Marcus Brock, Dirty Detective from "Virtuous"

 

Lionize the Bad Guy

VERSE 1

He’s got a whole ass file on his favorite chicky

Face Book bikini picks gives him a sticky dicky

Send her a thousand letters, give the envelope a licky

Beat her man with driftwood or make the gun go clicky-clicky

It’s society that made him a little sicky-sicky

Hurry and say sorry, ‘cause time is ticky-ticky

Moral grayness is always tricky-tricky

That’s why you can never be too picky-picky

 

CHORUS

Lionize the bad guy

It’s everyone else’s fault

That he’s such a sad guy

Now the spinning world has come to a halt

 

VERSE 2

Everyone’s favorite story is when zero turns to hero

Might get a good review from some dude named Shapiro

Might become the manifesto of some basement-dwelling weirdo

Might become the ammunition to break the attrition

 

CHORUS

Lionize the bad guy

It’s everyone else’s fault

That he’s such a sad guy

Now the spinning world has come to a halt

 

VERSE 3

Who do you let play with your brain like clay?

They’ve lost their way, it’s as clear as day

They made you laugh, made you cry a long time ago

Now you’re swimming in tears, they’re rolling in dough

Money’s kind of funny in the way it controls everything

Who gets the cardboard box, who gets the brass ring?

It’s the same ring you put your lips on before their boots

All because you found toxic romance to be cute

 

EXTENDED CHORUS

Lionize the bad guy

It’s everyone else’s fault

That he’s such a sad guy

Now the spinning world has come to a halt

Demonize the tearful

They’re always just so sensitive

And always so fearful

In a world that pisses away evidence

 

FINAL LINE

Goodnight, my supreme gentlemen. And always remember: it’s never your fault.

Defamation

“You want it? You got it. This is the Dan Stone Show. Welcome to the machine!” said a demonically distorted voice over the underground radio waves. The heavenly contrast of Gregorian chants echoed throughout the dark studio while Dan Stone bathed in the minimal light of his Christmas tree and computer screens. Even when being surrounded by nyctomantic pleasures with nobody else in the room, Dan always wore his trench coat, fedora, and skeletal mask.

“Good evening, revolutionaries,” said Dan into the microphone, his voice still distorted with devilish effects. “As many of you have seen in the mainstream media, I’ve made a lot of enemies. These enemies can be anybody from the sexual predators at Cluster Fox to the idiot politicians with Umpa-Loompa skin to the whiny CEO’s who’d still be mad if they won the lottery, you know, because they wanted one million one dollars instead of just a million.”

Dan cleared his throat in an ogre-like tone and said, “I obviously take great pride in my work of pissing off the spoiled brats of America. The ones who have five hundred summer homes and two hundred winter homes. The ones who pay next to nothing in taxes and still need more money. The ones who disenfranchise the poor in this country and wonder why those same working-class people can’t reach the top.”

The radio host clicked his tongue several times before continuing with, “I’ve said some venomous shit over the many years this show has been on the air. Shit that made my targets want to sue me for everything I’m worth. The same well-to-do motherfuckers who tell young people to toughen up and stop being snowflakes, they’re the ones who can’t take criticism and because of that, they want to see Dan Stone in the defendant’s chair.

“There’s just one problem with that: Dan Stone doesn’t exist. You can’t sue somebody if you don’t know who the fuck they really are. Dan Stone is an alias. This radio station is so far off the map that no GPS can find it. I get my mail at…actually, it’s none of your fucking business where I get my mail. All you need to know is that these politicians, these corporate welfare kings, these officials in suits, they all want a heavy chunk of my bank account

“It is Christmas after all. They do deserve something for the holidays. But my true identity isn’t one of them, let alone any form of payment for their lost tears. For all of you overpowered suits out there who can’t stop smearing your tan job with your tears, I’ve got two presents for you. One of them is a middle finger big enough to see from space. The other present is something you desperately need: facts. Cold hard facts that can’t be disputed by even your craftiest lawyers.

“You see, you’ve gone after me all these years looking for yet another corporate handout, yet there are still many more radio show hosts out there who go untouched. Hosts who are even more offensive than me. Rush Limbaugh says offensive shit on a day-to-day basis. Yet you go after me! Howard Stern accused Roger Waters of bigotry even though Mr. Stern constantly tells his female guests to take their tops off. Yet you go after me! Tim Allen calls college students snowflakes and then bursts into tears at the sight of a burning flag. Yet you go after me! You know what I think? I think this is a conspiracy.”

“No, Mr. Stone,” said a feminine voice, which was followed by a gun clicking. “It’s not a conspiracy. It’s a crime. Jackie Thomas, PCPD. Put your hands where I can see them. You’re in so much shit it’s almost unbelievable.”

Dan raised his gloved hands in the air and slowly rose to his feet. Even in the dim lighting of the Christmas tree, he could make out Detective Thomas’s features: Marlboro lines in her face, blond hair in a ponytail, and a pants suit worthy of a certain former democratic presidential candidate.

