It Drops the Key

Throwing turnips at Shy Guys and Ninjis left Princess Peach’s arms limper than spaghetti. Pulling vegetables out of the ground was never her forte and it showed with the aching pulses in her muscles and the kinks in her back. Why couldn’t she just jump on the enemies and flatten them like any other Mushroom Kingdom hero? Because this wasn’t the Mushroom Kingdom. This was Subcon. This was a world of grassy fields, stone temples, bees with lances, birds on flying rugs, and Shy Guys. Lots and lots of Shy Guys, whether the little red-robed, creepily-masked goblins appeared out of nowhere or filed one by one out of a magic jar.

Sweat glistened down from Princess Peach’s forehead, her long blond hair sticky and stale. Her royal pink dress had some dampness here and there, though it still served its purpose of allowing her to float through the air during a long jump. Her skinny bones flared up with pain after so much heavy lifting. Gardening was not her strong suit, nor should it have been. She hunched over and noticed the locked door in the side of a grass mountain. She had a vague idea of the next lifting job required of her, but didn’t want to entertain it too much lest there be even more sweat and aching. And anxiety. And chills. Lots and lots of chills. She gulped a wad of acidic saliva as she leapt down one of the tube-like vases.

Peach descended to the sandy surface at the bottom of the pit with grace and poise. The magical pink dress came in handy yet again, otherwise she’d be doing her heavy lifting with a broken ankle, soft sand aside. And in the middle of this pit was the ultimate test of strength, not only of her arms and chest, but of her intestinal fortitude. The massive golden key shined brightly enough to illuminate the dark pit. Plenty of rocks jutting out for Peach to make her escape. Dexterity wasn’t the issue. Evilly grinning golden masks were what caused Peach to tremble and sweat the most. They surrounded her in a half-circle, motionless, yet menacing. Their dark, curvy eyes gazed upon her with judgment and sadism, daring her to take the key.

She swallowed yet another lump of cold, salty saliva and inched her convulsing hand towards the golden key, yanking her hand away and flinching in anticipation. After some more futile attempts, she forced herself to grow a backbone and snatched the key from its resting place. On cue, one of the Phanto masks’ eyes glowed bright red and a deep-voice laugh echoed throughout the sand pit, causing some dirt to sprinkle below. The mask said, “It drops the key…IT DROPS THE KEY!”

Princess Peach shrieked in terror at the dehumanizing pronoun and leapt from stone to stone on her way out of the vase. She couldn’t believe her own speed. More importantly, she couldn’t believe her own strength. She had the balance of an athlete and the endurance of one as well. Sweat flew off of her face, but there would be a better time to wipe it away. She needed this key. She needed victory. And then…Phanto rammed his face into the back of her head and knocked her off one of the stones. The sand pit cushioned her rapid descent, but Peach held her skull and moaned in pain.

“It drops the key…IT DROPS THE KEY!”

As soon as Peach regained her vision, Phanto’s hideous face came into focus and she screamed in a high pitch death howl once again. She scurried into the corner of the pit with the golden key still in hand and curled into the fetal position, shaking, whining, whimpering, and doing her best to avert her ocean blue eyes from the monstrosity floating in front of her. She covered her face in her arms, but felt the warm air of Phanto breathing in her ear. The longer she held onto the key, the deeper the breaths became. Some of these breaths were accompanied by growling sounds. And then…Phanto spoke again…

“Rape vans…if they were called surprise vans, more women would get into them, because everybody loves a surprise…”

Peach screamed yet again and crab-walked towards another corner, the key still in her possession. Her heart thumped in her chest loudly, threatening to explode like a hand grenade. It slowed down just enough for her to ask a question. “Wait a minute…you…how can you…you know?”

“I can still use my mouth!”

Peach yelled.

“And my eye sockets!”

She yelled again and tried to escape by scratching and clawing the dirt walls. She got a few feet at best, but slid down on her royal pampered butt every single time. Giving up was her best option as she sat down and allowed tears to pour from her eyes.

Phanto floated over to her and started breathing in her ear again. That air. That warm, thick, horny air. “If it makes you feel any better…I would have chased you even if you didn’t have my key! Ooooooohhhhh, my!”

Peach sniffed in between ellipses. “You’re…you’re disgusting…you’re so gross!”

“I’m not the one who’s shagging a fat plumber in shit-covered overalls!”

As Phanto laughed at his own remark, Peach’s face boiled red with anger, her arms trembling for different reasons than physical labor and traumatic fear. With the ease of a bodybuilder, she chucked the key at Phanto in hopes of smacking him between his frightening eyes. The key passed right through him like the ghost he was and he laughed some more. “Was that supposed to hurt? You really shouldn’t have let that key go. It doesn’t vibrate…but it can still keep you company for when the fat man can’t save you…”

“Eww, yuck!” Peach dry-heaved on the sandy floor while Phanto continued to chuckle at her. Once all the bile was cleared from her throat and the snot drained from her nose, she scowled at her nemesis, folded her arms, and said, “You know what? I’d rather get killed than listen to another one of your bad jokes! Are you going to kill me off or are you just going to laugh at me like a moron?!”

“What do you think?”

“You know what?! Forget Subcon! Forget King Wart! I don’t need this key anymore! I wouldn’t go inside that grass mountain if there was a blizzard outside and my melons fell off from frostbite!” She marched over to the key and wielded it like a club.

