Kevin Rudolf vs. Pacman Jones: You Make the Rain Fall

 

Crossfade vs. The Amazing Yen from Ocean's Eleven

 

All joking aside, it's great to see Crossfade back on the road again. I missed them.

Seth Morrison from Skillet, a "Nonconforming" Christian Rock Band with Brainwashed Members

 

Living in a Box vs. Your Average Guru Gossiper (Rest in Peace, Richard Darbyshire)

 

Sting (the musician, not the wrestler)

 

Dana White, President of the UFC

 

Chad Kroeger from Nickelback

 

A Dog's Journey

MOVIE TITLE: A Dog’s Journey

DIRECTOR: Gail Mancuso

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Animal Drama

RATING: PG for mild violence

GRADE: Extra Credit

An Australian Shepherd named Bailey enjoys life on a farm with his puppy parents Ethan and Hannah. He also loves their granddaughter CJ and has sworn to protect her no matter how many lives it takes him to do so. An alcoholic mother, a slew of bad boyfriends, and a dwindling music career all serve as obstacles for CJ growing up. The one thing she can count on is always having a puppy-duppy by her side despite the negative influences around her. Can this series of dogs help CJ find her way into a comfortable and loving life?

There wasn’t a single dry eye in the move theater when I saw this. Even though I take medication that keeps me emotionally numb, I also couldn’t help but shed a tear or two. Every death, every heartbreak, every cancer diagnosis, and every tragedy in this movie meant something. I wouldn’t have teared up for characters I didn’t care about, but CJ and her many dogs are incredibly deserving of not only the audience’s attention, but love as well. CJ may be the most lovable human character of them all, but even she’s not above making foolish mistakes from time to time. Her imperfections make her a suitable vehicle for our emotions. When she cries, you cry. When she’s happy, you’re happy. When she conquers the world, you too feel inspired to do so. That’s a lot of tears for a lot of moviegoers.

As many lovable characters as there are in this film, they couldn’t bring you those much-needed tears without their foils. Gloria, CJ’s neglectful and emotionally abusive mother, is very much deserving of your scorn. But even she can be redeemable, which is more than the audience will ever say about CJ’s criminal boyfriend Shane or her arrogant suit-wearing boyfriend afterwards named Barry. It’s toxic people like these that remind the audience over and over again never to make the foolish choices that CJ had the misfortune of making. These villains wouldn’t make good puppy parents. They wouldn’t even make good casual acquaintances. The sooner CJ is rid of them, the better off she’ll be. It’s heartbreaking to watch these people invade her life, but it’s necessary to keep the conflict strong and the audience’s eyeballs wet.

And of course, Bailey wouldn’t be able to protect CJ as much as he has if not for the power of reincarnation. This is a powerful theme in the movie, especially when the dead dogs run through a wheat field to cross the Rainbow Bridge. There are critics of reincarnation out there and they very well could be right. But there’s no denying the comfort it brings to owners of deceased pets. It doesn’t even have to be a religious deal. It could just be comfort for comfort’s sake. I had a spunky all-white cat named Simon who crossed the Rainbow Bridge in 2011. Two years later I adopted an equally-spunky cat named Tori, whom I jokingly call Simon 2.0 because of how similar they are. It could be a coincidence, but even my atheist heart doesn’t have it in me to ruin the magic for pet owners, let alone the moviegoers who shed many tears in the theater that evening.

It’s rare when a movie hits me where it hurts the most. I usually watch a movie with the idea that I’ll like it, but not much beyond that. I didn’t just like this movie. I loved it. It made me believe in the power of animal companionship all over again (not that I ever questioned it). Our fur babies depend on us to provide love and care. I’ll keep doing so for as long as I live. I consider it to be my life’s purpose, above my writing career even. That’s what A Dog’s Journey means to me and that’s why I’m giving it an extra credit grade. Congratulations, puppy-duppies: you’ve earned every broken heart.

Rock and Roll Will Never Die

VERSE 1

Rock and roll will never die

No sense in spreading that lie

Stop blaming my generation

For your downward destination

Any youngster can pick up an axe

Shred that shit and kick some ass

We’ve come to invoke the spirit

You’ve got no choice but to hear it

CHORUS

Rock is immortal!

Open hell’s portal!

Rock never died!

Join the dark side!

VERSE 2

I don’t judge my fellow human

By his preference of music

Only by his obnoxious hubris

Only by his points so stupid

Don’t thumb your nose at me

For the things that I believe

For the music I love so much

The bands with the Midas touch

CHORUS

Rock is immortal!

Open hell’s portal!

Rock never died!

Join the dark side!

VERSE 3

Call it devil’s music if you choose

This fiery debate is yours to lose

Thump your bible, spread the libel

Crashing and burning is your style

Blast your bullshit through a bullhorn

You’ll never settle this age old score

Guitars and drums are here to stay

Even on the holiest of sunny Sundays

EXTENDED CHORUS

Rock is immortal!

Open hell’s portal!

Rock never died!

Join the dark side!

Rock is my savior!

For my darkest anger!

Rock is my heaven!

Rock is my weapon!

Escape From Chehalis

***ESCAPE FROM CHEHALIS***

“You’ve escaped from New York! You’ve escaped from Cleveland! But this is LA!”

Yes, that is a direct quote from the movie “Escape from LA” back in the 90’s. But I have to ask: is it really that hard to escape from Cleveland, Ohio? Well, if I had a hard time escaping from Chehalis as a teenager, then the answer must have been yes. It’s true. With my screenwriting skills at the time, I could have written a movie called Escape From Chehalis. Actually, it wouldn’t have been very exciting since all I had to do was move to an apartment in Bremerton and go to school in Silverdale. But hey, as long as the best part of Chehalis is leaving, let’s explore some other routes I considered. Those of you who know about my Chehalis past know that I was bullied in high school, so getting out of that toxic town was good for me. But what if I needed an earlier exit? What high school dropout careers could I have embarked on to give me a parole from that rightwing dystopia? Well…

***ARENA OF DEATH***

It’s probably no surprise that I had an extreme fascination with death back in 1999/2000. I wanted to rent the first volume of Faces of Death, but the video store clerk wouldn’t let me because I was only fourteen at the time. It’s unbelievable…video stores actually existed back then! It would have been so nice to see one of my movies on the shelf, particularly an idea I had called Arena of Death. I could drop out of school, grab a camera, and film a bunch of gory fight scenes in an abandoned building. That’s basically what Arena of Death was supposed to be: an ECW-esque tournament where the winner…uh…actually, I hadn’t figured out a prize for the winner yet. If only I had a working video camera and friends who would volunteer for this movie. Oh well.

***BOUNTY HUNTER***

As a result of my verbal bullying, I got in a lot of fights and I won most of them simply by throwing one strike. I didn’t need a KO victory or even a TKO. Just one strike and it was all over. Having this kind of Goldberg-esque undefeated streak under my belt (which is easy to obtain in Chehalis), I actually considered a career as a bounty hunter. No shit! Just go around Washington state bringing criminals in with my fists and feet of fury. Hell, there was even a time when I considered entering a tough man competition; that’s how confident I was in my minimal fighting skills. Little did I know that most of the bounty heads might have carried guns or knives, neither of which I had in great supply (even though I one time asked for a gun for Christmas).

***EXTREME CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING***

Yes, I did mention ECW earlier in this blog. Yes, being the “tough guy” I was, I thought a career in that wrestling promotion was the right move for me, as opposed to finishing school in Chehalis. That’s basically like saying, “I’d rather get cut open with razor wire or power bombed through a fiery table than go to school in Chehalis”. Haha! But seriously, ECW was a huge source of creative fuel for me back in the day (before they closed their doors permanently in 2001). Weapons were fair game, anybody could beat up anybody, blood was liberally splattered everywhere, and hardcore legends were born. Although, verbal bullying could never prepare me for actual broken bones and slashed skin. Plus, ECW was based in Philadelphia, so if I couldn’t afford a video camera for Arena of Death, I damn sure couldn’t afford a plane ticket across the country.

***FLORIDA***

Yes, it’s true, folks! Back in 2000, my mom got a job offer in Florida and I was secretly hoping that she would get it and get my ass out of Chehalis. Boy, you talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire! Knowing what we now know about Florida, that’s basically like trying to get away from Jeffrey Dahmer by hiding out on John Wayne Gacy’s crawlspace. I didn’t care about politics in the year 2000, but I probably should have since Florida is as red as ECW bloodbaths. School shootings, racist murders, Carl Hiaasen novel scenarios, natural disasters, crocodiles, good god!

