Two-Sentence Horror Story: "The Gold Standard"

The honeybee thanked Preston for moving it out of harm’s way by stinging his finger and leaving a throbbing welt. After a cussing storm that rivaled most Floridian hurricanes, Preston said you’re welcome by unzipping his jeans and showering the bee with his own brand of golden honey.

Finding Treasure

 Every last page of the treasure map has led you to this. Gold, glorious gold, beautiful gold, showers of gold…wait a minute…Anyways, now that you’ve found these mountains of lovely gold coins underneath the waterfall, you send your pirate crew to haul it onboard your vessel. As you sail away with the precious treasure, you fantasize about what you’ll spend your newfound fortune on. A much-needed vacation? An elaborate mansion? Women? Lots and lots of women? Men? Non-binaries?

Your mind races at a million miles an hour at the possibilities. And then...your train of thought has been derailed when your ship snaps in two like a twig. You and your crew are left floating around the seven seas like turds in a punchbowl. Yes, you’ve got your treasure after all of this hard work…but even your mighty vessel wasn’t strong enough to store it all. You overloaded your fucking ship and sank the damn thing. Way to go, champ! You truly are a million dollar baby and the seven seas have gotten even choppier with the addition of your salty tears.

Everybody wants to find treasure. Everybody wants to live beyond their means. Everybody fantasizes about the high life. But in the midst of their fantasies, they forget the logistics of undertaking such a quest. It’s like the episode of South Park with the underpants gnomes. Phase one, steal underwear. Phase two...Phase three, profit. The gnomes don’t know what phase two is and neither do the pirate captains looking for treasure.

That scenario I painted for you in the above paragraphs was actually the ending scene for Captain William Kidd from the 90’s fighting game World Heroes 2. He got so greedy for his beautiful gold that he took too much of it and it sank his ship. Captain Kidd is a lot of things in that game. He’s a great fighter, no doubt. He’s got friendly dialogue. Now we can add one more quality to his resume: dumbassery. Is that a word? It probably could be if English snobs are willing to let words like “avast, ye matey” float by without examination.

So…when constructing your story about treasure hunting, you first have to ask what it is your sea captain is looking for. It doesn’t always have to be ultra-heavy gold coins. It doesn’t even have to be multiple items. It could be a magical gem. It could be a weapon. It could be a key to the gates of heaven. It could be a book. If you think Potterheads camping outside of Barnes & Noble takes dedication, you’ve never met a sea captain who searches far and wide for a book of secrets beneath the Atlantic Ocean.

Anything can be a valuable treasure if you put enough stock into it. Even another human being can be considered a valuable treasure. Maybe the sea captain is looking for a sexy siren who when discovered will become his wife for all eternity. Sounds great in theory, but it’s not exactly healthy relationship material if one party has too much power over the other.

Okay, so you know what you want your sea captain to look for. How do they get it? Do they have access to a treasure map? If so, how difficult was it to find? Did they have to wrestle it out of the hands of an orcish army? An ogre bruiser? A sneaky goblin? What about the map itself? Is it just one sheet of paper or is it a fucking novel the size of Webster’s Dictionary? Is the map even in plain English or does the captain need a translator to accompany him on his treasure hunt? Does the translator know how to fight or will they be swallowed whole by a bloodthirsty kraken? If you really wanted to be a dick to your main character, you could have the map come in the form of a thick novel with missing pages scattered all over the world, each of them in a different foreign language. How many times can your sea captain’s patience be tested before they say, “Fuck it, I’ll live on the streets?”

As if finding the missing pages to a treasure map wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass, getting from point A to point B is full of obstacles that grind the captain’s patience down to nothing. I’ve already mentioned bloodthirsty krakens who’ll eat entire armies alive with just one bite, but not before they’re wrapped in the pirate ship’s mast and eaten like Hot Pockets. What about other pirates, though? Surely, you’re not so arrogant to believe you’re the only one who wants the treasure, right? That’s why psychology experts warn You Tube consumers not to fall in love with content creators: because there’s an army of watchers who feel the same way and the chances of you being chosen are pretty fucking slim. 

So who are these other pirates going after your forbidden treasure? Skeletons? Orcs? Zombies? Dragon people? Or maybe they’re just ordinary humans. You can breathe a sigh of relief if the latter is the case, right? Not if they’re armed with AK-47’s and all you’ve got is a measly cutlass. I guarantee you Captain William Kidd wouldn’t stand a chance against Somali pirates. He can only throw the Shark Knuckle and Shark Upper so many times before he’s pumped full of lead. Those fighters in World Heroes 2 never really accounted for firearms, did they?