Phanto snickered again. “Young lady, you already tried that and I’m still here. I’ll always be here. I’ll always be in your darkest dreams. I’ll always whisper in your ear and tell you how lovely you are. I’ll always give you kisses that don’t smell like fire flowers and mushrooms. I’ll always…”

“Screw this key!” Peach tried to break it across her knee, but to no avail. Instead she danced around holding her bruised knee in pain while Phanto laughed at her some more. She then threw the key on the ground and tried to break it with various rocks she picked up.

“Young lady, what are you doing? Stop!”

Peach didn’t listen. She pounded the key with stones larger than the last. The golden key flashed and flickered, but wouldn’t break. Instead of seeing the brilliant golden colors, Peach saw dark red. She smashed more rocks…and more…and more….Muscles bulged from her arms, her strength further encouraged by Phanto’s pleas for mercy. The key illuminated and deluminated over and over again…until it cracked and the brilliant light was no more. A deep-voiced death wail echoed across the sandpit and Phanto dropped to his doom, smiling no more, glaring no more, and shining brightly no more.

Princess Peach wiped the sweat off of her forehead with her white gloved arms and plopped backwards against the wall, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. Her heart slowed down. Her skin cooled off. Her sweat dried up and formed a sticky residue. “You know…” she whispered to nobody in particular. “Maybe there’s a way I can pick the lock. Or maybe I’ll just kick the door down. Or maybe I’ll throw some more vegetables at it.”

“Or maybe you can work out a deal with me!” Phanto glowed back to life and grew bigger in size, laughing louder, laughing longer, and laughing powerfully enough to create a cyclone around him, kicking up sand and dirt everywhere. Peach screamed once more as she held onto a jutting stone, her high heeled shoes flying off and into Phanto’s growing mouth, which now had a snake’s tongue and vampire fangs protruding from it. He grew larger…and larger…and his eyes burned with red neon. He opened his mouth in an attempt to chow down on his victim.

Phanto’s gigantic fangs clamped down over Peach’s hips, causing her to sit up in bed and gasp for air. Even after finding out this was all a nightmare, her heart wouldn’t stop thumping and her sweat made her feel like she was being water-boarded. Nonetheless, she plopped on her back and breathed a sigh of relief, provided she could catch her breath in the first place.

She turned her head and smiled at the man laying next to her: a chubby Italian plumber who would never hurt her, who always rescued her when she needed it, and who loved her unconditionally through thick and thin. She patted Mario on the shoulder and kissed the back of his head. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Mario rolled over to face Peach and said, “Goodnight, babe!” in a familiar deep voice. And then came the familiar glowing red eyes. And the familiar golden mask. And the familiar evil smile. Mario was wearing Phanto’s face like the Halloween costume it was and Peach’s heart finally couldn’t take it anymore. She rolled off the bed and went into cardiac arrest. As her vision faded to black, Phanto floated over her and said, “What was that you said about killing you instead of making jokes? Oh yeah…I remember…” He gave her a “goodnight” make-out kiss just as she passed into the abyss.

Clown Music

CLOWN MUSIC
A ball on my nose, a smile on my face
Big red shoes stepping all over the place
Bright green overalls to complete the look
Comedy routines from a high school joke book
Who’s ready to laugh? Who’s ready to dance?
Who’s ready to wet their own underpants?
I’m throwing the pies, riding one-wheel bikes
We can party and giggle for as long as we’d like

COMING HOME
It’s getting pretty dark around the trailer park
Wipe off the makeup, frown the shape of an arc
A bottle of jack and some pills for my back
A pizza for dinner, another heart attack
Another episode of Wheel of Fortune
Another news story about the ban of abortion
Fall asleep on the couch, cancer stick in my mouth
I’ve got no rhyme or reason to be fucking proud

BACK TO WORK
Sunbeam aggravates my pounding headache
Still laying on the couch like I’m dead weight
Can’t put on another smile for the little brats
Can’t put on the overalls, I’m too damn fat
Can’t let them know that my magic is gone
No more faking happiness, no more being strong
Where did I put that damn nine millimeter?
I don’t care if you call me a coward or cheater

BANG!
Suicide attempt didn’t go as it was planned
But I’m still walking amongst the damned
Extra hole in my head, brain dead as can be
Little kids cry as they take a look at me
Mommies holding them, daddies glaring
The love is there, but nobody’s sharing
I am a monster in the eyes of the young
No cracking jokes, no birthday songs sung

Eat My Beef

VERSE 1

I had a lunch date with Ronald

We ate just like The Donald

And then he whipped it out and said

“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 2

We had some chicken nuggets

And then we said, “Fuck it!”

The Colonel from Kentucky can

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 3

We ate some salty fries

And then some salty guys

Tried to shame us, but we told them to

“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 4

We drank a lot of Coke

Until we almost choked

My cholesterol’s a joke, so

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 5

We slid into the ball pit

Even though we didn’t fit

If you really give a shit, then

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 6

I say fuck the heart attacks

We need a fucking snack

We’re addicted like crack, so

EAT MY BEEF!