***GUITARIST***

From 1996 to 2001, I practiced on an acoustic and later an electric guitar with the hopes that I’d be as good as David Gilmour from Pink Floyd. Starting my own rock band was the surefire way to get out of high school and I’d be doing something I loved. Except for one thing: I didn’t love playing the guitar. It was hard. It was fucking hard! Moving my fingers across the frets with lightning speed wasn’t my cup of tea, which is funny since I can do it just fine when I’m writing things on a computer keyboard. I would often play really slowly with the top string and only my middle finger holding the frets. Configuring my digits into chord positions was too much to handle and I eventually gave up that potential exit from Chehalis. Any more mediocrity and I’d have to smash my guitar to pieces like Billie Joe Armstrong did at the iHeart Radio Festival in 2012, when Green Day’s stage time was cut short.

***SUPER FINAL FANTASY***

Before settling on a career in screenwriting, my childhood dream job used to be creating videogames and one of them was Super Final Fantasy. I was in love with Final Fantasy VII and VIII, so naturally I wanted to give my own shot into creating a game in the series. My main character was a shotgun-wielding, trench coat-wearing teenager (don’t look for themes here) named Sage Gannon, who was out to avenge the death of his coal miner father. Guiding his path would be the fluffy blond haired swordsman Minra Durandose (if Cloud and Squall had a love child, it’d be Minra). The token female love interest (I didn’t know it was wrong!) was a bikini-wearing mystical goddess named Siren, who used a combination of seduction and harp playing to lull enemies into defenselessness (again, I didn’t know it was wrong!). Development was going swimmingly until Squall appeared in my head as a schizophrenic voice and told me to, “Write [my] own shit and stop copying other people.” Thanks, Squall. Great advice from a guy who can’t figure out how to trust people.

***UNDERTAKER***

Remember how I told you all I had a weird fascination with death? Well, try not to read too much into this, but I actually considered a dropout career of burying dead bodies at the local cemetery. Before you ask, no, I wasn’t planning on murdering my bullies and giving them their own graves. I’m not that sick. Hehe! No, being an undertaker is a legitimate career. And when I say undertaker, I’m not talking about the WWE wrestler who at the time was doing a satanic cult storyline. Yes, digging holes is physically exhausting for someone as small I was back then, but a paycheck is a paycheck and a lack of high school hostility is just that.

***CONCLUSION***

You’re probably reading all of these potential career choices and are worried sick about me. You’re probably thinking that I’m living in the past and refusing to let go of my demons. You couldn’t be further from the truth. My most recent blog entries have been about my childhood follies, so this one is no different. I’m glad I finished school and became an indie author. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Knowing what I now know about schizophrenia and autism, I most likely wouldn’t have survived these alternative careers. Every career has its own set of assholes and friendly people. Running away wouldn’t have solved anything. No matter where you go, you take your baggage with you. Only through claiming responsibility and seeking help can you overcome your problems. I’ve overcome my demons and I’m better for it. It took a long time to do, but it happened. Live your life without regrets. If you must delve into the past, find things to laugh about, not things to kick yourself over. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“So you think you’re a Romeo playing a part in a picture show. Take the long way home. ‘Cause you’re the joke of your neighborhood. Why should you care if you’re feeling good? Take the long way home. But there are times that you feel you’re part of the scenery. All the greenery is coming down, boy. And then your wife seems to think you’re a part of the furniture. Oh, it’s peculiar. She used to be so nice. When lonely days turn to lonely nights, you take a trip to the city lights. Take the long way home. You never see what you want to see forever playing to the gallery. Take the long way home. And when you’re up on the stage, it’s so unbelievable. Oh, unforgettable how they adore you. But then your wife seems to think you’re losing your sanity. Oh, calamity, there’s no way out. Does it feel that your life’s become a catastrophe? Oh, it has to be for you to grow, boy. When you look through the years and see what you could have been. Oh, what you might have been. If you’d had more time. So when the day comes to settle down, who’s to blame if you’re not around? Take the long way home.”

-Supertramp singing “Take the Long Way Home”-

Street Sleeper

Johnny De Morgan’s pick strummed delicately across his guitar strings and created a heavenly lullaby for those walking the streets at night. He too could feel the heaviness of his eyelids and the quicksand-like pull underneath his body. Yet he continued to strum his beautiful melodies as the snow gently poured into his guitar case, barely a single gold coin occupying this space. Strangers walked by with their chins tucked into their chests, not giving Johnny the slightest glance.

The night sky blanketed the city in midnight shadows. Johnny wished he too had a blanket of some kind, but all that kept him minimally warm was his checkered overcoat, striped scarf, and thin layers underneath. He struggled to keep his fingers steady in this shiver-inducing weather. Sometimes his melodies would echo awkwardly across the street corner because of his shaking. Johnny stopped playing and gripped the neck of his guitar like he was actually strangling someone. He held the instrument above his head like he was going to smash the fucking thing to pieces.

“Johnny, no!” shouted a feminine voice off to the side. The busker’s eyes must have been too frosty to notice her at first, but that beautiful voice could have only belonged to the elven rogue Debra Lynch. Light green skin, thick layers of black wool, wavy blue hair, and a cap over her scalp: she was unmistakable at this point. She had the same weary and sorrowful expression in her damp eyes that Johnny did. That made her even more beautiful (not that Johnny would ever tell her something like that).

“Johnny, you can’t give up yet. You’ll freeze to death out here if you don’t keep playing,” begged Debra.

“I don’t know, Debra,” said Johnny with his head hung low. “Does it really matter anymore how good I am with this stupid thing? Nobody’s paying attention. Everybody just wants to walk on by like I’m some sort of fucking monster. Forget it, Debra, I’m done with this shit.”

“So what would you rather do? Starve to death?” pleaded Debra while cupping her hands over Johnny’s arm. “You don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s either this or death. Wait a minute…you’re not actually considering…” The elf’s voice grew shaky with those last few words.

“Like you said, Debbie-Cakes: I don’t have a choice in the matter,” said Johnny with more coldness than the snowflakes pounding down on him. “I can stand out here and freeze like a motherfucker playing for pennies…or I can just fall asleep in my own shallow grave. Never have to wake up again. Never have to deal with these ignorant people. Never have to worry about where my next meal’s coming from. Sounds like heaven to me.”

Debra smacked Johnny in the back of his head and messed up his black puffy hairdo. “I don’t ever want to hear you talk about that nonsense again! If you just fuck off the face of this earth, what am I supposed to do for the rest of my life? I need you, Johnny. We need each other!”

Tears welled up in Johnny’s frosty eyes as he said, “Sorry, I’m just a little frustrated, that’s all. God, what I wouldn’t do for a hot bowl of soup and a fucking blanket! Is that too much to ask for?!”

The argument came to an abrupt end when Johnny and Debra’s eyes zeroed in on a heavyset orc strutting down the streets. His leather armor, bloody war paint, and gigantic sword sheathed on his back gave him the aura of an undisputed champion. The burdensome sack of gold coins on his belt caused Johnny and Debra to snap awake with secretive excitement. Johnny strummed his guitar much more vigorously than before in hopes that the rock and roll music would entice this brutish warrior.

The orc attempted to skate on by, but Johnny and Debra blocked his path with the biggest of grins. Debra even rubbed her gloved fingers together to signify what she and her friend wanted. “Fuck off and die!” shouted the beastly warrior as he shoved Johnny into a row of rubbish bins.

“Hey!” belted Debra. “Who the hell do you think you are pushing a defenseless man like that?!” When the orc refused to listen, the elf grabbed him by the thick wrist and jerked him over for attention. “I’m talking to you, you gigantic sack of shit!”

“Debra, wait!” pleaded Johnny as he picked himself and his guitar off the ground. “That’s Link Rotunda! He’s a cage fighting champion! You’re not going to get any gold from him by calling him a sack of shit! Show some respect!”

Link’s rotten grin coincided with Debra’s fiery glare as the orc said, “That’s better! That’s what I like to see: people taking initiative!” He pointed his sausage index finger at Debra and said, “You could learn something from a guy like him!” The elf hmphed and folded her arms, never releasing her death stare from the gigantic bully. “Now then, where were we? Ah yes! You want some of this gold, sonny boy? You want to eat tonight? You’re going to have to earn it! Forget that stupid hipster guitar! You’re going to dance for your supper!”

“He will do no such thing!” grunted Debra before being held at bay by Link’s massive arm.

“What do you say, you sweet little boy? Are you going to dance or what?” asked Link with a devilish smirk. Despite Debra’s angry protests, Johnny tossed aside his guitar and danced around like a monkey attempting ballet. Link’s throaty laughter caused Debra to hold her face in her hands in sheer embarrassment. “Good one, good one! Now put the garbage can on your head! Do it, monkey boy!”