If the other pirates don’t kick the shit out of you, I guarantee that the oceans and general shitty weather will. Have you ridden on a boat with choppy waves before? I have. I was vacationing in Mexico in 2017 and part of my vacation was riding on a banana boat. Because the waves were rough and heavy, I fell off the damn boat and screamed for help until the lifeguards rescued me. The only reason why I didn’t scream earlier was because my head was underwater and bubbles don’t exactly translate well to above-surface lifeguards. 

If you’re sailing the seven seas, chances are good that you’ll be bounced up and down by the rolling waves. Your crew will be jostled around so many times that some of them may even fall off the ship never to be seen again. And that’s just the ocean. What about the rain? And the lightning? Suppose the only translator you have for your overly-complex map gets struck by lightning and dies? Then he gets tossed overboard by the nasty-ass waves? You talk about being lost at sea? Bitch, you’ll be lucky if you’re ever found again. The Coast Guard ain’t going to save your ass, because if they were capable of doing so, they would have found the treasure long before you ever did.

You know those motivational quotes that tell you to take risks without thinking too much about the consequences of failure? They seem inspirational at first, but overall, it’s shitty advice, especially if you’re a sea captain. You have to think about the risk-reward factor all the time. Is it worth the danger of being swallowed whole by the sea? Is it worth being gutted alive by a skeleton crew’s cutlasses? Is it worth the sleepless nights? Is it worth being so tired that you’re constantly on the edge of having a stroke, heart attack, aneurism, or all three at the same time?

What will you do once you’ve found this sacred treasure? Will you save it for a rainy day (one that preferably doesn’t take place during your travels)? Will you spend it all at once on hookers and beer and be right back to where you started in a week’s time? Will you use the mountains of gold coins to pay your bills? Does your landlord or debt collector even accept gold coins as currency? Suppose your landlord says, “Sorry, we don’t accept Canadian money.” Your ass is out on the streets in a big fucking hurry. But at least you found your treasure! Right?

Even if you as an author don’t plan on writing a treasure hunting story of any kind, this can still be a valuable lesson in thinking things through before you rush into a project. If you improvise everything, you’ll have a shitty first draft and a lot of work ahead of you. If you plan everything in advance down to the finest detail, you’ll still have a shitty first draft, but you won’t have nearly as much work to do. I wish I heeded this advice when I started pumping out first drafts left and right. 

One of the biggest criticisms I’ve ever received (aside from having too many saggy jowled dogs and fat male villains) was that I don’t take authority and culture into account when creating my worlds. I’ve often been asked, “Where are the cops?” My logical answer would have been that I want the MC to get the credit for the victory, not the cops. If the cops can solve everything, why have a story at all? Fair point, but the cops and authority figures still matter in every story. Or maybe the country is 100% anarchy and everybody solves their own damn problems. No matter what the case, it’s good to establish these things so that they’re clear to the reader.

But just because a fine eye for detail is required for any writing project, doesn’t mean you have to explain every…little…thing to the reader. There are some obvious parts of your world that you can trust your readers to form pictures of by themselves. Your book shouldn’t be overly long explanations sandwiching the crucial action and drama of your story. That shit just gets boring after a short while. I’ve DNFed books that took too long explaining everything, case in point, the first Game of Thrones book. The author wouldn’t shut his yap about the details of the characters’ clothes and histories, so the action suffered because of it. I would argue that Empress Theresa is the worst offender when it comes to over-explaining things. Then again, Empress Theresa is the worst offender no matter what category you’re talking about.

Finding a nice balance between over-explaining and not thinking at all about the extra details is paramount to a readable book, whether you’re writing about treasure hunting or not. Treasure hunting is just one genre that deserves this middle ground. It could also be true of contemporary dramas where the world-building details are the same as what we experience in real life. So maybe when Captain William Kidd washes up on the shore, he can build another pirate ship and only take half the gold this time around. And then he’d have to find a way to convert that gold into modern day money. If he really was the devious pirate he claimed to be, he could start his own pyramid scheme with that amount of gold. And then when he finally gets taken to court, he can bypass prison altogether and wind up in the safety of a nut house, because no modern day human being talks or dresses the way he does unless it’s Halloween. See? Details matter!