"Wrestling, Issue One" by What Culture

BOOK TITLE: Wrestling, Issue One

AUTHORS: What Culture Staff

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Pro-Wrestling Bookazine

GRADE: Mixed

The articles can be fascinating to any hardcore wrestling fan, but not if they suffer from the same typographical errors as the next volume in the series. Vince McMahon’s first name was spelled without an N, the word match had its A capitalized, the word to was all-caps for no apparent reason, need I name more? This wouldn’t be too big of an issue if the typos were few and far between, but they occur so frequently that I can’t give this bookazine a passing grade. A reputable editor with a fresh set of eyes could have easily pinpointed these glaring mistakes and polished this otherwise fine piece of reading material to higher standards.

Typos aside, the articles were actually fun to read, with the glaring exception of WWE vs. Internet Fans. To me, that just sounded like a bitter old man ranting and raving about the inevitable emergence of the internet, as if this new technology is somehow to blame for wrestling being as bad as it can be sometimes. It seems uncharacteristic of What Culture’s writing staff to put out such an article considering they themselves are wrestling critics and employ a mostly millennial workforce. Maybe this particular article author was an outsider from the beginning, I don’t know.

But enough about the negativity. Let’s talk about my two favorite articles in this whole bookazine. Let’s begin with Britney Pillman’s story about how her father, Brian, died of a heart attack while preparing for a WWF pay-per-view. To hear the author describe Britney’s pain as she grew up with a drug-addicted stepmother and without a loving father, it tugs at the heartstrings and makes the reader want to legitimately root for her life to improve. While Britney is in a better place since the tragic incident, she did miss out on royalty payments from the WWF that instead went to the drug-addicted stepmother Melanie Pillman. I wouldn’t wish such poverty and heartache on my worst enemy. We’ve all had to deal with toxic people at one point or another, but I think any reader can agree that Britney and her siblings need a permanent vacation from them. That’s what the author of the article did for me as a reader: put me in the role of cheerleader.

And of course, Adam Blampied’s undying creativity will always be my favorite part of What Culture’s past. Although his recent sex scandal puts me in a tough position with regards to his fandom, I can at least enjoy his vision for how he would book Rey Mysterio’s first World Championship run in WWE. No more will the lovable luchador be jobbed out to everybody and their uncle. He’ll win matches by the skin of his teeth, like a true underdog hero is supposed to. He’ll have credible opponents to put him over the moon. He’ll have blood-curdling storylines that aren’t nearly as despicable with Eddie Guerrero’s legacy as real life was. If Rey Mysterio had been booked under Adam Blampied’s guidance, I would have been a bigger believer in this ultimate underdog. But as it is…

The negatives of this bookazine shouldn’t turn you away from what is ultimately a fun read for all wrestling fans. Typos are easy to fix and even if they wanted to keep the anti-internet fan article, readers could just skip over it. There’s a top 100 wrestling match list,  a fantasy world cup tournament, a nice juxtaposition between Bray Wyatt and his eerie theme song, too many wonderful articles to name. Though not perfect, this work of nonfiction will get a respectable mixed grade out of me.

No Pain, No Reign

“I’ve procrastinated for so long. I’ve wrestled with my conscience. Should I do this tonight? Should I bring this lazy bastard into my home? Should I make him feel my pain? The answer was not just a resounding yes, but a hell fucking yeah!” The grating, raspy voice of the purple-skinned witch Dollhouse awakened Ivan Keith from the shadows of sleep. His head throbbed and pounded like rapid fire boxing blows. The water in his stinging eyes ebbed and flowed. His body weighed down on him like an elephant sitting on his slowly rising chest.

When the Sheriff of Savage Duck County tried to move, the steel bindings in his ankles and wrists cut into him like an executioner’s axe. He laid on an uncomfortable metal table in a T position and struggled some more, but to no avail and only more pain. “Don’t fight it,” warned Dollhouse as she scratched her long, wart-infested nose. The wrinkles in her visage coupled with the shadows brought on by her pointed hat gave her a constant resting bitch face, which only made Ivan’s heart race even further.

“You can’t keep me here forever, old lady,” said Ivan in his southern drawl. “I’m taking you into custody once I get off this here contraption.”

Dollhouse cackled and coughed while slapping her bony knees for extra effect. Quickly reverting back to her resting bitch face, she pointed her elongated finger and sneered, “Nobody’s looking for you, Sheriff Keith. You’ve fucked over so many people that they don’t give two shits if you live or die by my hands. Always drowning your sorrows in beer rather than facing the harsh realities of your line of work. I could have used a savior when my daughter was taken from this world. You did nothing about it but drink…and drink…and drink…and drink!”

The last of Ivan’s stinging tears rolled down his face and his vision became clear enough to see that he was in a laboratory of some kind. Tables full of bubbling potions, tools and devices covered in blood lying about, shackles holding rotted black skeletons, and even a randomly loose eyeball turned this seemingly ordinary hideout into Ivan’s personal hell. He wanted to scream, but his throat felt as though he swallowed a bone saw, so why bother with even more pain?

“Listen, lady…I don’t know who your daughter is…I get lots of cases…I’m overworked…maybe if you jogged my memory…”

Dollhouse flipped an oversized witch on the rocky wall and sent a lightning storm of pain throughout Ivan’s body. His nerves lit up like nuclear heat. Schizophrenic laughter rang throughout his head. Visions of blood-soaked monsters stained his eyes. Ivan finally did scream out and his sore throat felt as though he was being decapitated with a hot blade. Every part of his body, physical and psychological, was corrosively melting before his very eyes. And then Dollhouse pulled the switch back to its original position.

