna get our asses handed to us! Besides, aren’t you worried about jaw cancer?”

 

“Cancer?” White Snake blew some air out of his nose. “Feminism is the only cancer you’ve got to worry about.” Classy. “This ain’t chewing tobacco. We just need the cops to think it’s chewing tobacco. Ever wonder why we call ourselves Black Tar Kiss?”

 

“Because the initials are BTK and you’re an edge-lord?” Scar Tissue chuckled at my joke and then quickly shut up once White Snake gave him a little glare.

 

White Snake turned his attention back to me. “Well, that’s certainly one explanation. Of course, the other one would be, this here black tar ain’t just any old chew. It’s Black Pills.”

 

“I’m sorry, Black Pills?”

 

“Yeah, man, Black Pills. They ain’t just an analogy from a stupid movie written by transgender-sexuals. These suckers are real. I told y’all that we’re the ugliest sons of bitches to walk the earth. Now these Black Pills are gonna prove my point. Chicks ain’t gonna resist us now, because…well…they ain’t got a say in the matter!” My stomach bubbled listening to that. “Come on, Dogmeat, have some.”

 

“Nah, man, I’m good.”

 

“Dude…you said it yourself. We ain’t packing heat in the trunk. No guns, no knives, nothin’ like that. You want to beat these guys or what? Why should they get all the cheerleader chicks? Three of us and god knows how many of them. These Black Pills will even the odds in our favor. Or you can get your ass stomped into the ground, that’s always an option, if not by those chuds, then by me. What’s it gonna be, kid?”

 

I stood there furrowing my brows at White Snake. He probably could have kicked my ass on any given day, but I had a mind of at least trying to kick his, even if I would have gotten ambulanced away.

 

I can’t freakin’ believe I’m saying this, but…Scar Tissue was the voice of reason. “Come on, essa, have some! You think I’m gonna let these putos run around here speakin’ my language? They don’t know a damn word. They’re just tryin’ to be cool. Yeah, they cool, alright. They’re so cool we should call them…Los Kulos!”

 

I did know what Los Kulos meant and that put a smile on my face. “Okay, let me have some.” Who knew positive reinforcement could be so convincing? Scar Tissue gave me a pinch of chew and I started chomping up and down on it. “Tastes like beef jerky!”

 

“I know, right? Now let’s settle this beef, essa! Viva la Raza!” Scar Tissue rapidly drummed his palms on the hood of the car to get psyched up. Even when he was fooling around, he looked like a goddamn rock star pounding those drums. Again, why was he hanging out with us instead of opening for Mudvayne?

 

Any euphoria I had watching Scar Tissue be a little bit like his old self was blown away by the shrill sound of White Snake whistling at the rival gang. He got all their attentions. The cheerleader got her bright red ass out of dodge, running and sobbing like she was a victim of domestic violence at the hands of a creepy uncle. She lost one of her white sneakers, but there were more pressing matters, obviously.

 

“Greetings, ladies and Germans! Just kidding, none of you have any balls tonight! I got one question for your chronically online Reddit chuds! This place used to be a forest, so I figured I’d ask a little philosophical question. Would y’all rather be stuck in the woods with a man…or a ssssssssssssssnake?!”

 

On a normal day, that would be the cheesiest thing to ever come out of White Snake’s mouth. But considering that a forked tongue was actually what came out of it, we all had the right to be a little worried. Them meatheads on the other side of the battlefield started dripping from their pits and foreheads something fierce, even though we weren’t packing any heat. After all, why would we need heat…when White Snake started to transform…into a big-ass white snake?! His skin turned all scaly and stuff. He grew some fangs that would give any dentist PTSD. He grew this long-ass body that would give snake-haters instant schizophrenia. His fingers shot out these pointy-ass claws that looked more frightening than his ugly-ass fangs. And wouldn’t you know it, this guy was freakin’ huge! He must have gained a whole foot just to look like this big ol’ monster snake with his tail coiled around him.