“Are you seriously the only one here, Miss Thomas?” asked Dan. “Shit, I’ve always envisioned my arrest coming at the hands of a SWAT Team or something like that. I guess defamation suits don’t really warrant that many armed cops. Or maybe there’s another reason you’re all alone. You want to be the only one who can claim you’ve shut down Dan Stone’s radio show. You want the fame and fortune that you couldn’t get by a hosting a show of your own, or doing something else that’s actually commendable and creative.”

Jackie fired a warning shot and barely missed Dan’s ear. She said, “You’d better watch that silver tongue of yours, Mr. Stone. Insulting an officer is seen by the law, for better or worse, as being just as bad as taking a swing at one. You really don’t need more charges on your record.”

“Yeah, I get you,” mocked Dan. “But before you take me to the courthouse to face my accusers, I just want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for proving my point about how fucked up our defamation laws are. Thank you for proving that conservatives are just as worthy of a milk bottle and diaper change as the so-called snowflakes they target. I guess you’re going to have to pile on more charges, Miss Thomas.”

“I guess that’s the case indeed,” said Jackie. “Turn around and place your hands behind your head with your fingers interlaced.”

As the detective was ready to make her arrest and Dan turned around to comply, the radio show host pulled an electrical cord with his foot and the Christmas tree came crashing down upon the detective. The bulbs broke over Jackie’s face and the studio drowned in complete darkness. Dan hid underneath his desk while Jackie kicked, struggled, and swore trying to get the giant tree off of her. Once she was free, a beam from her club-like flashlight illuminated a minimal amount of the room.

“Alright, smart ass!” she belted, little streams of blood dripping from her already nasty face. “I was actually planning on letting you live tonight. Well, you don’t have to worry about being sued any longer. You can’t sue a man named Dan Stone…if he’s fucking dead! No where are you, you little shit?!”

Dan desperately felt around for anything he could use as a weapon. His hands worked faster as Jackie’s booted footsteps grew louder, crunching on fallen Christmas bulbs and kicking pieces of tree out of the way. Dan’s search involved him quickly unscrewing something from his computer with the bolt digging deeply into his fingers despite the gloves he wore. The bolt came loose, but a singular drop of finger blood splashed on the floor, the tiny sound effect giving away his biggest secret.

“Ah-ha!” Jackie yelled with the gun pointed in Dan’s face. “That better be you or else I’m shooting up this whole fucking studio!”

Dan had one chance to get away and he took his leap of faith by throwing his unscrewed computer part at Jackie: acid from the storage battery. Jackie gripped her melting face and screamed loudly enough that she could have broken more bulbs, boots or not. Out of instinct, she fired random shots in the dark while Dan ducked down low and ran across the studio. And then the liberal firebrand dropped to the floor after a final shot in the dark, clutching his throat and wheezing desperately.

Jackie’s screams of pain turned to grunts of rage as she stomped over to the source of the hacking and coughing. She shined her light all around the studio thinking it was here or there. She belted, “You’re one dead son of a bitch, Danny-Boy! One less tree hugging hippie! We don’t need smart-asses like you talking shit about our finest citizens! They earned their billion dollar salaries by working their fingers to the bone! That’s how this country works, Dan: the harder you work, the more money you make! It’s common fucking sense! Being a loudmouth radio show host isn’t hard work! It’s bitching at its worst! And now matter how much you cry or whine, nobody’s going to bring the system down!”

Jackie’s flashlight beam shone upon Dan’s booted foot and slowly made it’s way up his body. Dan could feel the light burning a hole in him like a demonic stare. His goose was cooked and cooking couldn’t happen without some degree of deadly heat. All of the hard work (that Jackie easily dismissed) and all of the sacrifices (which she also dismissed), they were all for nothing. Then again, clutching his throat and feigning a gunshot wound was also considered laziness since he was technically laying on the floor doing nothing.

“What the fuck?” snapped Jackie, just then wishing her flashlight had shone on Dan’s other foot. That other foot was the one that jerked the cord on the Christmas tree some more, tripping the cop and landing her on the back of the neck. Her gun danced across the ground and seemed miles away. She reached for it, but instead got a boot sole clamping down on her hand and her flashlight taken away. Dan ground his boot into Jackie’s hand some more until her screams and her bones crunching created the perfect symphony to his ears.

The radio host shone the light underneath his masked face as though he was telling a campfire ghost story. “Truth is, you crazy bitch, this isn’t the first time one of you copper-toppers came after me. You may think you’re dealing with an amateur, but I’ve been in this business since I was old enough to have my first beer. I’ve had to change studios a few times. I’ve had to buy new computer equipment. But the message has been the same. It’s the same message I’ll take with me when I move to yet another dark studio.”