Ivan took a few heavy breaths as sweat trickled down his skin like a heavy rainstorm. “What…the hell…was that?!”

“I’ve been working on this device for years. The worst kind of pain imaginable and I brought it to life. Water-boarding? Boring! Musical torture? Better, but still boring! Iron maidens? Brutal as hell, but boring as shit! If I’m going to get some answers from a filthy liar like you, I might as well get a little bit of enjoyment out of it. What can I say? I feel like I’m a hundred years old. Got to have some fun while I can!” Dollhouse gave another wheezing cackle, which sent ice cold anxiety through Ivan’s body.

“You’re insane!” cried Sheriff Keith. “You really think this is going to work? I told you, I don’t know a damn thing about your daughter! And even if I did, I wouldn’t think twice about turning her over to CPS if she’s got a sick mother like you!”

With a thumbs down gesture, Dollhouse made a game show buzzer sound and hacked, “Wrong answer, dip shit!” before flipping the switch again. The feeling of bathing in hell’s lava while demons and skeletons laughed at his misery invaded Ivan’s body and mind again. His heart thumped so quickly that he was on the verge of cardiac arrest. His brain felt like it was bleeding badly enough to give him an atom bomb of a stroke. Dollhouse flipped the switch back to normal and Ivan once again breathed heavily enough to give him a Buddha belly. Oceans of sweat did nothing to cool him off.

“You still feel overworked or should I flip the switch again?”

“No! Please don’t!” begged Ivan with cascading eyeballs. “Oh my god…that was just…” His heart refused to slow down and his stomach refused to deflate, making putting together a sentence virtually impossible. “If you…tell me who…your daughter is…I’ll help…you find…justice…”

“No, you won’t. You’re just going to cast her aside like you did everybody else. Being tortured is your only motivator. And I’m sure if I just let you go and do your job, you’ll find Isabel’s husband and string him up for the public to see. I don’t want you to just find her husband. I want you to want to find him!”

Ivan’s breathing lessened somewhat and his sentences became more coherent. “Ma’am…I didn’t get into law enforcement so that I could laze about. Nobody does. But sometimes, cases come pouring in and we’re stretched too thin. If you were to kill me now, that would mean less personnel to help you find your daughter’s murderer. I probably should stop drinking so much, I agree with you on that.”

Dollhouse folded her stick-like arms across her dark-robed chest. “I want to believe you, Mr. Keith. I really do. But the fact is…you’ll stick up for your own kind even when they’re wrong. Law enforcement always does. Your coworkers could commit genocide and you’d still kiss their grimy cowboy boots.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Isabel’s husband was a cop under your jurisdiction.”

Ivan’s eyes widened at the revelation. “Wait a minute…you mean…one of my own guys killed your daughter? That’s a little slanderous, don’t you think?”

“You see?!” Dollhouse croaked, causing Sheriff Keith to nearly jump out of his skin. “This is exactly what I’m talking about! Paid vacations! Severance packages! House arrest in a lovely seaside hotel! Cops never get the punishment they deserve because shit heads like you keep covering for them!”

“You think it’s as easy as tossing them in a cell?!” shouted Ivan. “There’s a whole power structure at work here, lady! You’re damn right we protect each other! Ratting out one of our own could mean the end of our careers, or even our fucking lives! I’m not taking that risk just because of a conspiracy theory you’re peddling out!”

“So in other words…you won’t help me…because you’re scared? You look so tough in that cowboy hat. You look so cool in that trench coat and those blue jeans. You look like a real cowboy. But in reality…you’re smuggling BB pellets underneath that zipper. Look at it this way, slick: if there really is a power structure at work here, you’re fucked either way. It’s all a matter of which way of dying you’d rather face. You could get shot by your own kind…or you could go through a lifetime of agony on my table!”

Ivan gulped so hard that one would swear he was chugging another bottle.

“Truth is, Sheriff Keith, I could keep that switch flipped until time itself is standing still. Sure, I’ll run up my electricity bill, but when nobody knows where the fuck you are, you don’t pay bills. Like I said before, nobody’s looking for you, Ivan. Nobody’s looking for me either. Even if you did report me to your buddies, they’d never believe that a hundred year old witch tortured you all this time. Come to think of it, they’d die of laughter before you died of ratting out your fellow cops.”

Ivan sighed deeply and tried to relax on the table, but obviously to no avail. He hated to admit it, but everything she said was right. No holes in her logic, but there would be a bigger hole where Ivan’s heart used to be if he endured another round of torture table madness. Then again…

“Let’s say I do help you find your daughter’s killer and bring him to justice. If my fellow cop is a killer…what does that make you, Dollface, or whatever the hell your name is? You built this table because you wanted justice. But in reality, you’re every bit as bad as your daughter’s murderer. Maybe you’re worse. At least when Isabel was shot, it was over with a quickness!”

“Ah-ha! So you admit it! I knew it! I bloody knew it!” boasted Dollhouse as she pumped her arm up and down in victory.

“Okay, fine, so you know who your daughter’s killer is! Why don’t you put HIM on the table instead of me?! Sure, he’s long gone by now, but I’m sure if you spent as much time finding him as you did me, you’d get your justice a hell of a lot faster! I’m just a middleman, for god’s sake! Torturing me isn’t going to do shit!”

Dollhouse sighed and held her face in her hands. “You know what? You’re right. You’ve been right all along. You’re about as useful as an asshole on my elbow. I should have never drugged you and brought you here. Yes, you’re a sheriff, but you probably got that job by putting the right body parts in your mouth. I should just let you go.”