 

Scar Tissue, bless his soul, he didn’t do any favors in the racing hearts department. He too gained about a whole foot. His whole body turned into this big ol’ river of blood with these slimy, gross, scaly tentacles shooting out of every which way. He grew some razor-sharp claws too, but I would hazard a guess that the little fanged mouths on the end of his tentacles were even more heart attack-inducing. At this point, I’d be surprised if that was the only river of blood I saw that night. I swear to god, my incel homies were transforming into their namesakes right in front of me.

 

…Which made me wonder what the hell I looked like, being that my name was Dogmeat and all. I grew some field of hair all over my legs and arms. I had a Gandalf beard that looked like it hadn’t been cut since the date that story took place. My nose and mouth shot out a few inches and I was afraid to bite my own tongue and draw some serious blood. I had to take a quick peek in one of the side mirrors to see what I looked like. Well, it started out as a quick peek. It ended up lasting a hell of a lot longer than that. I looked into the mirror and saw an absolute goddamn monster from the depths of hell. Werewolf body, clown face with pale white and all, and even a blood-red wolf nose to complete the motif.

 

If my momma saw this side of me, she’d go right back to the needles and cocaine. If my dad saw me like this, he’d go from screaming to crying his eyes out in short order, probably muttering something about disappointing him and him not recognizing his own son anymore. I didn’t recognize me anymore. The Black Pill philosophy was true all along. I WAS the ugliest freak walking the earth. No girl would be caught dead with her hand in mine…unless of course she actually was dead. Forget make-out sessions, because that’s one of the ways in which she could die. My bloodshot eyes bulged like I was ready for battle, but I was just waiting forever for some salty discharge to drop. Manly men didn’t do that mess, but I didn’t want to be a manly man anymore. I wanted to cry. I wanted to be a baby suckling my momma’s tits. I wanted my dad to be proud of the boy he raised. How could anybody be proud of me outside of my gang circle?

 

There was a whole-ass battle going on over yonder, but I stared into the mirror waiting to cry my eyes out. The tears never came. There was some screaming and smashing noises going on in the background, but I didn’t watch what was going on. I assumed my guys were winning. How could they lose when they looked like that? Sure, they wouldn’t lose their virginities, but at least they wouldn’t lose a gang fight against a bunch of mediocre nobodies. What was this all for?! Why were we doing this to each other?! The answer smacked me right in the temple.

 

Nah, man, I’m serious! One of them chuds tossed a brick at me and opened up a gash real’ bad. My eyes weren’t leaking, but that wound sure was. I took another look in the mirror after I picked my head up…and I was bleeding like a goddamn fire hydrant. Them chuds started laughing their wobbly asses off…so I laughed along with them. And the more I laughed, the more cartoonishly insane I sounded. I rubbed the blood all over my face and laughed like a damn lunatic. I didn’t have to worry about no consequences, because who would put a straightjacket on my hideous body?

 

I got this sick serial killer smile on my face as I turned to look at the weirdoes who did this to me. They weren’t shaking like an electric massager they wished they could have used on that cheerleader, but they were damn close. I showed all my bloody teeth at them, I gave them this big ol’ murder grin, and I laughed like I was a shoe-in for a 51/50 order. Those porkers started sweatin’ like the pigs they were. They started shaking in their little Nikes. And then they got some serious goddamn exercise by running in the other direction. I ran after them and made some booga-booga noises just for extra effect. These pukes had never ran a marathon a day in their lives, until they met Dogmeat. I let them go after a while. And once they were out of sight, I gazed up at the moon and howled. “AWOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

After that little war cry, I took a look back on the battlefield where the remnants of Me Encanta Femicidio were trying their damnedest to fight the good fight. Punches, kicks, even the occasional headbutt. White Snake snatched up one of them with his tail and asked another one of his philosophical questions. “Would your rather tell your feelings to a woman…or a TREE?!” Once White Snake was within range of one of the last remaining oaks, he slammed that kid against the tree and he went down clutching his spine and screaming in pain. Not gonna lie, that looked pretty badass.