Pearlescent Beauty

Pearlescent beauty for the cheapest price

A higher cost will allow you to entice

A thousand dollars for a worthless stone

Advertise that shit on the No Spin Zone

Never mind the dirt poor souls who died

To give you a symbol of aristocratic pride

No other function except to look pretty

The Art of the Deal never looked so shitty

A diamond is forever unlike life itself

A diamond is love when it’s forged in hell

Wasted money on toys for your honey

Wasted ceremony, this shit ain’t funny

Those thousands of dollars are better spent

On a poor motherfucker trying to pay the rent

On a homeless dog looking for a new master

On a beaten wife whose husband is a bastard

You’re lucky to learn these lessons in school

If the teachers didn’t already label you a fool

Empathetic emotions are for those who seek it

A starving tummy needs someone to feed it

You can’t eat diamonds, pearls, or golden rings

You can’t do a whole lot with material things

If you love somebody, shout it from the roof

Breaking the bank shouldn’t be your only proof

Burning Dragon

“Halt! Who goes there?!” shouted the poleax-wielding guard at the entrance of the Doom Hammer Temple. His brown leather armor, painted up face, and military stance gave off a “don’t fuck with me” aura that had many men shaken to their core. The guard’s blade was only inches away from the intruder’s throat and ready to slash it open at a moment’s notice.

The metal armor-wearing, blue scaled man-dragon Brock Soulburn gave a sadistic grin with his razor-sharp mouth and bladed tongue. “You’re shitting me, right? You fuckers have something I want, something that will give me a big ass payday and all the roasted chicken and red wine I can handle. Mmm-mmm-mmm! I want that Night Terror mask. I want it now!” With one vicious chomp, Brock took a bite out of the poleax’s blade and chewed it like a tender steak before swallowing it with a deep gulp.

The guard’s wide-eyed stare and shaky body took away his aura of intimidation in a big fucking hurry. “Holy shit!” he whispered fearfully before Brock breathed fire on him and had him dancing around in pain. The guard rolled down the stony temple stairs and bashed his body against every corner of almost every step. He was left a broken and fiery heap on the ground with nothing left to do but die like a bitch.

Brock gave a hearty belly laugh as he moseyed inside the stone-built Doom Hammer Temple. A small army of guards swarmed in on him with poleaxes ready to slash him to pieces. They threw their wildest and most savage strikes only to have their weapons gnawed on with Brock’s bear trap mouth.

With a mouthful of blades and wooden splinters, the man-dragon spit them out and rained down violence and fire upon the squadron of guards. The warriors dropped to the ground with shattered bones, spraying blood, and burning bodies. Those who weren’t caught in the crossfire continued to swarm in on Brock only to have their faces punched in with an anvil of a fist and their ribs shattered with a battering ram of a kick.

The entire guardianship of the temple resembled an ocean of fire, blood, and powdery bone meal. Brock was kind enough to breathe a harsh breeze upon the flames and douse them out completely. They were tall enough to obstruct his view of what lied ahead of him. At the bone-built altar was the placeholder for Night Terror, an evilly-smiling mask with dagger horns, bladed fangs, and bright neon red eyes.

Brock’s clear path to victory was weakly halted by an elderly shaman in a red robe and pig mask on his knees praying and crying at the same time. Even with the beastly mercenary approaching him, he never stopped praying and chanting. Whatever god he was pleading to couldn’t save him from getting a smack across the back of the head, which opened his skull and splashed his brains around the already messy floor.

“Damn, that was too easy!” boasted Brock Soulburn. His own delightful laughter rivaled the creepiness of the mask he came to collect. He even strutted towards the bone altar without even a modicum of effort to claim his prize. “Alright, you scary son of a bitch, your ass is coming home with me, baby!”

Night Terror convulsed with laughter as the mask came to life and planted a cartoonish kiss on Brock’s mouth. As the sickened dragon was wiping the flavor off of his mouth with his beefy arm, the mask gave off a series of high-pitched “Hoo-hoo!” chants as it floated around freely and crazily.

“You sick bastard! Get your ass back here!” shouted Brock before breathing fire in Night Terror’s direction. The swift mask flew out of the way as a stream of flames followed him around the ceiling of the temple. Night Terror’s path lead him back to Brock, where this time he licked the man-dragon’s pointy ears with a sloppy dog tongue. The “Hoo-hoo!” chants and spinning around continued.

After Brock wiped the slime out of his ear with his meaty finger, he clenched his teeth, growled throatily, and tightened his muscles in anger. With one monstrous claw, he ripped a chunk of stone out of the ground and chucked it like a baseball at Night Terror. Unsurprisingly, the mask dodged with deftness. Brock continued to rip chunks out of the stone floor and fling them at his target, but all he hit were pieces of the temple wall and a few sacred artifacts.