Sure enough, Johnny heaved a garbage can over himself and danced around some more, Debra shaking her head the entire time and Link laughing it up with a few knee slaps to boot. “How am I doing, Mr. Rotunda?”

“Oh, you’re doing great, my friend! You’re going to be a rich motherfucker in no time at all! Just one more thing and you’ll have all the gold you want! Take off that silly garbage can…and suck my dick!”

The monkey dancing was replaced with a frozen stillness and silent weeping underneath the garbage can. He slowly pulled off the bin and revealed an expression full of shock and despondency. “Is that what you really want, Mr. Rotunda? I’ll do it if that’s what you want.”

“This is bullshit!” shouted Debra as she picked up the fallen rubbish bin and tossed it at Link.

The orc slashed it in half with one wave of his newly unsheathed sword. Garbage scattered across the ground and blew away in the winter breeze. Johnny silently asked Debra what the fuck she was doing and elf stood her ground with clenched fists and a raw attitude.

Meanwhile, Link just laughed it off and said, “I guess you don’t really want hot soup after all. It’s a shame, because I could have given you more soup in that one BJ than any restaurant. It’s saltier too! And tastier! Or so I’ve been told!” Link sheathed his sword, waved goodbye, and chuckled, “Keep saving up!” He turned heel and strutted away until the nighttime shadows covered him completely.

Johnny’s cheeks quivered and his eyes cascaded as he struggled to say, “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? He was our meal ticket!”

Debra’s angry breathing intensified to where this winter weather could be confused for a boiling summertime hell. She grabbed Johnny by his overcoat and shoved him against a brick wall. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” raged the elf. “Do you really think he was going to pay you all that money to humiliate yourself like that? Bullshit, he would have disappeared like a fart in the wind! I know you’re a homeless man looking for change, but you should never have to lower yourself like that just for a half ass chance at getting paid! I don’t care if Link Rotunda is the champion of the fucking universe! He’s a bully first and a humanitarian last! How do you think he wins so many of those fights?!”

Johnny snorted loose snot up his nose and swallowed before sobbing, “I’ll take a small chance of getting paid over no chance any day of the week.”

Debra slammed Johnny back first against the wall and raised her fist in the air as though she was ready to knock a few teeth loose. “I should turn that fucking face of yours inside out for saying shit like that! I should rip your brains out through your eye sockets and eat that for dinner instead of some poor man’s soup!”

Johnny De Morgan could feel his insides turning into jelly and his bladder and bowels loosening while anticipating the stinging fist that would eventually shatter his skull into snowflakes. The tension in his stomach made him ill. His skin turned pasty white. He shook harder than when he was struggling for warmth.

And then Debra said, “I’ve got a better idea than that” before showering her victim with a handful of golden coins. Johnny could finally breathe a heavy sigh of relief like a whirlwind of seething pain coming out of his mouth. His elf compatriot brushed his checkerboard coat off and said, “The only way you’ll ever eat with me tonight is if you never pull that shit again. You’re my best friend. I hate seeing you in pain like that. Link was never going to give you those gold coins, so I snatched them from him while he was busy laughing like a fucking hyena.”

Johnny and Debra embraced one another and gave their bodies enough warmth to last through two more winters. It wasn’t just physical warmth that Johnny felt throughout his body. It was that special warm fuzzy feeling of knowing his best friend had his back through thick and thin (even if she did scare the shit out of him). Johnny could picture the bowl of soup sliding down his throat and soothing his frosty wounds. Broccoli cheddar soup from a garlic bread bowl. Thank you, Mr. Rotunda. Thank you so much!

Demon Axe, Chapter 22

Roger stabbed his machete into the ground at the sight of various vehicles pulling up to the bottom of the mountain. Police cruisers and SWAT vans, pickup trucks and SUV’s, and finally an eighteen-wheeler parked sideway in the far back to make plenty of room. What it was making room for, Roger didn’t know. All he knew is that these people were worthy of his most venomous scowl with folded arms to boot.

Shawn and Raven on the other hand looked down at the multi-car scene with a mixture of confusion and relief. Was this some kind of cavalry or were these people going to be more innocent victims of Roger’s mad slashing? Arthur didn’t seem too worried about it judging from the grin on his elderly face and the words, “I told you my new friends would come,” to his nemesis.

And sure enough they did. Cops got out of their cruisers, pro-wrestlers wearing their gear got out of their gas-guzzling vehicles, and heavy metal fans with Demon Axe T-shirts joined their newfound brethren in the open space between the semi and the other cars. Once they all assembled with their arms folded and their game faces on, the police captain tested his bullhorn like a roadie would a microphone: “Check, one, two, check.”

Roger’s look of disdain turned into a mocking grin. He even pulled his machete out of the ground to drive home his next talking point. “Is this what you call a cavalry, Arthur? I don’t see toughness from any one of these bastards! I see a bunch of walking corpses ready to get their heads chopped off!” Pointing his blade at the crowd below, he barked, “Don’t even bother drawing your pop guns, because you’ll be dead before you have the chance to use them!”

“We’re not here to arrest you, Roger Zee, no matter how much you deserve it,” said the captain through his bullhorn. “We’re not even here to pick a fight, again, no matter how much you deserve it. We’re all here for one reason: to see a goddamn heavy metal show. We bought our tickets and we’re ready to rock and fucking roll. You see these people, Roger? These are all of the people you’ve pissed off by killing off their friends and family for political bullshit. Did you think these rasslers were going to forget that you murdered Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez? Did you think these men and women in uniform were going to forget that you turned a respectable police department into a slaughterhouse? Did you think these metal heads in Demon Axe shirts were going to forget what you’ve put the Lord of the Pit through? Hell no! And yet, all we want to do is listen to some goddamn rock and roll! You know, the kind of music that gets us through our day with our sanity intact.”

The captain turned his head and nodded at the driver of the semi, who flipped a switch inside the cab and raised the side compartment like a garage door. Roger’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he saw what the truck was delivering: an entire stage of musical equipment. A bass and electric guitar stood at opposite sides of the stage while a drum kit was nestled in the back. A microphone stand took center stage sans an actual microphone.

Slowly emerging from behind the curtain were three black robed monks with their faces hidden by their massive hoods and their ancient chants haunting the elven landscape. The monks took their positions at the bass guitar, electric guitar, and drums respectively. They stood there languidly for a moment while Roger Zee swung his machete around in the air like he was ready for combat. “More victims? Sure, why not! Thanks for saving me the trouble of having to find you assholes!”

The three monks growled like animals at Roger’s insult before removing their hoods to reveal their masked faces. Just like any member of Daniel Mercer’s band, their masks sent chills up the spines of anyone who dared mess with them. One by one they revealed themselves to their audience, machete-wielding and otherwise.

The tiger-masked drummer said in an Arabian accent, “I am Tiger Man. I was once part of a metal band called I Am Death before you took our guitarist away from us, Roger. He was a brother to us. He represented everything that was right with both our religion and our music. You stole him from us, you sadistic piece of shit!”

The skull-masked bass player, also using an Arabian accent, pointed his elongated finger at Roger and said, “I am Bone Warrior. I too was a member of I Am Death. Everything Tiger Man just said is Allah’s honest truth, right down to the moment where he called you a sadistic piece of shit. I have a whole list of disgusting insults I’d like to use right now to describe you, Roger, but instead I’d rather play the bass and get this show on the road.”

And then there was the zombie-masked guitarist with demon horns and a Santa hat who said, “I am Snowball. I am the last surviving member of the LGBT metal band Juice. Roger, there’s nothing I’d love more than to wrap these guitar strings around your neck and take every last ounce of oxygen from that pathetic body of yours. But that’s not what guitar strings are for. They’re for playing badass music with badass people. Daniel, get your butt down here so that we can get this show started!”

Roger mockingly chuckled at Snowball and said, “I’m sorry, did you say you wanted Daniel to get his butt down there? I’m afraid he can’t do that right now. Let’s just say I did to him what you LGBT motherfuckers do to men’s asses on a daily basis. Besides, he can’t sing to you right now because his ribs look like a fucking jigsaw puzzle. Look at him! He’s easily-triggered! He’s pathetic! He’s a snowflake, Snowball!”

Slowly stirring from his traumatized state, Daniel pulled his shorts up, spit out blood on the side of the mountain, and clutched his broken ribs while making it to his feet. He stared fire and poison through Roger’s goofy gaze before snatching his rightfully owned microphone out of the zealot’s hands. Daniel leaned his face close to Roger’s and said, “I’m not your victim anymore!”