 

“Scar Tissue, look out!” That’d be me warning him about some sneaky prick wielding a bass guitar. The kid had designs of smashing it over Scar Tissue’s head, but thanks to my warning, he turned around and snatched that thing out of the chud’s hands. That dude knew he was screwed, yet he could just stand there and tremble while Scar Tissue…played a tune? Was he actually playing the bass intro to “Disciple” by The Warning? Did he really kneel down like he was channeling that Alejandra chick? Was this guy seriously having a little fun on the battlefield? Well, he did until White Snake condescendingly cleared his throat. Scar Tissue sighed before smashing that bass right over the kid’s head. He plopped over on the ground, his cheeks bouncing on the grass. He was out cold as White Snake’s ugly heart.

 

And wouldn’t you know it, that battlefield was littered with big dudes groaning and moaning in pain. They weren’t dead by a longshot, but they probably wished they were, judging from how they writhed around clutching their wounds. The torture was still going on long after the fight was over and the three of us were standing tall. And just like that, the effects of the Black Pills wore off and we shrank down to our human selves. I had no idea the effects were temporary. I had no idea any of this was happening tonight. I got a little jolt of energy from that fight, even though I didn’t throw a single punch or kick. I was grinning from ear to ear. Scar Tissue and White Snake were high-fiving the hell out of each other. Scar Tissue went on a fire-spewing Espanol rant like only he could and literally not anyone from Me Encanta Femicidio, those absolute men of culture.

 

Scar Tissue bounced around excited, whooped, cheered, cursed in Spanish…and then there was White Snake, staring at me like I just made a yo momma joke about him. Scar Tissue realized what the hell was going on and went silent in no time at all. I had to ask White Snake. “What’s up?”

 

“What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up. See all these bitches groaning in agony? They’re all over the place. They’re crawling around our feet like a bunch of bums. And now look at your feet. Ain’t nobody crawling around you. What the hell were you doing this whole time?”

 

I let out a nervous laugh. “White Snake, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. These morons got scared in their boots and ran for the hills the minute they saw me. You’re right! We’re ugly as hell! Ain’t nobody gonna dispute that!”

 

“You hear that, boss man? He scared them off!”

 

“Shut up, Scar Tissue.” Poor dude went quiet again. White Snake started marching up to me like he had another battle on his mind. I backed up little by little as he got closer. “Dogmeat, there ain’t nothing I hate more than a liar. I expect that mess out of a feminazi on X, but not you, bud. You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you? You ain’t down with us no more? Spit it out!”

 

“I swear, dude, it ain’t like that! I’m down for life!” I backed up a little faster this time, but I took one step too many and completely forgot that there was a hill right behind me. I made like Limp Bizkit and kept rollin’, rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ rollin’. Thank god there weren’t any hard rocks in the way, but them sharp twigs poking in my skin weren’t much fun. I could have done without the dizziness swirling around my head like toilet water, probably the same water that them port-a-potties used. I could have puked up a bigger mess than what Scar Tissue’s body turned into when he chewed them Black Pills.

 

I hit the bottom of that grassy hill and the world spun like a damn carousel. I thought I was gonna float off into outer space. I thought the ground was the ceiling for a minute there. Took a while to get my bearings straight. When I did, I crawled on my scraped-up hands and knees, little stabs of pain along the way. And then I see a pair of leather high heeled ankle boots…accompanied by the flipping open of a police badge and a woman’s voice, probably a woman who didn’t take too kindly to the Black Pilled folk.

 

“Detective Jeri Lodge, Bull Rope PD. You and I are going to have a little chat, my boy.”

 

She’s right. We did have a chat. And what better way to start a conversation than by dropping my face to the ground and cursing under my breath? Saved by the goddamn cops…lord, help me…

Two-Sentence Horror Story: Pacific Blue Balls

Detective Miller placed a comforting hand on top of Francine’s and said, “I’m going to need the links to your revenge porn pictures so that we can gather evidence and put this creep behind bars. Also, I watch Pacific Blue for the riveting drama and I read Playboy for the articles.”