Night Terror mocked his attacker some more by sticking his dog tongue out and wagging it like a cartoon character. With his blood boiling, his teeth tight, and his veins ready to burst like blood bombs, Brock ripped up one more chunk of the floor and threw it with an even faster velocity. This time the projectile found its mark. The stone slab nicked the mask in the forehead and caused it to whirl around like a leaf before it landed on the ground, presumably down for the count.

“And stay down, you sick piece of shit!” shouted Brock before he stomped his way over to the mask to claim what was rightfully his. He picked up the fallen mask by both sides of its face and shook it violently while screaming, “You hear me! Stay dead, you stupid bastard! Stay! Dead!”

Night Terror came back to life and shoved his wet tongue up Brock’s nose, causing the dragon to spin around and hack up a huge wad of spit. The mask floated high in the air once again and laughed at his opponent while the man-dragon pounded the floor with both fists and shouted, “That’s it! I quit! I’ve had it with this crap!”

Before he had the chance to storm out of the temple, Night Terror made a silly sad face and said, “Quit? You can’t quit now, my friend. You’ve come this far and made so much progress. How can you quit when things are going so well for you? Did you already forget how delicious and wonderful that roasted chicken and red wine will taste? Surely, you can’t get it for free.”

“Oh, shut up, you disgusting prick!” shouted Brock with his arms folded like an annoyed child. “Everybody knows that nothing in this world is for free! That’s why I became a mercenary! It’s called work! You may want to try it sometime instead of irritating the piss out of everyone who comes here!”

“You want money?!” screamed Night Terror, which snapped Brock out of his angry trance. “There are easier ways to make money than by blindly doing what you’re told and going on suicide missions like this one. For example…”

Nightfall had cast its winter shadow over the Steel Wolf Barbaric Tribe. Everyone should have been tucked away in their straw huts for the evening, but the orcish warriors were standing around with their weapons drawn and anxious poses about them. Some of them tapped their feet, some of them banged their spears on the ground, but the seven-foot tall chief sat in his throne of bone with a chest full of gold at his side, his beefy fist underneath his chin, and a vicious look on his face. Their mask should have been retrieved by now in what should have been a simple mission for a simple-minded mercenary.

The orc barbarians got into military stances as the silhouette of a muscle-bound dragon warrior appeared at the wooden gate of their village. The chieftain stood up from his throne, grabbed his chest full of money with one hand, and hauled the heavy equipment toward the shadowy figure, thinking the job was done.

“Brock Soulburn!” shouted the chieftain in his authoritative voice. “We have the money we negotiated for earlier. This chest contains our finest and most ancient gold that we have harvested from our sacred grounds. You can live comfortably for the rest of your life with this kind of gold. All we ask for in return is the Night Terror mask, a treasure more valuable to us than any form of mainland money. Do you have the mask with you?”

The shadowy figure of Brock Soulburn slowly walked into the torch light of the orc village. The other warriors came closer with their spears drawn in case he tried something funny. Their intimidating figures turned to shaky cowardice when they saw Night Terror grafted on the face of the dragon warrior, who said in a newly demonic voice, “Get your own damn mask!”

The possessed dragon warrior breathed fire upon the entire cast of villagers, including the chieftain. This wasn’t ordinary fire. The flames were a bright blood red with a poisonous green center. The flames had also created a much larger blast zone. As they were burning into a pile of ashes, the barbarians’ souls were flowing out of their mouths and into Night Terror’s own sadistic grin. Even the mighty seven-foot tall chieftain dropped to the ground with a thud as his ancient soul was consumed by this savage fire. The more souls Night Terror / Brock Soulburn consumed, the bigger the man-dragon’s belly got. He even let out a loud burp that was so powerful that the flames were put out.

All that remained of this now dead village was that big juicy chest full of gold, to which Night Terror swirled his tongue around his face in anticipation. The mask carried the possessed body of Brock Soulburn over to the chest, who kicked the lock open with deadly force and opened it up to an orgasmic response. So much gold. So much treasure. So much delicious roasted chicken. So much heavenly red wine. In his demonic tone, the possessed Brock said, “Mmmmmmm, yummy food!” before hanging his sloppy tongue off the side and drooling heavily.

Mine Shafts

***MINE SHAFTS***

When I was a little kid growing up in Elk Grove, California, it never once occurred to me that mine shafts were dangerous to not only the workers, but also the environment. Salt mines always seemed like cool settings for a story to me due to their darkness and the unknown feeling of what could be lurking in one of these places. Plus, it was always cool to me for some reason to see a mine cart traveling on train tracks.