Ivan breathed a sigh of relief, confident his debating skills have saved his life.

“Then again…if you just admitted to being useless…then that makes you an accomplice!” snickered Dollhouse before flipping the switch and making Ivan scream loudly enough to loosen dust from the walls and ceiling. The pain of a thousand gallons of acid and a million knives being poured on his body was back again, but for a much more eternal period of time. His jaw stretched beyond its means as he screamed. His tongue fell out of his head. His heart, brain, and eyeballs were time bombs ready to detonate. His bowels flooded badly enough to sag his jeans around his ankles. His underwear stunk like a junkyard after his bladder exploded.

In the end, Ivan Keith didn’t stand for something, so he laid down for everything.

Beefcake

Sergeant Corey Jakes had seen a lot of shit overseas and still saw it during the cab ride to her apartment. Still dressed in camouflage fatigues with her raven hair in a bun, she stared blankly out of the shotgun window with visions of war cycling through her head. Every bullet she fired, every mine her squad mates stepped on, every drone bombing marked as “friendly fire”, she couldn’t wait to have this horrible shit erased from her memory.

A long process it may be, she knew she had the support of her green-haired boyfriend “Froggy” McKee. From all the times they Skyped together, his eyelids were baggy and his face was longer than the Nile River, probably just as wet too. Corey hated leaving him for such long periods of time, but the life of a soldier didn’t discriminate when it came to who fought on the frontlines.

She stared into space for so long that the taxi driver had to snap his fingers several times to wake her up. “We’re here, Miss Jakes. That’ll be twenty dollars and sixty cents,” he said as he stopped the meter.

Corey pulled a twenty and ten out of her wallet and languidly said, “Keep the change.” The cab driver thanked her with a shit-eating grin on his face before popping the trunk and allowing his passenger to get her duffle bag.  The marine absentmindedly waved goodbye and the taxi drove away.

She stared at the apartment complex for a while and took several deep breaths before ascending the stairs to room B22. Would Froggy even recognize her after everything she went through? Would she open the door and find him with another woman? Would he even be alive? On one hand, the excitement of seeing her supportive boyfriend again sent chills through her scalp. On the other, her heart raced for reasons other than traumatic visions.

Sergeant Jakes wiped the cold sweat from her forehead and entered the unlocked apartment declaring, “Honey, I’m home!” The next words out of her mouth were anything but loving: “What the fuck?!”

Froggy recognized Corey just fine, but Corey didn’t recognize him in return. One tour of duty later and Froggy’s newly round stomach bulged out of his sweatpants and T-shirt. His chubby cheeks sagged and his spiky green hair was all over the place. In one hand was a big ass brick of cheddar cheese and in the other was a Diet Mountain Dew (as if the so-called zero calories was going to save him now).

His breathing was labored and intense, like he was trying to suck down a whirlwind full of air. BO radiated off of his armpits like a plutonium rod. The state of the apartment wasn’t any better with pizza boxes and chip wrappers scattered about. There was even an ash try on the coffee table when Froggy didn’t even consider smoking before.

Corey scrunched her face into a warrior’s mug when she angrily whispered, “What the hell happened to you, Froggy? I go away for a few months and this is what you do to yourself?! Weren’t you the one who encouraged me to lose weight before I signed up for the marines? Huh?! Does that shit mean nothing to you now?!”

Froggy struggled to get up from the couch and grunted in pain when he made it to his feet, stretching his back in the process. “It’s nice to see you too, Corey. It would have been nice to see you more often, but you know…Murica and all that.”

“So that’s it, huh?” said Corey as she dropped her duffle bag on the ground. “You ate all this disgusting food and gained all this weight because you were lonely? How do you think I felt?! After a while of losing my friends in combat, I got a little lonely too! That’s kind of what happens when terrorists are firing bullets at you!”

“Nobody forced you to go over there, Corey!” shouted Froggy before coughing and wheezing. A few more labored breaths later, he said, “You’re damn right I got depressed without you. You think I’m in bad shape now, imagine what the fuck would have happened if you came home in a casket.”

“So you want to be in a casket too?” snapped Corey. “You want to take away the one person I have to come home to because you’re too lazy to go to a gym? That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life! I hope that brick of cheese was tasty! I hope it was damn good! I hope chewing on that lump of fat made you happy! You don’t look so happy now, do you?! You look like a giant sack of protoplasm! You look like three hundred pounds of chewed bubblegum!”

“Cut the drill sergeant shit, that’s not going to work!” shouted Froggy, again coughing after his outburst. “You want to body shame me? You want to make me feel guilty? Fine! Then go back overseas and shoot some more brown people! Apparently, those squad mates of yours are better friends to you than I ever was! Never mind the fact that I paid your bills and bought you groceries when you were down on your luck without ever once raising my voice! Now you’re going to pull rank on me with that macho marine crops BS?! After everything I’ve done for you?! You’re a hypocrite! You’re a fucking hypocrite, Corey!”