Help Me, Walter Hollywood

 He lights a cigarette, compromises his health

Fresh lungs don’t matter in this neo-noir hell

Every day someone is murdered and forgotten

Until the corpse makes the streets smell rotten

“Help me, Walter Hollywood,” says the dame

Every transaction starts to all sound the same

An envelope of cash, smoke the last of the ash

Hope to god her lover isn’t thrown out like trash

But before he slings the questions around town

Obligatory sex scene with hushed moaning sounds

Almost makes the lover a complete afterthought

But there are bills to be paid, killers to be caught

Every fedora-wearing wise guy takes a swing

Until Walter’s eyes water, nose bleeds, ears ring

Anymore snooping and he’ll be full of bullets

Take his scalp until he’s only left with a mullet

Walter taps the dame up for a little more money

She laughs like his misery and bruises are funny

Admission of failure is just another part of the job

She winks one more time and turns the doorknob

Another body just washed up on the riverbank

Bricks around his ankles ensured that he sank

His face was so familiar despite the taped mouth

And the two black eyes and his nose cut out

Finding the lover was as easy as reading the paper

Nothing about this mystery made Walter feel safer

The money he was paid made him look like a hit man

Police would arrest him, lock him up with a big man

Capitalism made people do the weirdest things

Wait tables, scrub floors, stand on the streets and sing

Taking unclean money seemed like the way out

Why isn’t the dame’s freedom in any kind of doubt?

It’s a system that abuses everyone who struggles

Locks up the failures with big men who snuggle

Gangsters and politicians sip from a glass of wine

And every femme fatale continues to look so fine

Manliest of Mansplainers

Alexis Harper power-walked down the hallway towards the interrogation room, pants suit on, dreadlocked hair up, and a mean face that could turn any alpha male to stone like the eyes of Medusa. She paid no mind to the other officers giving her funny looks like she didn’t belong in this game. Manliest of mansplainers. That’s all they are, she thought. She looked both ways to make sure the coast was clear and entered the interrogation room, where Ryland Hamm sat on the opposite end of the table looking like testosterone on a stick.

Mr. Hamm had a smug look complementing his square jaw, slicked back blond hair to give off that alt-right vibe, and a red flannel shirt that he probably wrestled a lumberjack for if Alexis didn’t know any better. Despite being grossly outmatched in the size department, Alexis never lost her angry swagger and slowly took a seat across from her suspect, as if to draw out any anxiety Ryland might have had. She gave the potential anxiety an adrenaline boost when she laid her gun on the table and turned the safety off.

Alexis took several deep breaths through her nose to bring some more angry tension into this already prison-like room, white walls and barred window be damned. But the anxiety she hoped Ryland was having didn’t exist at all as shown by his equally cold and callous face. Breaking him down was going to be a chore, for sure. But it was a chore worth doing in her mind.

Her speech was slow and deliberate as she dressed down her suspect. “Listen to me, you little bitch…if at any point in this interrogation you try to reach across the table to hit me or grope me…I’m going to empty my gun all over your fucking face. You won’t be warned…You won’t get a chance to explain yourself…You won’t even get a chance to apologize…You touch me…you die…I know you don’t have a great deal of respect for women, so I thought I’d put that out to the universe beforehand…”

Ryland folded his arms. “Where I’m from, respect is earned.”

Alexis gave a sadistic smile. “I got bad news for you: we’re a LONG ways away from where you’re from. This ain’t jabip, my friend. This…this is my dungeon…and you are going to be my bitch today…” Ryland almost reached across the table, but thought better of it. “Good boy.

“Now…let me see if I’ve got this right…You left the bar at 10:30 last night…And that was when you shot the victim in the face…She’ll be buried in due time…but the thing is…we don’t even know this woman’s name…I don’t think you do either…All we know about her…is that you tried to give her a quote-unquote compliment…and it didn’t go as well as you wanted…What was that compliment, Ryland?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Yeah…and you know what I want? I want Jamie Fraser from Outlander shackled naked to my bed…with a dildo in his mouth…and an electrified diaper on his crotch…Wait a minute…hold on a second…Did I just make a man feel worthless?” She poked her own chin in mock contemplation. “I could have sworn that I turned a three-dimensional human being…into nothing more than a sex object…It’s almost like…I did the exact same thing you did to that woman…”

Ryland shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “You feminazis are all the same. Can’t even take a compliment, so you Me Too our asses out of existence. I told her she looked sexy in those running shorts and you know what she said back? She said…’If you want to get laid so badly, there’s a perfectly good middle school down the road. They’re more your type.’ She slanders the shit out of me and it’s ME who’s in this room? How is that fair?”