With mind-blowing pain in every step, the Lord of the Pit dragged his feet down the side of the Holy Mountains with Shawn, Raven, and Arthur stabilizing him along the way. Raven whispered in her boyfriend’s ear, “You can do this, Daniel. You’re not a victim anymore. You’re our next king.”

Feigning concern with more goofy facial expressions, Roger said, “Oh, look at you, Daniel. Are you having a little bit of trouble getting down the mountain? Here, let me give you a boost!” The elf zealot planted the toe of his steel boot into Daniel’s butt cheek and sent him rolling down to the bottom of the mountain in a crumpled heap.

“You fucking bastard!” Shawn bellowed. “I ought to blow your face off right fucking now!” The detective raised his shotgun with his trigger finger itching for some blood.

Raven lowered the barrel while screaming, “No, don’t! You’ve seen what Roger can do with that blade! This is not the way we’re ending this!”

“He killed my wife and daughter! He deserves to have his head blown the fuck right off!” shouted Shawn.

“Listen to reason, Detective Henry,” said the police captain through his bullhorn. “You’re one of the best cops we have on the force. Don’t throw away everything you’ve worked for. Come on down here and mosh with us. It’s a rock concert, damn it!”

Shawn gazed at his police brethren and back at Roger while contemplating the voice of reason’s talking points. As much as he wanted to blow the terrorist’s head off with a well-placed shotgun shell, his wisdom dictated that getting murdered himself wouldn’t do a damn thing for his family. He stood there for a while with fists clenched and his trigger finger pulsating with rage. He finally dropped his shotgun and allowed Raven and Arthur to take him by the hands down the side of the mountain.

“You made the right call, Shawn,” said Roger. “Not that it really matters since I’m going to turn this so-called concert into a battlefield of dead bodies, not unlike the one I left behind back at the elven city.”

The threesome ignored Roger’s immature insults and knelt down to help Daniel to his feet. The Lord of the Pit groaned and whined as he struggled with his equilibrium. His ribs felt like he just ate a Halloween apple full of razorblades and spikes, yet he brushed his friends away and said, “It’s okay, guys. I got this. Trust me.”

Shawn, Raven, and Arthur joined the mosh pit congregation while trusting Daniel to gingerly make his way to one of SWAT team members. He spit out more blood and said, “Give me a goddamn flak vest. Now!”

“A flak vest? You really think that’s going to help you get through an entire set? I’d say you’re delusional, but you probably already know that from being an easily-triggered snowflake,” laughed Roger.

Daniel no-sold the insult as he strapped the flak vest around his ribs and limped his way to the makeshift stage. Snowball and Bone Warrior reached down and gently pulled Daniel up to his microphone stand, where he placed the axe-decorated piece of equipment into its rightful slot. Roger clapped like a little child and mockingly cheered Daniel as he made it to the stage.

“Keep clapping, buddy!” said Snowball. “But before you think you’ve won anything, check this shit out!” The demonic Christmas enthusiast picked up his guitar and flipped it around to reveal it had the same magical runes as Daniel’s microphone. Roger’s eyes bulged out of their sockets in horror as Bone Warrior revealed the same thing with his bass guitar and Tiger Man did so with his drum sticks.

“No…No…NO!” shouted Roger as he clutched his head in while rocking up and down.

“in the same way that Daniel’s microphone carries the lost souls of Pig Man, Vulture Man, and G-Pac,” explained Arthur, “These newly christened members of Demon Axe had their instruments imbued as well. The game is up, Roger. It’s over!”

After whining angrily through gritted teeth, Roger pulled his machete out of the ground and roared, “Nothing is over until I say it’s over! My reign as king will last forever and you sons of bitches are fucking dead! Do you hear me?! DEAD!” The zealot charged down the hill twirling his blade ready for yet another terrorist massacre.

Without regard for his battered ribs, Daniel screamed into the microphone, “One, two, three, four!” Just when Roger had entered the mosh pit and he was ready to bring his blade down on his first victim, he was sent flying backwards by the sound waves of “Fucking Hostile” by Pantera.

For the first time in a long time, everyone appeared to be having a good time. They didn’t have to worry about death and politics like a constant case of anxiety. They didn’t have to listen to their traumatic voices tell them what to do. They didn’t even have to pay their overdue bills until it was all over. It was just a mosh pit full of angry motherfuckers shoving each other and getting down to the classic Pantera sound as presented by Demon Axe. Even Raven, Shawn, and Arthur got in on the aggressive fun, bouncing off everybody in sight and getting tossed around like sacks of potatoes themselves.

The sound waves continued to assault Roger’s mind while his traumatic ghosts haunted him with the loudest voices. Every innocent he has ever killed, every living being who despised him in the present, they all gave this scumbag terrorist the brain fuck of the century. Roger clutched his ears and pounded his head against the ground until he couldn’t take it anymore. By the time “Fucking Hostile” came to a close, his head exploded like a hand grenade and got pieces of brain and skull all over the audience. This wasn’t traumatic violence. This was putting the death in death metal.

The audience roared like lions in a cage and chanted Demon Axe’s name, giving the performers onstage a reason to bow. Daniel, on the other hand, bowed for a much different reason. Even with the flak vest stabilizing his ribs, he clutched his chest and fell to the ground unconscious. His newfound band mates rushed to his aide while Raven fought her way through the crowd to try to do the same. “Daniel, no! Don’t die on me!” she shouted.

No matter how loud the screams were or how energetic the noise was, Daniel wouldn’t wake up from his final nightmare. He was carried offstage like a baby in Snowball’s arms while Tiger Man and Bone Warrior hung their heads following him. Raven tried to climb the stage, but the crowd swept her away and all she could do was allow tears to rain down her face like a thunderstorm of emotions. Was this the end of the elven kingdom? Had Roger Zee taken an entire world to the grave with him? Was it all too late? Worse, was it all for nothing?

Demon Axe, Chapter 11

One month of peace and quiet was all it took. Not one terrorist attack from Roger Zee took place in Paulson City, yet there were no media reports about his capture. Was he simply biding his time until his next wave of assaults? Did he actually get captured but nobody’s talking about it? Did his master plan hit a snag along the way? Everybody was feeling the anxiety of not knowing where the next attack would come from. Surely there had been concerts and events during this time. Why not attack those?

Every time Daniel Mercer felt the anxiety, he remembered the EMDR technique that Raven Triscloud taught him. But every time he used it, he couldn’t help but think of how bitter their dissolved friendship had become. A month of silence all because they disagreed on how to catch Roger Zee. Lives were on the line, sure, but this month-long reprieve seemed to quash those disagreements. Then why wasn’t Daniel talking to her? Was he too proud? Was he so busy with his new project that he completely forgot about the friend who helped take away his pain? He knew it was wrong to avoid her, but what else could he do? She was pissed off. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

By the end of this one month of peace, Daniel Mercer had donned his Lord of the Pit persona in time for another concert, face paint, cloak, leather armor, and combat boots. The crowd in this new outdoor venue didn’t seem anxious to him from where he stood backstage. Eager would have been a better word. Excited would have been much better than that. They screamed, hollered, shot off fireworks, moshed with each other, and this was long before the Lord of the Pit was ready to come onstage with his new band mates.

The four musicians stood backstage in a circle surrounding…a pan of marshmallow brownies. It wasn’t he bubbling witch cauldron Demon Axe was used to, but these were new times. Demon Axe was a distant memory. All that remained was Demon Death Juice. The last word in that new band name made the three hooded figures hungry for the liquidy chocolate and melted marshmallows that laid before them.

The first to take a bite out of the luscious brownies was Tarantula Man, whose mask featured the disgusting creature spreading its legs all over his face and part of his turban. While his visage was covered, his euphoric trance couldn’t be hidden after the gooey bite. He scarfed his brownie down and licked his fingers clean like a dog. He leaned backwards as the high of whatever was in the brownies took over. He asked in his Arab accent, “What the hell is in these things? I can’t even remember what that elf asshole’s name is now.”

“What elf asshole? I don’t see one around here. All I see is a big chunk of chocolate and goddamn I’m taking it!” exclaimed Lady Killer, who buried her mouth into her portion of the drugged dessert. She was lucky enough not to get any chocolate on her Hannibal Lecter-esque hockey mask. Blood would have looked a hell of a lot better. Mmmmm, blood.

“Save some for me, sweetheart!” whispered Bear Man before shoving the gooey piece of heaven in his mouth and sucking his fingers afterwards. The teeth in his polar bear mask drew a little bit of blood, but he licked it off like it was a more delicious treat than any Betty Crocker dessert.