The movies “Snow White” and “City Slickers 2: The Legend of Curley’s Gold” were probably to blame for giving me an interest in mine shafts to begin with. Then again, I also saw them in videogames like “Final Fantasy II” (American SNES game) and “Mega Man X”. The possibility of actually finding riches in one of these places was always exciting to me, so much so that I wanted to dig up my backyard to find gems. Or in the case of Final Fantasy II, a Shadow Sword. Or in the case of City Slickers 2, a bar of gold that wasn’t just painted up for fun and games.

As an author, I’m always looking in the strangest places for creative fuel, even if it’s so far back into my past that I barely remember it. So how exactly can I use a salt mine as a place of interest in one of my stories without directly copying what I’ve seen on television and in videogames? I’d also like to be able to use it without giving uncomfortable glimpses into tragedies like Massey Energy and what happened in Chile in 2010.

My first thought on how to handle such creative fuel would be to use a dark mine shaft as a lair for an overly powerful monster of some sort. Maybe there’s a sleeping dragon underneath the cart tracks. Maybe there’s a vampire coven that’s using the mine to stay out of the sunlight. What about an ogre who just wants to be left alone in peace? These are just ideas for who exactly could be living in this mine.

What if the mine shaft was completely renovated into an actual living space instead of just a dark and dusty corner of the earth? What if it was a castle with a gigantic demon mouth for an entrance? What if there were wizard runes carved into the rock? Or one could go for a saner route and turn it into a tourist attraction or a museum. No matter how wild or wacky your idea is, it should somehow spell trouble for your main characters or else there’s no point in having a story.

Pretty much any place an author can think of can be re-imagined as a bastion of creativity. Final Fight turned a rundown slum into a base of operations for the Mad Gear gang. Final Fantasy Mystic Quest turned a dragon corpse into a legitimate desert dungeon. What could a mine shaft be? The answer is as unlimited as your creativity. This blog is merely a prompt suggestion along with some small ideas for that prompt.

Using examples from my own life, I once wrote a western fantasy movie script in 2007 called “Texas Technique”, where a mine shaft was used as a gateway to the underworld for zombies who didn’t want to be controlled by necromancy anymore. It had hooded priests, an altar, magical energy, the works. Almost a decade earlier than that, I spent my childhood coming up with ideas for videogames, one of them being a western-themed Double Dragon game. You’re damn right Shadow Master was hiding out in a mine shaft. Where else is a darkness-based villain going to hide?

The creative fuel is on the table. You can write a novel, write a short story, paint a painting, run a D&D campaign, or whatever your heart desires. If you don’t want to use mine shafts as a prompt suggestion, you certainly don’t have to. It was a special piece of creativity to me as a child, so I hope to one day use it again in my own writing. A base of operations, a monster’s lair, a mighty fortress, a resting place for the undead, a gateway to hell, so many possibilities, so many ways to create something beautiful. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

It’s a new week and a new prompt suggestion at the WSS has been released. This time we’ve got “Non-Formulaic”, a prompt highly suggestive of nonconformity. You all know by now how much I love individuality. Without it, there is no creativity. With no creativity, there’s no art. The earth without art is just eh. My story this week is called “Dark Side of the Wall” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

Ryan Warrior, Heavy Metal Solo Artist

Nameless Audience Members

Nameless Bouncers

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Ryan’s music doesn’t follow the formula of typical heavy metal due to him combining it with Native American music.

SYNOPSIS: Ryan puts on a heavy metal show for an outdoor arena audience in which he combines fast-paced beats with music from his Native American heritage. He’s used to playing for rowdy audiences, but this crowd pisses him off due to their perverted, drunken, and overly-aggressive behavior. Ryan stops midway through a song in order to unleash a hell storm of vitriol upon the people who came to see him. His aggressive attitude is reminiscent of Roger Waters’ when Pink Floyd did a supporting tour for their Animals album in 1977 and Mr. Waters spit on a fan climbing the stage net. Ryan even gets a hash tag trend going called “Dark Side of the Wall” due to him referencing Pink Floyd during his tirade. At this point, Mr. Warrior has a decision to make: finish the show and earn his payday or kill the show and spite the fans.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

In all this time of peeking at my drawings, you’re probably wondering what the point of it all is, given the obvious simplistic style. There are two points. One, it’s a promotional tactic to lure people to my writing. Sometimes when you go fishing, you have to use the right bait. The second reason is because sometimes when I draw these pictures, I always feel ready to do more creative work afterwards. I spent the last two nights not using my CPAP mask because the humidifier kept blowing water in my face. While it’s nice not to drown in my own machine, I did wake up late in the day both times and my energy had been sapped. So thank you, Dark Fantasy Warriors, for giving me a chance to stimulate my muse when I’m too tired to carry on. Who’s the next character to be drawn? Makoto Lionheart, the necromancer slash evil clown slash samurai from the short story “Tiger Bullet Kick”. Three occupations in one. Holy shit!