“The reason you’re in this room, Ryland, is because you shot her in the face shortly afterwards. That’s why we have no idea who she is: her most unique features…were blown right off her body…”

“I did not shoot her, you slanderous bitch!”

“Then why did we find her…lying on the ground…with no face…and no brains…and not much of a skull left either? Why…did this woman have to die over a clever comeback? She didn’t owe you a damn thing, Ryland…No woman…owes you a damn thing…”

Ryland’s tone grew more intense the longer this interrogation drew out. “That’s what women are for, you dumb bitch. They have vaginas for a reason. What good is a vagina if you’re not going to use it?! Why don’t you crack open a bible every once and a while instead of reading SJW comic books where Wonder Woman has a pecker and Superman has a pussy.”

“Hmm…” Alexis leaned back in her chair and continued to touch her face like she actually gave a shit about Ryland’s incel rhetoric. “That sounds like a good idea…I used to have a bible around the house…But then…my husband had a really disgusting meal at Taco Bell…and…there was no toilet paper in the bathroom…and…long story short…we don’t have a bible anymore…”

Ryland raised his trembling fist like he was going to strike Alexis, but then she reached for her gun and said, “Ah-ah-ah! I don’t think so, buddy...Don’t even try it…Don’t…fucking…test me!”

There was a knock at the door and a couple of uniformed police officers entered despite not having confirmation from Alexis to come in. She didn’t even look them in the eye. She just gave the jittering Ryland an arrogant smirk like she achieved what she set out to do. “He’s all yours, boys…Ryland Hamm…is our murderer. You’re welcome…”

One of the officers shook his head. “Lady? You don’t even work here.”

“WHAT?!” screamed Ryland. He clutched his own face with both hands and squeezed in anger. His breathing was labored and deep, his muscles vibrated, and his eyes bulged. “All this time, I’ve been interrogated by this feminazi and you guys did nothing to stop her?! She wouldn’t even let me have a lawyer!”

“Mr. Hamm, there’s no need to shout,” said one of the officers while raising his hand defensively.

“It’s a free country! I’ll shout if I damn well want to! I’m a real American and I say that shit proudly!”

“Of course you’re a proud American!” Alexis retorted. “Everybody knows that! You’re white…you’re a man…and you’re a republican, no doubt…Those three things alone would have ensured you a short stay in a county jail…as opposed to a lifetime in prison for murdering a woman who didn’t want to fuck you…tell me I’m wrong, boys. Go ahead. Tell me this privileged white male republican would have spent the rest of his life in prison. Go on…lie to me…”

No response from the cops.

“You all should be thanking me instead of chastising me,” said Alexis. “I’m like those undocumented immigrants you fear so much…I’m doing the job…that nobody else wants to do!”

Ryland had enough. He reached across the table like he wanted to clobber Alexis and she shot him in the head for it. The exploding brains and skull wasn’t nearly as impressive as what he did to the unknown woman in running shorts, but she laughed nonetheless as officers restrained and cuffed her.

“You all saw that, didn’t you?” chuckled Alexis. “He tried to hit me, so I killed him in self-defense. I bet he would have used the self-defense excuse to keep his ass out of prison because his fragile little ego was broken. Then again…he wouldn’t have gone to prison anyways…”

The cops hauled her out of the interrogation room and down the hall. “You’re under arrest for impersonating an officer.”

“What about murder?” she asked. “Are you going to add murder to my rap sheet or are you basically admitting defeat on that one?”

“You have the right to remain silent. I suggest you take advantage of that.”

“Kind of like how Ryland took advantage of that woman, right? You’re still going to give her a proper burial, aren’t you?”

“SHUT…THE FUCK…UP!”

Alexis grinned as she was being taken to a holding cell. “Yep, you’re definitely not impersonating an officer now. Y’all are the real deal.”

The House of Hathaway

Ah yes, the year 2003: a time in my life marked with bad mental health, suicidal thoughts, shitty education, and fights with online friends over inconsequential BS. So what’s the cure for all of this? Playing D&D with my brother James, of course! Whenever my mind wasn’t being bombarded with schizophrenic voices, I could put it to good use and guide my character through an epic adventure filled with magic and wonder! Or I could completely waffle it and confirm everything my head voices ever told me. Whoever said mental illnesses produce the best creativity needs to have their head mounted on a trident.