The last one to take a brownie bite was the Lord of the Pit, who was patient in his eating style, but no less entranced. He threw his head back and let out a celebratory “Woo-hoo!” after letting the drugs surge through his veins. “Goddamn, I love weed. Don’t tell anybody what’s in here. I don’t think weed’s legal in Paulson City yet.”

Tarantula Man placed a hand on the lead singer’s shoulder and said, “After everything you went through, you can have all the drugs you want. We’re Demon Death Juice. We go hard!” He accentuated that last line by slapping his band mate on the back.

“Did you hear that guys?!” shouted the Lord of the Pit in a motivational tone. “Who are we?!”

“Demon Death Juice!” screamed his band mates.

“I can’t hear you, goddamn it! Who are we?!”

“DEMON DEATH JUICE!!”

“And don’t you forget it! It’s show time, bitches! Woo!”

The newly christened heavy metal band marched out onstage to a thunderous applause that made actual thunderstorms sound like pins dropping. The fans jumped up and down chanting “Demon Death Juice!” while the band took their positions at the sage. Tarantula Man grabbed the electric guitar and strummed a few deafening chords. Bear Man took hold of the bass guitar and slapped that bitch like a pimp who wanted his debt. Lady Killer sat at the drum kit and beat on those things with enough violent energy to make desert wars look like cat fights.

Waiting for the Lord of the Pit at center stage was his custom-made, beautifully magical axe microphone. It drooled with golden dust and with just one poke of the mouthpiece excited the crowd beyond an orgasmic, riotous rage. He never forgot where he came from or who brought him to the dance. G-Pac, Vulture Man, and Pig Man burned in his memory like a branding iron, but his adrenaline and passion was much hotter.

The Lord of the Pit grabbed his magical instrument of badassery and shouted, “What’s up, Paulson City!” which earned him a tidal wave of cacophonic cheers and lion roars. He looked down at the bottom of the stage and gave a nod of acknowledgment to Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez, who donned black security T-shirts and got their own version of cheers from the fans.

Four beats of Lady Killer’s symbols later and all of the instrumental rage took over. Tarantula Man and Bear Man dueled on their electric and bass guitars respectively while Lady Killer assaulted the drums and the Lord of the Pit danced around stage like a rock and roll lunatic. When the action got too hot and heavy in the crowd, Johnny and Sonia weren’t afraid to put the violent ones in headlocks and judo holds while carrying them out of the venue. Whatever they were being paid, they deserved the salary of a one-percenter that afternoon.

“This is called Rise and Shine, bitches! Let’s go!” yelled the Lord of the Pit. He began growling the lyrics with unrelenting aggression and no pity for the weak. “Rise and shine for your fucked up mind / There’s no more time to relax and unwind / Get your ass out of bed, Mr. Sleepyhead / Rise like a zombie coming back from the dead / Rise and shine or your ass is mine! / Rise and shine, don’t fucking whine! / Rise and shine for the dollar signs! / Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

Everybody was wide awake after that nuclear explosion-style heat. Johnny and Sonia had to headlock and full nelson even more rowdy customers, who in turn shouted drunkenly about how cool it was to be manhandled by two badass wrestlers. Some of the fans weren’t nearly as happy and tried to beat down the two bouncers only to get punched in the stomach and dragged away nonetheless. Demon Death Juice looked on at the scene with dragon-like smiles on their faces, all while delivering ruthless aggression on their instruments of chaos.

Before the Lord of the Pit could continue the next verse of “Rise and Shine”, he noticed police cars piling in from the back of the arena. He figured they were there to provide additional security for Johnny, Sonia, and the rest of the bouncers. When he saw a downtrodden and bruise-faced Shawn Henry exit one of the vehicles, he dropped his microphone and the band stopped playing. There were way more cop cars here than were necessary and they were hauling out concertgoers whether they were rowdy or not.

“What the hell’s going on here?! You can’t arrest these people! They came to see a show!” protested Tarantula Man.

By this time, Shawn Henry and his crew of cops had made it to the stage and started slapping handcuffs on all four members of Demon Death Juice, to which the Lord of the Pit interjected, “Hey, what are you doing, man?! Get these fucking things off of me!”

“Daniel Patrick Mercer? You and the rest of your band mates are under arrest for inciting terrorism,” said a solemn and almost unwilling Shawn Henry.

“What?! That’s bullshit! You guys are fucking dicks!” screamed Lady Killer, who got a face full of mace for her protests. Tarantula Man and Bear Man also rebelled while in handcuffs and were thrown down on the floor like common criminals.

Daniel looked on at the scene with horror on his face while his magical microphone was taken away. Shawn whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry, Daniel. My orders come from somewhere else. I wish there was something I could do about this.”

“I’m sure you’ll be sorry the next time it happens,” whispered Daniel angrily as he, his band mates, and even Johnny and Sonia were hauled away unceremoniously.

Dark Side of the Wall

Every chant of his last name sent a biblical flood of adrenaline through Ryan Warrior’s veins. He stood backstage with his fists clenched tightly by his sides, his painted up face a shield of rage, and his leather jacket a suit of armor for this musical war. The dimly lit stage splashed purple and red on the violent faces of the heavy metal crowd. All that could be heard aside from the crowd’s excitement was the ethereal music created by fast-paced war drums and the haunting wooden flute. As the war drum pounded louder in the ears of all, the shouts and screams became more deafening and more motivating to Ryan Warrior.

With the grinding, heavy sounds of an electric guitar, bass guitar, and drum kit to guide his way, Ryan marched out to the stage and was met with a thunderous ovation. They gave him a battle, he would return with a war. He snatched the microphone off of its stand and shouted, “What’s up, Ghost River Amphitheater?! You want some heavy ass metal?! One! Two! Chainsaw Samurai!”

The drum kit and war drums players dueled with each other. The guitar and bass players banged their long locks and bounced around the stage. The flute player calmly let out another wave of ghost music. And Ryan? He jumped up and down along with his audience, rowdy as they were.

With a throaty, demonic scream, he shouted, “Forget about your fucking dishonor / And focus on your eventual slaughter / Which one of your limbs must go first? / Your arms, legs, or German bratwurst? / Slice off your head, a mummified trophy / He opens your mouth and says, “Blow me!” / A bloodbath is coming from the Rising Sun / Violence and gore became a shit-load of fun!”

The raw passion of the outdoor crowd could be seen with every shove, every throw, every drop of blood, and every bruise. To get out of this mosh pit alive and well would be a miracle rivaling Jesus Christ himself. It was all fun and games until Ryan Warrior stopped bouncing and head banging. He looked out into certain areas of the crowd with disgust on his face, like he had just smelled raw sewage. “Stop the music! Stop the goddamn music! Guys, enough! I got something to say!”

Once the band discontinued their music, the crowd erupted into a fiery roar with volcanic passion and their bruised fists in the skies. Ryan’s disgusted face turned to a deathly scowl as he shouted into the microphone, “Are you guys fucking stupid or what?!” Like the bunch of idiots they were, the audience cheered at that rhetorical question.

“I look around at this crowd and I don’t see metal heads. I see grown ass men groping teenaged girls. I see little kids getting their heads smashed in. Hell, I just caught one of you assholes shooting off a rocket at my guitarist! You nearly hit him in the fucking face! What is wrong with you people?!” No more fiery passion from the crowd, only boos. Whether those boos were directed at the sociopathic audience members or Ryan Warrior was unknown, but the oratory continued.

“You know what? I’m starting to understand why Roger Waters built the wall! I trust you all know who the hell he is! He was the driving force behind a band called Pink Floyd, a band I have a lot of respect for! And right now, I feel like building a wall between you guys and my band! Boo all you want, but it ain’t wrong if that’s how I feel! Go ahead! Boo! Boo like a bunch of babies!” Ask and ye shall receive. The flying beer bottle that pinged off of Ryan’s shoulder was a bonus that sent the Native American into a nightmarish frenzy.

“Where the hell are the goddamn bouncers?!” he screamed. “How come nobody is trying to remove these guys?! I see neo-Nazis over here doing their thing! I see a teenaged girl trying to get away from you morons! Seriously, where the hell is security?! Where the hell is alcohol enforcement?! Why are the goddamn cops just sitting around munching on donuts?! I’ll tell you what, dip shits! If you keep this crap up, you’re not getting a show tonight! You haven’t shown me that you deserved one! You know what? To hell with it! I’m going backstage and I’m going to have a banana daiquiri! Screw you bastards! Screw this show! I don’t need this crap! I’m out of here!”