***DEMON AXE***

When an elven terrorist slays a shit ton of people at a heavy metal concert and traumatizes the lead singer of Demon Axe, how does Paulson City respond? By having another live event and showing said elven terrorist that America will not negotiate with his kind. In this case, we’ve got a wrestling slash MMA show in which seven-foot champion Johnny Vega tries to lead the crowd in a moment of positivity only to have it interrupted by Sonia Marquez, an MMA aficionado who thinks wrestling is “fake”. Surely, the elf terrorist can’t strike again, right? Am I right? I hope so.

***COLLEGE HUMOR DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

USER: The Boston Bomber.

GOOGLE GUY: It was a real tragedy.

USER: The cute one.

GOOGLE GUY: Oh, fucking shit!

-If Google Was a Guy-

Streetwalker

Danielle Courtney looked stunning in her wizardly dress. The predominately black overtones brought out her dark side, but it was the green and purple flame patterns that struck fear into the hearts of overzealous men. And yet, she needed the attention of as many men as possible given her nightly profession, so her mysterious dress had a long slit in her left leg and a low-cut top as well. Her outfit alone told any potential client that she could make their dreams come true, but also their nightmares if they got too frisky. With black lipstick, flowing black hair, and red ruby high heels to complete her ensemble, tonight was the perfect night for some fun.

The cool and crisp evening had been one of clear streets and loud partying from within the bars and taverns. Danielle could easily scope out clients from within those bars, but given their inebriation levels and her limited magical abilities, the night might not go according to plan. She kept walking the streets in her killer heels until she spotted a rather muscular looking man standing at the corner with his brawny arms folded and his villainous smile concentrated on her.

As soon as Danielle got closer into the light, she could make out the man’s features much more easily: a black Mohawk, clean shaven beard, and pieces of meat stuck between his teeth. This man was a celebrity in this town. He was Ryan Brock, a barbaric warrior who spent his days hunting gigantic animals in the woods and bringing the carcasses back to sell as meat to the highest bidder. Clearly, Mr. Brock was looking for a different kind of fresh meat judging from his devilish grin, which struck a little bit of fear in Danielle Courtney’s heart.

“You look stunning in that dress. Hell, you’d look stunning no matter what you were wearing. I bet you smell good too. Let me ask you something, miss: how much are you?” said Ryan. There were several other ways he could have phrased that question that would have been less offensive. “How much for your services?” would have been nice. “Can I have some company for the evening?” would have been even better. But “How much are you?” really got under Danielle’s skin. Nevertheless, she had a job to do if she wanted to stay in wizard school.

The lady of the night smiled right back at her new client and said, “One-thousand gold pieces should do just nicely.”

Ryan laughed and said, “Goddamn, you’re driving a hard bargain. If I have to pay that much money, it must mean you’ve…done this before!” There he went again with another vulgar expression that made Danielle feel cheaper than the price she was offering. Nevertheless, he tossed her a sack full of gold coins and said, “It’s a done deal.”

Danielle opened the pouch and counted her money. All one-thousand pieces were there. “Very good, Mr. Brock. I trust your meat sales are doing nicely. Come with me. There’s an inn across the way we can stay at.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” said Ryan before he gripped his new woman’s hand tightly. “I’ve got an even better place to do this. It’ll be nice and secure and you’ll…get more business out of it!”

The wizard prostitute used her free hand to cast a spark spell on the barbarian’s hand, the sharp pain forcing him to release his painfully tight grip. Both client and businesswoman shook the pain out of their hands and got some blood flowing yet again. Danielle said in a stern voice, “Let’s make one thing clear, Mr. Brock. I don’t care how much of a celebrity you are around here. I don’t care how many people you’ve killed in your so called ‘epic battles’. My rules apply to you as well as every other man who propositions me for business.”

Ryan Brock laughed out loud and said, “Alright, little lady. We’ll do things your way. But if you use any of that hocus pocus shit on me again, I might have to break more than your ‘business rules’. I’m not the kind of guy you can afford to miss if you throw one of them fireballs at me from your fucking fingertips.”

Danielle tossed the bag of money back at her now former client and said, “You know what? I don’t need this shit. I’ll find another client, probably one who isn’t anywhere near as disgusting as you!”