Speaking of tridents, guess what my character’s weapon of choice was! Everybody else in the campaign used a long sword because they had war in their bloodlines. I used a trident because I allegedly had fishing in my bloodline. Never mind the fact that the minimum damage on a trident cushioned every bad roll I could have made in combat. Nope! I’m just an angry fisherman named Regal. No last name, just Regal. My brother’s player character was named Riant, which apparently gave him a license to call my character Reg...which is short for Reggie…which rhymes with wedgie! Ugh…

But before we could get into the actual campaign, there was a mild disagreement between my brother and I over where in my bedroom we should sit. He sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor and I sat in my computer chair. He urged me to sit on the floor with him, but I refused. So our campaign began with Regal tending a barn full of animals during a thunderstorm. Weird, but okay. I moved the animals all over the place until lightning struck me and killed me. This was all an elaborate April Fool’s joke to coerce me to sit on the floor with him. I of course didn’t catch on, because, you know, schizophrenia and all. Plus, I had just argued with an online friend the night before and pretty much terminated our relationship, so there was that weighing heavily on me.

Now that I was cross-legged on the floor with James, the real campaign could begin. The House of Hathaway (very British-sounding name if I’ve ever heard one) put a bounty on some guy’s head because he stole something valuable from them. There was a poster on the city walls with his likeness and price printed on it. The poster said he was last seen out in the countryside. So naturally, my first move would be to go out to the countryside to look for this thieving bastard. Riant disagreed. He wanted to go to the local jewelry shop to ask a bunch of questions. Regal didn’t see the point of this, but played along nonetheless. He even asked, “Are you ready to go?” Apparently, this came off like an invitation rather than a demand, so Riant dinged Regal for that one.

So Regal goes over to the jewelry shop to interrogate the clerk. When I, the player, couldn’t think of any questions, James urged me to think like Vic Mackey from The Shield. How would he interrogate someone? What kinds of questions would he ask? If you’ve seen The Shield during its heyday in the 2000’s, you would associate Vic Mackey with ass-beatings galore. That’s how he got all of his information. Was James suggesting that I beat this clerk’s ass? Seemed unreasonable to me. Riant started the conversation with, “Any word of thievery?” I continued the line of questioning with a bunch of “personal questions” that got us kicked out of the shop when the clerk got offended. Why did he get offended? Why was he not cooperating with our line of questioning? My first guess would be because the clerk was a dick who didn’t respect our authority. But Riant insisted that Regal was “asking the wrong questions”.

So after that little kafuffle, Regal and Riant finally agreed to go to the outskirts of town where the real clues led. Regal went home to get an ox to ride on and Riant gave him a weird ass look for it. Regal also got weird ass looks from ordinary citizens for carrying a trident around with him. Never mind the fact that every weapon in the D&D franchise has a sheath and that’s what I was trying to do: put it in a sheath. James insisted that tridents didn’t have sheaths (they totally do), so this was the result: a bunch of crazy stares from the extras of the campaign. Oh, excuse me, the “background artists” of the campaign.

So as Regal and Riant make their way to the countryside (with no ox to ride on), Riant gives Regal a lecture about his poor performance in this bounty hunting mission so far. “Why am I always the one helping you? I wish you’d help yourself.” This would have been the perfect time to mount Riant’s head on a trident, but Regal held back and also held his tongue. The reasonable answer would have been to complain about everybody no-selling the seriousness of what Regal was doing. They treated him like a clown for reasons I would never understand. Then again, understanding everything isn’t in the schizophrenic’s arsenal, especially under heavy medication.