Ryan dropped his microphone with a resounding thud and walked backstage with his brethren, flipping off the booing crowd as he exited. The tour bus was in the back parking lot ready to roll on to the next town, which was hopefully less criminal-minded than this one at the Ghost River Amphitheater. The boos and reckless behavior out in the crowd caused Ryan to clutch his head in pain as he took a seat next to the mini-fridge. While his band mates disappeared behind the dressing room door, Mr. Warrior pulled a banana daiquiri out of the fridge and formed a small smile on his face knowing his night would at least end on a high note.

“Ryan! What the hell are you doing?! You’ve got a show to play, damn it! Don’t do this to me!” shouted his manager, a pudgy, balding, olive-skinned fellow in a gray suit who was flailing his arms as he shouted.

The singer tossed aside his bottle and stood up to look his manager square in the eyes. “Do you not see what’s going on out there? They’re acting like animals! I’ve played rowdy crowds before, but these guys are turning this concert into a goddamn prison riot! Where the hell are the bouncers? Do they not give a damn what’s going on out there?!”

Pointing a sausage finger at him, the manager said, “So that’s it? You’re going to give up on your dream because you don’t like what’s going on out there? Yes, you’ve played wild crowds before, but this ain’t no small piss-ant nightclub! This is the big time! You can’t back down from a crowd that size just because the security detail doesn’t swoop in right away! They’re not the Justice League, for Christ’s sake! Hell, they’re probably busy with parts of the crowd you can’t even see from the front stage!”

“Is that really what being a rock star is all about? Hanging around with a bunch of criminals? Having people shoot fireworks at you? What a bunch of crap!” said Ryan.

“You’re right! It is crap! But it also comes with the territory! Yes, there are a bunch of wild and crazy idiots right now who are probably being dragged away in handcuffs! But there are even more people out there who paid good money to see you perform! By walking off stage, you’re not only spiting the drunken jerks, but you’re also slapping the faces of the true fans! Do you want your true fans to remember you as the guy who quit in the face of criticism? If they think you’re getting soft for one minute, that’s the end of your career, buddy! And it’s a career that barely got off the ground! It’ll be over before it begins! Welcome to heavy metal, Ryan! Or I could welcome you to the unemployment line, how about that? It’s up to you, big guy. What’s it going to be?”

Breathing deeply and shakily, the seething Ryan Warrior glared into the eyes of his manager and said, “If that’s your way of psyching me up and getting me to earn my paycheck…” Mid-speech, he pulled a feathered hatchet out of his leather jacket and grinned at it like a psychopath. “I’m going to collect interest from these motherfuckers!”

In a calm and collected manner, the manager asked in a semi-whiny voice, “Ryan? What are you doing with that thing?”

Leaning his slasher villain face into the manager’s, Ryan said, “You’ll see. You think I’m soft? You think I’m cowardly enough to run away from the biggest dream I’ve ever had?” He shouted, “Do you think I’m stupid enough to walk away from a big payday?! Do you?! You can put all the stipulations in the contract you want, but no matter who the record label is, this is my show and I’m going to burn it to the ground!”

The manager backpedaled in pants-wetting fear as he shakily sat next to the mini-fridge. Ryan grinned and shouted at the dressing room in a feral voice, “Guys! We’re going to give the audience our…special treat!” The band mates exited the dressing room laughing viciously and sending the manager into even more violent shivers. The entire band walked passed him with villainous grins on their faces while the manager weakly asked, “What’s the hatchet for?”

The audience cheered and roared like bloodthirsty lions at the reappearance of Ryan Warrior and his band. As the lead singer slowly picked up his microphone and breathed in a raspy voice into the device, he swirled his tongue around his lips as he saw the undesirables being dragged away by security and law enforcement. Neo-Nazis were being pulled out of the arena by their legs. Child molesters were being dragged by their thick hairy arms. Drunkards staggered and fell on their way to the bus stop. While there may be some cretins left behind, the unmistakable chants of Ryan’s last name were music to his ears.

Ryan glared at the hatchet in his hand and said in a monstrous voice, “You see this? I carry this into battle with me every damn day of the week. It brings me more than just good luck. It brings me pleasure. It brings me pain. It brings me…bloodlust!” On that last line, he licked the flat end of his blade like it was his lover. “But if you think I’m so pissed off that I’m going to carve up a bunch of drunken idiots and join them in prison, you’re dead wrong. I’m not throwing away anything for those assholes, certainly not my dream, certainly not my life. Instead…I have a message from a little band from Iowa called Slipknot.”

The “true fans” shouted their approval at the name drop and raised their bloodied fists to the skies. Ryan continued his demonic speech with, “Mr. Corey Taylor couldn’t make it tonight. He sends his apologies. He also sends a very poignant message to everybody here who ruined your evenings by acting like mindless thugs. Nah, I take that back. Your evenings are far from ruined by those jerks. Our night of heavy metal is just getting started. It’s going to continue with a little Slipknot song that everybody here can relate to. It’s called…People = Shit!” With the fans riled up and ready to rock, the stage pyrotechnics burst into flames and the music was far from dead. Heavy metal will never die.

Demon Axe, Chapter 1

Shrouded in darkness, the Lord of the Pit swirled his wooden ladle in the bubbling red concoction before him. The thickness of the liquid was like lava flowing in a volcano. The Lord, with his face painted as a skeleton and his long hair grayer than a cantankerous witch, looked down at his cauldron creation with a sadistic grin. His three cohorts, each of them donning black robes and vicious-looking masks, held out their steel bowls while the Lord of the Pit scooped and poured the demonic liquid into their dishes. “Drink it in, minions,” he said in a gravelly, haunting voice.

The first to consume his bowl of unholy soup was Pig Man, who as his name suggested wore the mask of a gray-skinned pig with tusks on either side and a brass nose ring through his snout. He also drank like a pig: quickly and sloppily, getting some of the brew on his robe. Pig Man let out an obnoxious burp to signify his satisfaction with his “meal”.

The second to feast upon the bubbling red muck was Vulture Man, whose mask bore a sinister scowl and a blade-like beak. Unlike his hoggish cohort, Vulture Man took small sips at first. Any trace of good dinner manners disappeared when he buried his face in his bowl and slobbered the liquid down. Instead of a burp, he let out a prolonged “Ah!” in a relaxed voice.

G-Pac, who wore the mask of a rotten-toothed, black painted, hollow-eyed clown, shook his head at his friends and chuckled with delight. “I’d say that hit the spot, wouldn’t you agree, Master?” The sinister clown drank his potion in one gulp and smashed the bowl over his head, shattering it into pieces. The mouth hole in his mask showed traces of an evil grin while a small trickle of blood ran down his forehead and into the cauldron.

“I truly am surrounded by pure gentlemen tonight,” said the Lord of the Pit, who took a swig from his own bowl and splashed it all over his gray trench coat and Demon Axe T-shirt. He threw his bowl off to the side and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. “And now my minions, join hands as I recite the Demon’s Prayer.”

With all four of these unholy clerics holding hands and bowing their heads with closed eyes, the Lord of the Pit spoke in his ominous voice. “Oh, Demon of Death, grant us your fire, your strength, and your passion. Let the masses join together in the circle pit and release their vicious energy. Don’t let our newest member, Pig Man, screw up tonight. And for god’s sake, Demon of Death, don’t let me be an asshole on stage. Don’t let any of my band mates say, ‘Too late!’”.

“Too late!” chimed in Vulture Man.

“And punish those who do!” said the Lord of the Pit, which earned a modicum of laughter from Pig Man, G-Pac, and even the smart-assed Vulture Man. The Lord pointed to the ceiling with his index finger and said, “That last one was for you, Master Carlin.” He ducked his head back down and said, “Alone, we are warriors of the music industry. Together, we are…”

“Demon Axe!” said the band mates in unison.

“Who are we?!” shouted the Lord.

“Demon Axe!”

“Amen, motherfuckers. Now let’s go out there and fuck shit up!”

The four members of the band released each other’s hands and marched their way beyond the stage curtain. With the stage lights dim and the audience chanting Demon Axe’s name, the band took their positions to the loudest of cheers. G-Pac sat at his drum kit, with his drum sticks resembling bloodied clubs. Vulture Man started strumming heavily on his electric guitar, the neck of which looked like the blade of a broad sword. Pig Man took his spot at the bass guitar, an instrument with strings that looked like pieces of ground up sausage.

The last band mate to take his position was The Lord of the Pit, who upon adjusting his battleaxe-shaped microphone received a thunderous ovation from the wild and crazy outdoor crowd. “What the fuck is going on, Paulson City?!” he shouted in his throaty voice, earning an even louder response from the audience. “You want to talk about some crazy shit?! We’re kicking this motherfucker off with Zombie-Ogre! Get that fucking circle pit going! One! Two! Three! Let’s go!”