Dan pulled off his fedora and mask to reveal that his face had been surgically replaced with metal parts, much to the wide-eyed horror of Jackie, who was still huffing and puffing in pain. “I got my ass kicked by the cops once. That’s why I needed this surgery. But I got sued anyways because I somehow caused those cops a great deal of undue stress. You know how much those fuckers in blue wanted? Ten million dollars. Ten fucking million! But as you know by now, Dan Stone doesn’t give away ten million dollar handouts to crybaby conservatives. Why? Because Dan Stone doesn’t exist. Welcome to the machine, bitch!”

The final part of his broadcast featured him beating Jackie over the head with the flashlight several times until her skull exploded into a sea of brains and blood. He didn’t have to work hard at killing her since her face was already softened from the battery acid. In fact, he had an unfair advantage this whole time. “So this is what it feels like to taste the silver spoon,” Dan said to himself before he wiped two fingers across Jackie’s bloodied head and sucked them down. “Peace sells, but who’s buying it?”

The Jeffrey Dahmer Fan Club

TEAM NAME: The Jeffrey Dahmer Fan Club
CANON: Ode to Jeffrey Dahmer


NAME: Otis Norman
AGE: 30
OCCUPATION: Unemployed


NAME: Courtney Robyn
AGE: 28
OCCUPATION: Unemployed


There once was a time during the life of Garrison’s Library that I would blog about weird dreams I had. My blog was a place for creative fuel of all kinds, dreams being no exception. The reason I don’t do it anymore is because those small bursts of creative fuel usually don’t lead anywhere. They’re just a sequence of weird events that have no application to real life. And thus, we have a short story called Ode to Jeffrey Dahmer, where a psychopathic couple go on a rampage in the name of the same serial killer they worship so much. It was a short story so nonsensical that it was eventually dumped when I had to choose stories to publish in American Darkness.

Close your eyes and let me paint a picture for you of the two sole members of the Jeffrey Dahmer Fan Club. If at any time you feel like you’re having an acid trip, you probably are and you should call 911, if not for yourself, then for Otis and Courtney. The two of them are unemployed, broke, and about to get kicked out of their poorly kept apartment. So what do they do about their economic situation? They start off by sneaking into an old man’s neighboring apartment and stealing clothes that would make Otis look like Jeffrey Dahmer: a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and a fedora. Whether or not Jeffrey Dahmer actually wore those things is something that boggles my mind to this day.

Otis and Courtney hold hands together and skip down the stairs and toward their car like a couple in love. Not that two serial killer worshipers know anything about love, but who’s keeping score here? They get in their car and speed away before their landlord has a chance to harass them about rent money. During this million mile per hour chase down the streets and on the freeway, they cause so many accidents that they could be accused of committing genocide. That’s a lot of dead bodies and not enough morgues and graveyards to fill them. The cops couldn’t pull the couple over because the police too were involved in these horrendous and lethal accidents.

The reckless driving and the psychotic laughter was all for the purpose of going to the airport and sneaking on an airline flight to Moscow, Russia. Why are they going to Russia? To celebrate Halloween, of course. I know Russia is a mostly conservative country, so they probably don’t take Halloween as seriously as they would in, say, New Orleans. I’m not sure, because I didn’t research this, which is another mistake I made when writing Ode to Jeffrey Dahmer.

By the time Otis and Courtney hit the streets of Moscow, prostitutes and partygoers were hitting on Otis because of his Jeffrey Dahmer clothing. There was even a swarm of women who pulled him inside a nightclub while leaving a jealous Courtney out on the streets to freeze to death. She was so bitter and angry that she engaged in revenge sex with an entire hockey team. Otis found out what his girlfriend was doing, so he vomited his teeth into a garbage can. The story ended with Courtney sarcastically wishing her now ex-boyfriend a Happy Halloween.

Now do you know why Otis Norman and Courtney Robyn are unemployed? It’s not because I don’t have a use for psychotic characters. It’s because the story they were a part of didn’t make a goddamn lick of sense. Of course, nobody told me that I could have merely manipulated the details of my dream to fit a traditional narrative style. Imagine that: I can actually embellish details of my dreams! Who would’ve thunk it? But I’d better be careful, because the same people who sabotaged James Frey could sabotage me for being a big fucking liar! Cue the eye rolls.

The choice of clothing for Otis is also something I’d like to carry on should I use him or Courtney again. The Hawaiian shirt and fedora look is something currently being used by WWE wrestler Bray Wyatt, who coincidentally enough has the gimmick of a backwoods cult master. Does Otis Norman have what it takes to be a cultist? Absolutely. He’s the president of the Jeffrey Dahmer Fan Club, for shit’s sake. For all we know, Courtney Robyn could be his deacon. Or his altar girl, depending on how sick he can actually be. With so much potential surrounding a creepy cultist gimmick, it won’t be long before Otis and Courtney find work again. Hell, I already wrote a short poem about them. But they can do more. They certainly can do more.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

(RE: Paige licking her face.)

“You don’t have to sexually harass me in order to have a good match with me!”

-Natalya from “Total Divas”-