“Bitch, you’re in the wrong business if you think you can cherry pick your own clients,” said Ryan. “Hell, I don’t get to choose who I fight most of the time. They just come to me looking to throw down and if I don’t give them what they want, they’ll leave me bloody and bruised on the sidewalk. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Except you don’t want any part of that, because you’re too much of an arrogant bitch.”

“Here’s the deal,” said Danielle while folding her arms in contempt. “I’m going to turn around and walk away. If you come after me, I’ll have no choice but to…”

“But to what? Throw some more sparks at me? Give me a break, woman,” said Ryan while cracking his knuckles and slowly approaching the lady of the night. “This is going to be a cakewalk. I don’t normally get the chance to fight a magical bitch like you. But trust me, pumpkin: this won’t last eight rounds!”

Danielle kicked off her high-heeled shoes and ran barefoot in the other direction, but Ryan was monstrously athletic and caught up to her with so little effort. He bear hugged her kicking and screaming as the two of them went into a dark alley together. Danielle had to think of a spell to cast quickly, but she was only a novice at what she did and had a limited range of what she could cast.

Ryan threw the wizard on her back hard against the concrete, taking the wind out of her while the barbarian smiled evilly at her from above. “You want to say no to me?” he said. “We’ll see how those two little letters work out for you from here on in.” With Danielle still trying to regain her breath, the warrior laid on top of her and held her arms down with almost crippling force.

And then…her first idea for a spell came to her. She obviously couldn’t use her arms, so she shot lightning bolts out of her eyes, burning a hole in Ryan’s forehead. After he got off of her and danced around holding his wound in pain, Danielle thought she had it all figured out, that she would just get up and run away from all of this.

She was able to stand up after catching her breath, but at that same time, Ryan had said, “Just kidding!” and stopped hopping in pain. He removed his massive hand from his forehead and revealed that the ashen wound didn’t even penetrate his skull. It looked more like a cigar burn than the result of a magic spell.

Danielle clenched her fists and her teeth tightly knowing she was in a fight for her life. Orange energy swirled around her as she got the inspiration for another magic spell. Ryan continued his arrogant posturing with his sarcastic facial expression and hands on his hips. It would appear he would pay for his mockery when the wizard threw a rainstorm of fireballs, lightning bolts, and glacial spikes his way.

A multi-colored magical aura formed around Ryan like this deadly spell was going to consume him completely. Danielle continued to throw energy until she was so exhausted from doing so that she fell to her knees and panted heavily. She didn’t want to look up to see if her magic had actually worked this time. She just knelt down on the pavement and sobbed to herself.

She had even more reason to sob when she felt an ashen, yet muscular hand on her shoulder with the same gravelly voice that said, “That was a hell of a light show, honey. But you forgot one important thing. In order to cast a spell properly…you need the world’s biggest magic wand!”

With a mixture of tears, trauma, and darkness washing over her, the next few moments were a blur for Danielle Courtney. She seemed to stay in that state of numbness for eternity and she had no illusions about what Ryan Brock was doing to her. It was vile. It was disgusting. It was the longest period of misery she had ever experience. She may have had sex for a living, but being raped and molested was not part of her resume until that night.

Danielle finally came to hours after the dirty deed had been done to her. She was sore all over and her beautiful dress was torn to shreds. She was bleeding heavily from her groin and sobbing hysterically as she saw the remains of what was once a delicate flower. Even though Ryan Brock was gone and couldn’t hear her, she said in a slow whisper, “You will pay for this. You…must…die!”

The broken prostitute crawled on her hands and knees and painfully dragged herself over to where Ryan dropped several bags full of gold coins. Except he didn’t drop them on purpose. Danielle actually had a plan in mind. In her magical flurry of madness, she aimed most of those projectiles at his sash and belt, where the money was kept. He had more than one-thousand gold pieces on him. In fact, carrying that much money could have counted as strength training.

Ryan took off without ever knowing he left that much money behind. And now it all belonged to Danielle, who swore to herself that she would spend the money not only on wizard school tuition, but also for advanced and doctorate classes. By the time her studies were over, she would be the most powerful wizard on the planet. Then and only then would she be able to exact her revenge on the ultra-powerful Ryan Brock.

Learning magic of such a high degree would take years. At first Danielle didn’t think she could handle that much schooling. But after tonight, her focus was tighter than ever. She would hold the image of Ryan’s disgusting face in her mind for as long as she was attending classes. That was her motivation to graduate: knowing one day she would be a powerful enough wizard to rain Armageddon flames down upon the one man who ruined her life. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And hell was waiting patiently for Ryan Brock.