The two bounty hunters go out to the countryside to interview various farmers about the last time they’ve seen the House of Hathaway’s prized thief. Regal goes up to one farmer and says, “Excuse me, can I talk to you for a moment?” The farmer says, “We’re talking now, aren’t we?” Another example of NPC’s no-selling the gravity of the situation. We weren’t talking before, that’s why Regal asked the fucking question! I can’t remember what questions Regal asked after that, but the conversation took another steep turn when the farmer asked why he was being interrogated. Regal admitted to being a bounty hunter and the farmer lectured him about how that lifestyle could get him killed or arrested. To be fair to me, I had no idea bounty hunting was a sensitive issue since bounty hunters are on the same side as traditional law enforcement. But oh well. Can’t put the words back in my mouth now!

Regal and Riant go out to the forest to look for clues and they find a series of footprints in the dirt. Regal’s assessment of the situation was that there was a struggle taking place due to the awkward angle of the foot prints. Maybe a cult had gotten the thief. Was the thief even here? Who knows? Before I had the chance to find out more, our campaign ended when James and I were called away from the game by our parents.

This campaign was supposed to be a tribute to The Shield, but it looked more like The Three Stooges…except there was only one stooge and multiple straight men. That stooge was named Regal. He was a stooge because he couldn’t figure out basic detective protocol. To my young mind, The Shield wasn’t about nuance and politics. It was about ass-beatings and edginess. If Regal tried any of the tactics Vic Mackey used on The Shield, he would have been locked up a long time ago. Regal had no official authority; he was a freelancer and didn’t have any of the privileges of a traditional cop.

I don’t want you all to think that the House of Hathaway campaign was a microcosm on its own. My role-playing abilities suffered all throughout the 2000’s due to my mental illnesses and general naivety. You talk about NPC’s no-selling the gravity of the situation? That happened in pretty much every RPG I was a part of, including ones where I was the game master and had complete control. From 2010-2011, I took the role of Dungeon Master once more, but this time had better results. My players were actually being receptive to my awkward and insane ideas. It’s because of this newfound success that I decided to write fiction on a regular basis, not just movie scripts where the characters went along with each other despite the awkward writing.

To this day, I still have ups and downs when it comes to mental health. The one rule I follow to keep D&D campaigns and creative writing pieces from getting too weird is to not work on them while I’m having a bad mental health day. If the schizophrenic demons keep me boiling with anger or the depression keeps me tired and unmotivated, that would be the perfect time to take the day off. The other important rule I have to follow is to not shame myself for needing a personal day. I shame myself a lot and I think it contributes to my mental health being worse overall. Then again, mental illnesses depend on the victims cycling through negative thoughts. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be mentally ill in the first place.

I can look back on the House of Hathaway campaign and laugh about how silly it all was. Even if failing miserably hurt my self-esteem for a while, I think I’ve gained some of it back over the years and that’s why my writing career has picked up along the way. Come to think of it, writing novels is basically just playing D&D by myself. Or playing WITH myself, depending on the adult content of any one novel. Hopefully, I’ve come a long way from Regal in 2003 to Garrison Kelly in the present day. I’d like to think so. Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know. Could you repeat the question?

"Basil of Baker Street" by Eve Titus

BOOK TITLE: Basil of Baker Street
AUTHOR: Eve Titus
YEAR: 1958
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Children’s Mystery
GRADE: Fail

Listen…I know this is a children’s book and that certain liberties can be taken when it comes to judging the audience’s wisdom. Eve Titus didn’t have to be the second coming of David Baldacci, C.J. Box, or Brett Battles. But this kind of leniency is no excuse for insulting the intelligence of the readers. Yes, I know: Basil is a detective mouse and he’s modeled after Sherlock Holmes. To his credit, he’s got some serious deduction skills. Dawson, his assistant, could definitely learn a lot from him. While Basil does pick up on subtle clues that blend too easily in the background, there are some pieces of this mystery that aren’t so subtle, hence the insult to the readers’ intelligence and wisdom.

For example, let’s first look at the name of the kidnappers in question: The Terrible Three. Right off the bat, you know they’re the main villains of the story. And that’s really all the depth they’re given as characters. I understand that this is a short book and character development can’t always be achieved with so few pages. But please…at least TRY to make an effort at subterfuge. When we finally meet The Terrible Three, their villainy is never in doubt because of how angry and vulgar they act around other mice. If it wasn’t for the fact that their twin girl victims were missing, they could be arrested right away and there wouldn’t be a need for a story. There might not even be a kidnapping, the villains are so obvious.