The marine marched up to her boyfriend, flipped the coffee table over, and knocked the cheese and soda out of his hand with brute force. “Do I have your attention now?! Huh?!” No answer, only jitters. “You think this is body shaming?! I could have said a lot worse to you right now! Hell, I’ve said worse shit to the guys I trained in boot camp! If they can take it, you can too! Don’t like it?! Tough shit! I’m not going to stand here and watch you waste away just because you went without me for a little bit of time! I fight like a motherfucker for that reason, Froggy! Every bullet I fire on that battlefield is so I can come home to you in one piece and hopefully spend the rest of my life with you! But now…I don’t even recognize you anymore!”

Froggy pulled Corey closer with her shirt firmly death-gripped in his sausage fingers. He gazed angrily into her soul, as if his chubby belly was full of fire and venom instead of cheddar cheese and soda. Corey’s own stoic gaze refused to change at the threat of this newfound aggression. The marine had left one war and came home to another, neither time would she relent or cower. In fact, she coldly said to her boyfriend, “Take your fucking hands off of me right now or you’re a dead son of a bitch.”

Froggy would release his grip, but only because his hands found a new place: his chest. He coughed and wheezed some more, but this time he plopped backwards onto the couch and had glassy eyes. “Froggy, are you okay?!” asked Corey with genuine concern instead of macho marine BS as her boyfriend called it earlier. He wouldn’t answer her question, only cough violently again. And again. And again, until he had slipped into unconsciousness and fell off the couch with a thud. Corey went back into war mode and scrambled to find her cell phone to call 9-1-1.

Corey Jakes’s recollection of the ambulance ride to the hospital was as blurry as the taxi ride home. The visions of war tormented her even further, now with visions of her aggression towards Froggy piled on top. She kept imagining pulling the trigger at the enemy, but Froggy’s ghost always got in the line of fire and his blood smeared the desert ground. A tear rolled down her stony face as she contemplated why she ever thought it was a good idea to push Froggy over the edge. Why did she push all of her students over the edge as well? Why did she survive when others didn’t? Another tear rolled down, but she wouldn’t acknowledge it, not even to the paramedics pointing it out to her.

The marine sat in the hospital lobby with her head tucked in her hands wondering where the hell it all went wrong. Was she selfish for going overseas? Would it matter where she went in the first place? Could she save everybody with her marine training alone? So many questions swirled through her mind along with images of blood and gore from her tour of duty. Every time she thought she had the answers, a leg would blow apart, a head would burst open, a marine would scream in agony, and Froggy would be left behind all the same.

Corey once again had to be snapped out of her trance to receive the news from the blood-covered surgeon. “I’m sorry, Miss Jakes. Your boyfriend didn’t make it.” Tears flooded her eyes like a river of sorrow no matter how hard she tried to remain stoic and strong. The tears poured even harder when the surgeon gave her a small velvet box and said, “I found this in his pants pocket. I thought you might want to have it.”

The marine’s heart beat like a war drum as she slowly opened the velvet box to find the greatest treasure of them all inside: a diamond ring with a golden band. It sparkled as brightly as stars in the night. Corey clutched the wedding ring in her hand and completely lost any last ounce of stoicism she had left. She plopped back on the bench and allowed her tears to rain down with heavy force.

Froggy had shown her kindness and love in the past and she believed she had repaid him with harshness and evil. Being at war overseas was very different from being at war with a lover. Corey couldn’t separate the two and it killed her deep inside like she had taken the bullets herself. How liberating would a bullet be for her at this point? Maybe the next tour of duty she had would be her last. She had nothing else to fight for and nobody else to fight with. But if she was going down in a suicide mission, she would go down swinging. Once a marine, always a marine. Once a lover, now an empty shell.

Tastes Like Chicken

(As a parody of “Back From the Dead” by Skillet.)

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

Hot and crispy in the deep fryer

‘Cause you all try to wolf me down

A big belly for the hungry buyer

Putting on a hundred more pounds

The extra carbs bulking up your thighs

A diabetes pen just to stay alive

The Colonel comes out at night

He’s gonna cook me

He’s gonna eat me

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

Light it up, light it up, fry the chicken

Feel the rush, feel the rush of your insulin

Here’s your food, here’s your coke, here’s your fries

‘Cause I’m bok, bok, bok from the dead tonight

To the floor, to the floor, have a heart attack

Flying high is your pulse while you’re on your back

Full of fluff like a bird that ate rice

‘Cause I’m bok, bok, bok from the dead tonight

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

Eat the skin, it’s the best part

Take a six or seven hour nap

Unleash the beast, a typhoon fart

Now your bed is full of piss and crap

The extra carbs bulking up your thighs

A diabetes pen just to stay alive

The Colonel comes out at night

He’s gonna cook me

He’s gonna eat me

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

Light it up, light it up, fry the chicken

Feel the rush, feel the rush of your insulin

Here’s your food, here’s your coke, here’s your fries

‘Cause I’m bok, bok, bok from the dead tonight

To the floor, to the floor, have a heart attack

Flying high is your pulse while you’re on your back

Full of fluff like a bird that ate rice

‘Cause I’m bok, bok, bok from the dead tonight

Deep fried, homicide, a beached whale in the tide

Mashed potatoes on the side

Feeling full, feeling wide

The Colonel comes out at night

He’s gonna cook me

He’s gonna eat me

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok

Light it up, light it up, fry the chicken

Feel the rush, feel the rush of your insulin

Here’s your food, here’s your coke, here’s your fries

‘Cause I’m bok, bok, bok from the dead tonight

To the floor, to the floor, have a heart attack

Flying high is your pulse while you’re on your back

Full of fluff like a bird that ate rice

‘Cause I’m bok, bok, bok from the dead tonight

Dead tonight!