The members of Demon Axe banged their heads and pumped out a heavy metal tune with a grinding guitar, a funky bass, and rapid-fire drums. The mosh pit in the audience intensified with every shove, resulting in bruises, bumps, and bloody gashes. With pyrotechnics bursting in the background, The Lord of the Pit began his lyrical assault on an already banged up audience.

“Eat, sleep, shatter, repeat! / Ultra-violence for human meat! / Winner, winner, chicken dinner! / The glutinous one is a true sinner! / Blood on his fangs, flesh on his tongue! / Poison in his gut, disease in his lungs! / Zombie-Ogre is coming to kill! / Cannibalism, a sadistic thrill!”

As Pig Man and Vulture Man screamed the chorus into their bone and skull microphones, The Lord of the Pit stopped head banging for a moment and had a faraway look in his eyes. He was probably accustomed to looking at ghosts all the time with his dark fantasy gimmick, but this time, he actually looked like he saw a ghost. His eyes were wide, his body was still despite the heavy metal thrashing going on, and he frowned his worst frown.

“Stop the music! Stop the goddamn music! Do it, now!” ordered the Lord of the Pit, to which the band mates reluctantly complied. The antsy audience cheered at their wildest level, clearly suffering from heavy metal withdrawal. The Lord pointed his finger out in the distance and said, “Stagehands, I want you to shine a big red light on that guy in the back. The one with the brown robe and the hood over his face. You’ll understand why in a minute. Just fucking do it!”

The red light was shining down upon the robed figure in the far back of the venue. Such an evil color seemed appropriate considering he was carrying a lengthy machete in his hands with blood dripping down from the blade. Audience members screamed and slowly backed away from him.

“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Security Detail! You guys are sure earning your money tonight!” said a sarcastic Lord of the Pit with his arms flailing about. “Seriously, where the fuck are you guys?! How is it that not one bouncer has tackled this guy yet?! I guess he’s just a really good fighter, right? A whole group of three hundred pound men and not one of them can take down a jackass with a machete! It’s a simple matter of physics, people! A guy with a blade cannot fight off that many fat-assed bouncers! I don’t care if he’s the love child of Bruce Lee and a Xiaolin fucking monk! It’s damned near impossible!”

The audience booed and flashed downwards thumbs and middle fingers at the machete-wielding warrior, who didn’t flinch one bit. He just stood there as still as a statue and as stoic as the heartless killer he was. The Lord of the Pit continued his rant with, “I’ll tell you guys what. Since security is too lazy to do their fucking jobs, I’ve got a better idea on how we can handle this. Normally, I don’t encourage this kind of thing at my shows, but this asshole is giving us no other choice. How about this: you, the audience, form a circle pit around that guy and see how tough he really is when he’s got a whole army going up against him!”

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers and leonine roars, raising their fists to the skies and letting their mostly pierced tongues hang down from their mouths. “Are you ready?!” shouted the Lord of the Pit, to which the crowd cheered even more aggressively. “One! Two! Three! Get him!” The rowdy and animalistic crowd descended upon the machete fighter ready to beat his ass into powder.

Nobody counted on the mysterious warrior removing his hood to reveal green flesh and elongated ears, to which the crowd backed off and the Lord of the Pit shouted, “Holy shit!” The machete fighter threw one slash and lopped off the heads of several audience members, their necks gushing like volcanoes of blood and their bodies dropping to the ground almost instantly.

Audience members wailed and ran with their arms flailing in the air while the elfish murderer stabbed them in the gut, hacked off their arms and legs, and slashed their throats. In such quick and unrivaled movements, the elf turned this outdoor concert venue into an ocean of thick blood, splattered organs, shredded skin, and shattered bones.

Among the frightened people desperately trying to escape were the members of Demon Axe themselves. They looked like anything but unholy knights as they ran like Olympians behind the curtain, past the backstage area, and through the cheaply-built door, which the Lord of the Pit battered down with one shoulder tackle. With his mind scrambling in different directions, his heart beating like G-Pac’s double bass drums, and sweat raining from his painted skin, the Lord of the Pit shed his gray trench coat and bolted toward the Demon Axe tour bus. He shot up the stairs and made a football tackle onto the soft plushy couch.

The Lord’s breathing was heavy and raspy as he closed his eyes and sprawled out on the couch. He heard the bus doors close and the driver attempting to start the engine, which snapped him out of his exhausted state and forced him to look around for his band mates, none of whom were on the bus.

“Hold on a second! Driver, where the hell is everyone?! We can’t just leave them out there with this psychopath! Open the goddamn doors and let them in!” demanded the Lord of the Pit. As he frantically looked around, he saw something out of the window that made his bloodshot eyes shoot up in horror and load up with tears. The elf warrior stood outside the tour bus with a frightening smile on his face, audience members screaming and running in the background, and the severed heads and spinal columns of Pig Man, Vulture Man, and G=Pac in his fists.

While the elf was laughing evilly to himself, the Lord of the Pit banged on the window and shouted “No!” repeatedly in prolonged cinematic fashion. The bus’s engine finally started and the vehicle drove away into the night, the elf never taking his burning orange eyes off of the screaming and traumatized singer.

With the arena far behind him, the Lord of the Pit continued to scream and cry in agony at the thought of his former band mates decapitated by this monster of a human being, if he could be called that. He scrambled toward his mini refrigerator and pulled out everything from its confines whether it was lunch meat, ice cream, or what he was truly looking for, a gigantic bottle of booze.

The Lord eyed the bottle with heavy tears and heavy breathing. “This is just what I fucking need.” He quickly unscrewed the top and chucked the entire bottle in only a matter of minimal gulps. Once the bottle was empty, he smashed it against his head several times. The bottle finally broke after the fifth strike. With a bloodied scalp and a drunken, traumatized mind, the once mighty Lord of the Pit dropped down to his knees and fell flat on his face. He intended to sleep that way for the rest of this god-forsaken night.

“I’d get that wound wrapped up if I were you, Daniel,” said the driver, which earned him a lazy middle finger from the Lord of the Pit. Lord of the Pit? Who was he kidding? His band mates were dead. Most of his fans were dead. The whole dark fantasy gimmick was just bullshit. And now the man legally known as Daniel P. Mercer was just a sad drunk with paint and blood all over his face.

Dark Fantasy Rock Goddess

Autumn Smith peeked through the backstage curtain of the Dead Pegasus Orc Bar and felt like someone had just punched her in the stomach. She was used to wild and raucous crowds, but never before had she played her elven bard music in front of savage creatures such as orcs. Their drunken screams and violent shoves were reminiscent of barbarians going to war against the gods. A few of them even threw the bar’s furniture at each other. The bouncers’ hands were tied with one group of wild orcs, so much so that many of these barbaric brawls went unnoticed.

The elf guitarist swallowed a massive wad of saliva in nervousness, but that only served to further irritate her anxious and chilled stomach. And then a dark-skinned hand laid lovingly on her shoulder and put her somewhat at ease. That hand belonged to the blond Mohawk-having, red robe-wearing sorcerer known simply as Bloodshark. He said in his best smooth jazz voice, “Don’t you worry about a thing, baby girl. I’m the best mercenary money can buy. If one of these motherfuckers puts their hands on you, I’ll shove thunderbolts up their asses and fireballs down their throats. You’ve got this, sugar pie.”

Autumn breathed deeply to settle her nerves and said to Bloodshark, “Thank you so much for agreeing to do this for me. I’ve never played in front of orcs before.”

Bloodshark smiled and shook his head before saying, “Listen, honey bear, orcs are no different from any other wild and crazy crowd: they all turn to ashes after getting zapped with my magic lightning. Ashes look the same no matter what race, creed, or color they originally were. Now you go onstage and have the time of your life, cuddle muffin. You’re a dark fantasy rock goddess. You don’t sweat the small stuff.”

The elven bard smiled sweetly and said, “You’re right, Bloodshark. You’re absolutely right. I’m going to show these drunken assholes what a real rock goddess looks like. I’m supposed to be getting a huge payment for this concert, so if you want a raise, you can have it.”

“It’s show time, sweetheart,” said Bloodshark after squeezing Autumn Smith’s shoulders. “Give these suckers all you’ve got!”

The words of encouragement put an even bigger smile on the silver cloak-wearing bard’s face as she grabbed her acoustic guitar and nodded at her mercenary before taking center stage. The orcs stopped fighting amongst themselves and cheered like a bunch of battle hungry warriors. Despite being a race of sloppy eaters and uncouth manners, even they could appreciate the heavenly beauty of their rock and roll princess.