And if the villains are going to send a messenger to do their dirty work, they might want to consider somebody who isn’t a nervous wreck all the time. Shuffling feet, shifting eyes, short answers, these are the telltale signs that they extorted Hawkins the sailor into delivering the ransom note. No subtlety there. In fact, I dare say that it doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure that out, much less a mouse that learns everything he knows from him.

Oh, I almost forgot about Basil. Never forget that he’s the world’s greatest mouse detective. If you need a reminder, the opening sentences of the book will tell you. Not show you. Tell you. That alone should be suspicious to a wise reader. You know what else would be? Basil being a complete Gary-Stu. He’s perfect in every way, not counting his horrendous violin playing. He only shows vulnerability once in this novella and that’s when he provokes The Terrible Three and a pack of minions into brawling with him and Dawson. Anybody want to guess how that fight turns out? Let’s see: two scrawny detectives versus a bunch of muscle-bound bruisers. Maybe Basil isn’t the brightest bulb in the drawer after all. But it was all part of a plan. Good for him. I’d hate to see what would happen if he botched that plan or if the Terrible Three and their minions were a little TOO aggressive in the brawl.

I guess I shouldn’t have had high hopes for this novella to begin with. Yes, it became a Disney movie. Yes, it has cute animals as characters instead of humans. But the writing is just plain insulting. I’m not even worried about the “wild Indian” and “good housewife” stereotypes, because those are nothing compared to a badly-written story. I can’t give this book anything more than two stars out of five. I wanted to like it, but I couldn’t. Sorry!

"Souls of the Reaper" by Markie Madden

BOOK TITLE: Souls of the Reaper (Undead Unit 2)

AUTHOR: Markie Madden

YEAR: 2015

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Paranormal Crime Drama

GRADE: Pass

I can say with utmost certainty that this novel is an improvement from the last. Sure, it still has its fair share of typos such as quotation marks that don’t end, but those are little things that can be easily fixed. Colton’s werewolf anger was perfectly justified this time around. His truck gets egged, his suspects are uncooperative, technology malfunctions from time to time, and doing paperwork is still a pain in the neck. As for the shifter newbie, Kazz, her passion for learning is evident as it should be for all rookies, especially those in law enforcement. Marcell comes off as a sweet and gentle soul as does Niall, which makes sense since they’re both in the business of healing people. Lacey Anderson is a believable main character in her own right. She’s tough on crime, sensitive to the victims of said crimes, and vulnerable during her moments of weakness. Being immortal creatures doesn’t make any of these protagonists Mary-Sues, because they still have to rely on police procedure and their own wits to get the job done. The overall team is effective in their duties and that’s something they had to earn throughout the Undead Unit series so far.

I only have two minor complaints when it comes to this book and this is just nitpicky stuff. I would have liked for Lacey’s adopted dog Morgan to get more page time, especially since it would’ve kept the fighting kennel raid scene from becoming a mere side story. Plus, I enjoy stories of former fighting animals finding love in their forever homes. It warms my heart. The other minor complaint I had was the way the final chapter (not the epilogue) concluded. The criminal reaper who’s been stealing souls to satisfy his lust for power, Su Xiong, was billed as this dangerous warrior who could snap at any minute. While I won’t give away what happens to him as this is a spoiler-free review, it was just a tad underwhelming for a guy who’s supposed to be as dangerous as he is. Granted, the path to this ending was by no means easy or pain-free, but the streak of agony should have continued into the final encounter. But again, these two complaints don’t ruin the entire story for me. I’ll always cherish Markie Madden’s way of bringing her worlds to life.

Think of your favorite TV crime show, whether it’s NCIS, CSI, Law & Order, or The Shield among others, and pair it with supernatural themes such as soul reaping, astral projection, and undead racism. That hodgepodge is what you can expect from Souls of the Reaper. It’s fun, clever, creative, and you’ll love it so much that you’ll want to see it on TNT or CBS one day as a full-time show. Even Syfy would love to get their hands on this story if it meant turning it into a well-crafted TV series. Four out of five stars will go to Markie Madden’s wonderful police procedural. I hope to one day finish the Undead Unit series!