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok from the dead tonight!

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok dead tonight!

B-B-B-B-B-Bok-Bok-Bok from the dead tonight!

"The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts" by Lilian Jackson Braun

BOOK TITLE: The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts

AUTHOR: Lilian Jackson Braun

YEAR: 1990

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Cozy Mystery

GRADE: Pass

After a series of mysterious events cause a museum owner named Iris Cobb to have a heart attack, Jim “Qwill” Qwilleran and his two Siamese cats Koko and Yum-Yum move into the office to try to solve her indirect murder. As the mystery progresses, Qwill uncovers a conspiracy almost a century in the making that involves a lynching of a mine tycoon that could be interpreted as either suicide or murder depending on who’s talking. The two deaths don’t seem connected at first, but Qwill begins to wonder as he digs deeper. In between tracking clues and interviewing suspects and witnesses, Qwill likes to unwind by having dinner at fancy restaurants with his friends and snuggling up to his Siamese kitties. Downtime is the detective’s best friend.

I’ve been a fan of Lilian Jackson Braun for a long time. Having said that, I’ve never noticed until after reading this book how much she tends to tell instead of show. All this time, I’ve modeled my own writing style off of someone with an almost minimalist approach to descriptive writing. However, what’s stopping me from giving this book a mixed grade instead of a passing one is the fact that the writing style was by design. These “Cat Who” books are considered light reading and easy on the eyes with a smooth pace. Sometimes descriptive language has to be sacrificed to achieve such mellow reading. I can accept that. Therefore, this paragraph isn’t really a criticism, because I enjoy a relaxing book every now and then.

The mystery in this book is one that is well constructed, probably the best one I’ve read in the “Cat Who” series so far. Though this is mostly a G-rated mystery, the deaths and violence that do take place will leave a lasting impression and will give a greater urgency for the crimes to be solved. This isn’t about fingerprint taking and crime lab work. This is about researching a conspiracy that goes back to the early 1900’s and how it connects with the mystery of the present time. Without the extensive interviews and reading, this case probably would have gotten cold. While I won’t give away the results of the mystery, I will tell you that you can expect some serious homework to be done on the part of Qwill.

And of course, what would a “Cat Who” mystery be without, you guessed it, kitties? Koko is such an inquisitive little feline who always plays a pivotal role in solving even the coldest of crimes. Yum Yum is a cutie pie who loves to roll around and play with everyone. Qwill’s girlfriend, Polly Duncan, even has a tiny little ball of fur named Bootsie, who has more energy in one leap than athletic runners have in a whole sprint. There’s even a scene where Bootsie digs his claws so deep into Qwill’s back that he needs help prying the little guy off. But at the end of the day, all three kitties are worthy of eating a well-cooked meatloaf, turkey sandwich, ribeye steak, or whatever Qwill happens to bring home from his favorite restaurants.

Another Lilian Jackson Braun mystery is in the books, pun definitely intended. We’ve got a smooth, gentle pace, smooth, gentle kitties, and a main character with a smooth, gentle disposition (even during moments of grumpiness). If you want something light to read that won’t put too much strain on your eyeballs, I suggest grabbing a copy of “The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts”. Relax in your favorite easy chair, grab a kitty, and start reading!

Toy Trauma

Every careful step downstairs to the kitchen sent a thunderstorm of pain across Marty Hunt’s head. He held his temples and whined “Ouch!” the entire way down. It was a slow and laborious process, but reach the bottom floor he did. Wearing only plaid pajama pants and white socks, the pain-wracked father dragged himself over to the kitchen table and sat down with a quickness.

He leaned his head all the way back and breathed a sigh of relief. No more ouches, just a nice self-head massage with sinewy fingers. The coffee pot could wait a few more minutes. Marty wanted to milk this small moment of relaxation for all it was worth. He might have even fallen asleep at the table with his head in his arms if he wanted to.

“Morning, Dad!” yelled little five-year-old Kevin. The high pitch jolted Marty awake and the thunder and lightning in his brain was going batshit crazy. The single father rubbed his temples even harder while Kevin ran around the kitchen with his favorite action figure, the beefcake barbarian Deus Shadowheart.

“I’m going to eat your soul like a bowl of cereal!” yelled Kevin in his version of a manly barbarian growl. “I shall chew your flesh like bubblegum! And I shall drink your insides like Coca-Cola!” The little son shook the Deus Shadowheart action figure in front of his father’s face and roared some more.

“Please don’t do that to me this early in the morning, Kevin. It’s been a shitty couple of months with this divorce hearing. Cut Daddy some slack today,” said Marty as he continued to massage his temples.

“I shall enslave your people and force them to make bowls of Quaker Oatmeal for the rest of their lives!” said Kevin in his warrior growl.

“Is that what this is about? You want Quaker Oatmeal? Alright, I’ll get you a bowl…”

“Silence, peasant! You shall bring me a bowl of oatmeal and put extra brown sugar in it! Raaaaaaaaaaargh!” Kevin shook the action figure in his father’s face some more, causing him to clench his eyelids as tightly as he could. No matter how many times Marty rubbed his own temples, his head would always feel like it was under Deus’ mighty fur boots. The thought of his own brain popping out sent a shiver through his body.