She had soft and creamy green skin, long and silky dark hair, hypnotizing purple eyes, gorgeous red lips, a sparkling gray halter top that revealed just the right amount of cleavage, fetishized high heeled boots, and tight black leather pants that accentuated her best lower body features. Autumn’s appearance alone was a main event show on its own. But when she started strumming her golden guitar, every note and every chord put the orcs in a drooling trance.

Her singing voice made every audience believe she was an angel from the most beautiful of heavens. Her erection-worthy lyrics spoke of the pleasures of love making from her partner’s perfect muscular body to the wonderful thrill of being pushed into. She even made a few orgasmic moans to simulate the gentle sex she was singing about.

The crowd of drunken orcs, who had been brawling just minutes before, were now retarded with love for this sexy elf playing music for them. They drooled, their eyes were halfway closed, they were hunched over, and many of them purposefully sat down at their tables to avoid…embarrassment.

And then one of the audience members made the mistake of reaching up on stage and grabbing Autumn by her ankle. “Ouch! Let go! You’re hurting me!” she yelled as the orc held on with a nearly crushing grip. The other orcs egged him on and showed their wildness once more with berserker screams. And then that sexually harassing orc drew back a stump when Bloodshark appeared from behind the curtain and zapped his hand.

A fountain of black orcish blood burst in the air and stained Autumn’s lovely clothing, to which she gasped in horror. The orcs laughed at their creepy brethren while Bloodshark warned them, “Anybody else want to try that shit? Go ahead! Come on! I don’t get paid by the hour, motherfuckers!”

One of the orcs pulled out a battleaxe and screamed furiously before charging at Bloodshark with a full head of steam. The mercenary sorcerer extended his fingertips and shot a cannonball-like fire volley into the warrior’s chest, sending the orc flying all the way to the back of the bar and crashing through the wall.

Autumn grabbed her bodyguard by the arm and shouted, “I’m not paying you to kill them! I just wanted some security, damn it!”

Bloodshark shoved his boss to the ground, pointed his finger at her, and said, “Let me do my job and then we’ll talk about semantics!”

While the elf bard crab-walked and cowered in the corner of the stage, more orcs descended upon Bloodshark with swords, axes, and flails drawn. That much heavy screaming pierced Autumn’s eardrums and made her feel like she was about to be ripped to shreds by this horny crowd.

And then Bloodshark threw his hands in a rapid fire machinegun motion as he tossed glacial spikes left and right into the orcs’ chests. While most of them were dropping to the ground bleeding like volcanoes, other orcs grabbed onto his arms and legs ready to tear him limb from limb. The sorcerer’s body became a conduit of electricity, sending lightning through his attacker’s bodies and turning them all to a pile of bloody ashes. And then the sorcerer threw fireballs at an assault rifle pace. And then more lightning bolts. And then more glacial spikes. Within a matter of lengthy seconds, the crowd full of horny orcs was reduced to shreds of skin, pieces of bones, and oceans of blood. Even the bouncers and bartenders weren’t spared from this deathly onslaught.

Bloodshark hunched over and clutched his knees while breathing heavily and admiring his handiwork. Autumn stopped flinching and surveyed the battlefield around her. Her bottom lip quivered, her body convulsed, and her eyes widened with horror as she pulled herself to her staggering feet. “Oh my god…what have you done? This isn’t security detail. This is murder!” Autumn banged on Bloodshark’s chest with her puny hands and yelled, “You’re a murderer! You’re a goddamn murderer!”

The sorcerer restrained the elf with his massive arms and stole a sloppy tongue kiss from her while leaning her backwards. It was long and passionate, but Autumn wasn’t buying the passion as she pushed away and crab-walked backwards again in disgust. She spit and coughed until she was certain the rotten flavor was out of her mouth. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“No, Autumn. I think the real question is…what the hell is wrong with YOU?! How could you treat your number one fan with such disdain? Is that what you rock goddesses are really good for?” protested Bloodshark.

The elf’s breathing slowed and her mouth quivered even harder as she realized the trap she had fallen for. “No…no…this can’t be happening. You’re not a mercenary. You’re a stalker! You’re a goddamned stalker! How can you do this to me, you sick pervert?!”

“How can I do what to you? Write you the sweetest letters a fan could ever write? Send chocolates to your house that tasted like pure heaven? Send roses to your studio that smell like fresh warm Eden? I spent more of my own mercenary money on you than I did for myself. And the way you repay me for my love and affection is by ignoring me and acting disgusted with me?! I should be the one disgusted with you! But I’m not, Miss Smith. I’m in love!” said Bloodshark with the wildest eyes and the creepiest grin.

Autumn shook her head and said, “You don’t know a goddamn thing about love. You’re just a pervert. You’re the worst kind of scum a singer like me could ever meet. You’re not the first one to fall in love with me. I’ve dealt with sickos like you many times in my career. You think you’re special just because you’ve eliminated all of your orcish competition with a little bit of magic? You’re pathetic!”

Bloodshark’s eyes glowed with light blue neon as he said, “It’s not just a little bit of magic, Miss Smith. It’s what I use on a day to day basis when I fight for the affections of my sweetest crushes. You rock and roll women are all the same to me. Then again, it’s just like I said earlier…all ashes look the same! If you won’t say yes to me…then I’ll say goodbye to you!”

Autumn Smith shouted, “No! Please!” as the perverted sorcerer extended his fingertips and threw the biggest bolt of electricity his tired body could muster up. What better place to send that spear of lightning…then right through Autumn’s “cold and loveless” heart?

"A Street Cat Named Bob" by James Bowen

BOOK TITLE: A Street Cat Named Bob: And How He Saved My Life
AUTHOR: James Bowen
YEAR: 2012
GENRE: Nonfiction
SUBGENRE: Cat Memoir
GRADE: Pass


James Bowen has been down on his luck in London, England for a whole decade. He was estranged from his family in Australia and used heroin to cope with his raw emotions. He lived on the streets in cardboard boxes until he was finally able to qualify for public housing. Ever since making an effort to get clean, he became a street musician begging for handouts, which came few and for between and often came with aggressive attitudes toward the poor.

Mr. Bowen’s luck started to change when he found a ginger tomcat he named Bob curled up in his apartment building. He nursed the kitty back to health with the intention of sending the little guy back on the streets. When Bob started following him to work, however, Mr. Bowen attracted more money and more friendly attention. It was a long process, but with a cute cuddly feline in his life, James slowly began to put his life back together.

The biggest upsides to this book are the tale of redemption and the cuteness of Bob that goes along with it. It’s amazing what a simple thing like love can do for a person’s life. James Bowen is an animal lover by nature, so taking the little orange sweetheart into his life was easy. It’s what these two did for each other afterwards that makes their relationship special to the reader. I found myself wanting James Bowen to get clean and have a stable income despite all of the nasty things he’d done with his life prior to this point. If nothing else, this book teaches a valuable lesson in being too quick to judge a person by his past. Bob isn’t judgmental in the least bit. Animal cuties rarely are.

The writing style is exactly what I’d expect from someone who’s writing his first memoir: fast-paced, simple, and clean. It’s a no-nonsense style that gets the reader from place to place while still allowing the reader to peer into James Bowen’s innermost thoughts. Those thoughts can be anything from the fear of losing Bob to the flashbacks of withdrawing from heroin, all of which can be emotionally heart wrenching. I have to admit, though, there were parts where I zoned out as I was reading it. Maybe it’s not the flashiest book ever written, but it’s one I can get through and enjoy the journey along the way.

I’ve often heard the phrase that a story doesn’t end at the final page, but at where the author chooses to stop. The story does stop at a happy place in James and Bob’s lives, but I’m not telling you how it happens; you’ll have to buy the book and read for yourself. I will say this, though: the ending feels a little open-ended, meaning I still fear for the author and his cat’s safety while they’re out on the street doing their thing. In hindsight, the fear is probably a good thing since that makes the two main characters sympathetic and heroic to the reader.

If you like stories about redemption, cute and cuddly animals, and the power of altruistic love, be sure to pick up a copy of “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. It’s a rough ride all throughout the book since people on the streets are oftentimes mean and aggressive towards James and Bob, but the cuteness factor and the sense of triumph is there nonetheless. It would probably be worth it to fly all the way out to England on an airplane just to meet the little orange sweetie pie and his wonderful caretaker. But since air travel is a pain in the rear-end (as James Bowen will attest to in the latter half of the book), you can always follow this victorious pair on Twitter and Face Book. They’d love to hear from you!