"The Sisters Brothers" by Patrick DeWitt

Whether you’re rooting against the title characters or for them, The Sisters Brothers (Charlie and Eli) will capture your imagination in one way or another. They can disturb you by killing everyone who crosses them. They can amaze you with little acts of humanity. Sometimes the two extremes will intermingle and create a thought-provoking story as written by Patrick DeWitt. Try as they might to get along and complete their mercenary work, Eli and Charlie could not be more different. Eli is the first character between the two of them who shows humanity in this novel. Charlie is just a nasty homicidal lunatic who will kill and fuck anything that walks. These two clashing personalities have to cancel each other out if they’re going to get any work done. Their assignment? Kill off a “thief” prospector by the name of Hermann Warm for the sake of exacting the Commodore’s revenge. The Sisters Brothers know nothing of Hermann Warm except small tales here and there. It’s all the same to them as they get ready to pull the trigger on this assignment. But the further along they get, the more Eli begins to question whether or not what they’re doing is right. Yes, the money is good and it’ll feed them well for years to come, but is there any real rhyme or reason to any of this? Why can’t Eli and Charlie just open up a trading post like any other normal human being in wild west Oregon and California? Wrestling with their consciences is something the brothers have to do all throughout the story, whether it’s shooting a man they know nothing about, taking care of a sickly horse, sending an orphaned boy in the right direction, or anything else that happens in this novel. Patrick DeWitt didn’t just write a mindless bloodbath. He wrote a thoughtful and intense narrative that anyone with even the slightest moral dilemma can relate to. Yes, I said “relate” in a story about the wild west. My references are slightly off, but that just goes to show you how powerful of a narrative Patrick DeWitt wrote. If nothing else, it should be a fun read filled with darkness and small moments of giggly behavior. I enjoyed all 328 pages of it and damn it, you will too. It may not be the fastest thing you’ll read, but it’s still a lovable work of art. Yes, I called it a work of art. If you don’t believe me, just look at the cover and see if you notice the double entendre. It could either be two brothers standing in front of the full moon or a skeletal warrior in a trench coat. Whoever designed the cover pretty much sealed the deal for Patrick DeWitt getting noticed. That, and it’s an intense read to begin with.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Wealth is not about how much you make, it’s about how much you save. I’ve known guys who make millions and yet they can’t even buy you a cup of coffee.”

-Jim Ross-

Mysterious Writing

Quick question before I begin: does anybody here know what a “whale road” is? When I first heard this term in college, I never once imagined that it could be interpreted as an ocean that Beowulf swam through just for fun. I actually thought it was a dirt road littered with fresh whale corpses that stunk up the place worse than a limburger factory in the middle of a cow pasture. You know what else confused me? “Romeo, Romeo, where art thou Romeo?” “I’m over here, you dumb bitch!” Yes, that’s an actual joke I used in Foe vs. Blade’s medieval fantasy story called Down. These two examples don’t even scratch the surface of what I like to call “mysterious writing”. It’s not to be confused with the mystery genre, which is a legitimate business considering that my first favorite book was a crime thriller called “The Cleaner” by Brett Battles. When I say “mysterious writing”, I mean writing that uses weird descriptors that take way too long to sink in. Shakespeare was the worst offender when it came to mysterious writing. Somewhere in his works is a description where he talks about a wreath being pulled down a metal pole that’s somehow supposed to represent a woman being a slut. Actually, a pole going into a wreath can be construed as sexual, but I don’t think that’s what Shakespeare was going for. In all of his infinite wisdom, he decided that it had to be deeper than a mere Freudian complex. Kids, take this as a lesson not to engage in deep writing unless you actually know what the fuck you’re talking about. Being deep is not the problem; being arrogant and confusing is. I don’t care how many Pulitzer Prizes you win as a result of using awkward descriptions. If you use awkward descriptions, chances are good you suck at writing. But of course, it’s hard to convince somebody of that when they’re making millions of dollars from royalties and living in houses with golden swimming pools in the back. In case you think I’m being mysterious by saying that, I actually mean swimming pools made from melted gold. The lesson you can take away from this blog entry comes in the form of a four-letter acronym known as KISS: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Nobody’s going to think you’re boring if you use a simple writing style. In fact, they may thank you for it in the long run. But if you’re going to be complex, then at least make it accessible to anybody who happens to live in the 21^st Century. I’m not saying you have to LOL at your BFF. In fact, you should never do that under any circumstances!

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

"Cold turkey’s getting stale. Tonight I’m eating crow."

-Green Day singing "Hitchin' a Ride"-