“What’s the matter?! Do you not like that I am king of this wasteland? Too bad! I rule with an iron fist and a big bloody battleaxe!” yelled Kevin a la Deus. In between words, Marty kept pleading with him to shut up, but the overly energetic child said, “Bow to me and my big bloody battleaxe! You cannot win, mere mortal!”

“That’s it! I’ve had it with this shit! Give me that goddamn thing!” screamed Marty as he stood up and knocked his chair over. He and his son played tug of war over the mighty toy with the little guy screaming, “No!” repeatedly at the top of his lungs. The screeching voice to Marty was like having Deus’ meat cleaver go through his skull. He felt like his brain was a hand grenade ready to go off. His heart was pumping and thumping like a barbaric war drum.

In one harsh pull, Marty yanked the toy out of his son’s hands and yelled, “I don’t like this thing! And here’s what I’m going to do with this piece of shit!” Despite Kevin’s foot stomping and repeated “No!” screams, Marty ripped Deus Shadowheart’s arms and legs off before throwing the dismantled mess across the kitchen floor.

Kevin knelt down beside his toy and cried a tearful storm over the broken remains. Marty watched on with a sorrowful guilt over what he’d done, but remained strong in the face of having to discipline his son for his ballistic behavior. The father’s defenses were knocked down a few pegs when Kevin turned his tear and snot-covered face to him and said, “I want to go live with mommy! I hate you, Dad! I hate you!”

Headache and heartache were one in the same for Marty Hunt. Every pump of blood throughout his body made him groggy with depression, yet his face maintained its angry expression as a sign of strength against such powerful words. “You can’t go back to your mother, Kevin! We had a divorce and it’s been finalized! She cheated on me with another man! She cheated on us! She’s the one who’s tearing this family apart, not me!”

Kevin stood up and rushed over to his father to pound his tiny fists into his hairy stomach. “Stop it, Kevin, you’re hurting me! Knock it off, kid!” yelled Marty. The little spitfire wouldn’t listen. He pounded harder and harder until his father’s breath was completely drained from his system.

The old man collapsed to the ground and clutched his chest in pain. His breathing was raspy and shallow as he said, “Call 9-1-1, Kevin! Hurry!” When Kevin folded his arms and refused to move, Marty let down his authoritative guard in an act of desperation. “I’m sorry!” He wheezed. “I’ll buy you a new toy! You can have any one you want!”

As Marty’s vision was fading to black, he could hear his son’s voice shout “Daddy!” as well as little footsteps scurrying across the linoleum kitchen floor. Hopefully, those footsteps were on their way to the house phone to call an ambulance. Marty didn’t even know if Kevin was physically capable of making such a call. He lost hope as his breaths grew shorter and the peace he wanted at breakfast was finally obtained. Nothing but a dull gray screen clouded his vision. No tears, no angry words, no sorrowful thoughts, just the kind of grayness one could expect from an Emergency Alert System screen.

And then the father could feel his heart beating again. Little by little, the thumping and pumping was dominating his overly sensitive ears. His heart raced a little faster with each passing second. The gray screen before him became a field of blurry shapes and lights. He had a strange plastic mask over his face and the air pressure felt overwhelming to him. Soon the blurs and lights concentrated themselves into a clear picture. He was riding in the back of an ambulance with EMT’s by his side. Even more important to him was little Kevin staring down at him with a worried look on his chubby-cheeked face.

“Kevin…Kevin, dear god. I’m so sorry about this morning. I meant what I said about the toy. Come on, little guy, just give me another chance,” said Marty, his voice weak through the plastic mask.

Little Kevin Hunt held his father’s index finger in his tiny hands and said, “I don’t care about the toy. I just want my daddy back.”

Marty’s eyes began to well up with tears and his heart rate sped up. He cursed himself mentally for being “stupid” enough to not realize it was never about toys. He made enough money at work that he could buy the entire Hasbro catalogue if he wanted to, maybe even a few collector’s items. It was love that he failed to show at breakfast time, not finances. The whole divorce proceedings with his wife were all about who loved Kevin more and in the end, Marty ended up pounding the sides of his gurney in frustration that he became the world’s biggest hypocrite.

The EMT’s tried to pin Marty’s tight arms down in an attempt to slow his skyrocketing heart rate. It was Kevin’s voice yelling, “Daddy, don’t!” that finally subdued the hypocritical father. He collapsed into the gurney bed sobbing hysterically while his son hugged him around the waist. Hugging around the chest would have been ill-advised due to Marty’s heart condition.

“Hey, Kev…” said Marty with a little more conviction. “Have I told you lately that I loved you and that you’re the best son a father could ever have?”

“Do you mean it?” asked Kevin with dewy puppy dog eyes.

“Absolutely, little guy,” said Marty. “Me? I’m just a monster…” He took a while to catch his breath before he said, “I’m the monster who’s going to have the biggest battle with Deus Shadowheart this universe has ever seen!” His throat got more hoarse and villain-like, much to Kevin’s beaming delight. “I shall unleash hordes of minions upon the barbaric wasteland and I will burn everything to ashes! Nobody is safe, not even the big badass Deus Shadowheart!”

Father and son laughed together while hugging around the waist. In all of this legal mumbo-jumbo, the one thing all three members of the Hunt family forgot to do was laugh. How such a simple gesture could change a man’s heart rate and give his burning headaches a heavenly cure. Isn’t laughing and playing what action figures and families were all about?