The Quiet Part

CHORUS

It’s a bunch of bigotry, call it what it is

Say the quiet part out loud for the backseat kids

Call yourself Hitler so we’ll never be your friend

Never trust you with a single thing ever again

 

VERSE 1

What’s the matter? Did Vince make you sign an NDA?

Tell us all why you really hate the WNBA

They got pussies and tits, and sometimes they got dicks

And they’re kicking the shit out of your number one draft picks

Hey, Ronda Rousey, tell us why you won’t fight Fallon

Because the urine in your shorts measures to at least a gallon

But you can flip Triple H like he’s a blueberry flapjack

The thought of transgender people makes you blast out your ass crack

 

CHORUS

It’s a bunch of bigotry, call it what it is

Say the quiet part out loud for the backseat kids

Call yourself Hitler so we’ll never be your friend

Never trust you with a single thing ever again

 

VERSE 2

Hey, JK Rowling, what’s your next book about?

Is the little wizard Harry having existential doubt?

You don’t have the wherewithal for anything that deep

You think too much about genitals, you bus stop creep

Hey, Sean Strickland, you’re full of your own shit

There’s no way you don’t rub prostates a.k.a. butt clits

Do you use your own dick or is it just a little short?

Try using your fingers and then give them a snort

 

CHORUS

It’s a bunch of bigotry, call it what it is

Say the quiet part out loud for the backseat kids

Call yourself Hitler so we’ll never be your friend

Never trust you with a single thing ever again

 

VERSE 3

Hey, Tommy Vext, what’s it like to not have sex

With the women you abused and the women who are next?

You had a good thing going with the fatphobic You Tuber

Could’ve made some demon babies in the back of an Uber

Hey, Bill Maher, why you got to be a Boomer

Who dates Generation Zers like a motherfucking groomer?

The only youngsters you like are the ones you can fuck

I bet those AOC laws have got to fucking suck

 

CHORUS

It’s a bunch of bigotry, call it what it is

Say the quiet part out loud for the backseat kids

Call yourself Hitler so we’ll never be your friend

Never trust you with a single thing ever again

Monuments of Cringe

There are certain parts of your past where you should not plant your flagpole. There are certain hills you don’t want to die on. There are certain dumpster fires in your life that will burn you so badly that your ashes will blow away like a fart in the wind. The other day I discovered one of mine that I’m probably going to regret sharing with the world. I signed up for a Letterboxd account so that I could have a place to post my movie reviews. One of those reviews was for the 1985 film adaptation of Clue. I wrote this review when I was thirty years old, so I should have been mature enough to not go through with this horrible shit. But in this review, I…um…I, uh…laughed at Miss Scarlet’s “fruit” joke about Mr. Green (who’s gay) and I…suggested that it’s okay to ogle Yvette the Maid before you realize what she looks like now that she’s older.

That Clue review was what I like to call a Monument of Cringe, of which I have thousands of all over the internet. I read what I wrote and I cringed in disgust. My face was the color of zerg piss. My body shivered like someone dropped a toaster in my bathtub. My insides melted into whale slurry at the thought of someone eventually finding this review and broadcasting it out the world. And then the internet celebrates my past mistake with the hashtag “Garrison Kelly Is Over Party”, although my writing career won’t be derailed because I never went far to begin with. I’m grateful to have a small audience. But what if it grows overnight and they wade through this museum of cringe together? All of my embarrassment broadcast for the world to see. Hell, I probably said some embarrassing shit in this essay right now that I’ll get raked over the coals because of.

So what do you do when you realize that you have Monuments of Cringe all over the internet? What do you do when you realize your own published books are Stonehenges of Cringe? What do you do when you realize you built an entire legacy out of being disgusting and horrible in the way you’ve written? Nothing. You don’t delete your entire social media presence. You don’t pull your books off the shelves. If you must apologize to your audience, do so in a genuine and heartfelt way. Don’t make excuses. Remind your audience that they deserve better behavior from someone they look up to. And when you promise to keep growing, keep that promise and be the best version of yourself that you can be.

Because the truth is, a lot of art from the past doesn’t age well. Remember Ace Ventura: Pet Detective? Remember how the audience hee-hawed when they discovered that Einhorn had a boner in her underwear? Well, if you’ve made any effort to unlearn that behavior, you’ll see that transphobia is more harmful than funny and should therefore stay out of comedy forever. Remember all those jokes you heard from Boomer comedians about how much they hate their wives? Remember when the ultra-fat dinner guest ate the “wafer-thin mint” in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life and then exploded all over the restaurant? Do you know why these things and many other pieces of media are now considered Monuments of Cringe? Because we’re (hopefully) learning more about the world around us. The more we learn, the more we apply it. And the more we apply it and grow into better people, the less likely we are to hold onto piss-poor nostalgia. That’s how life works: it progresses into the future.

I’ve decided after spiraling into disgust at my own past, I’m going to keep my Monuments of Cringe up. Not only do I have so many of them out there that I can’t get rid of them all, but I continue to create them in the present day and there will come a time when they age badly too. Learning to be a better person isn’t something that stops happening when you get to a certain point. It keeps going and going until the day you’re lowered into a wooden box with RIP scrawled across it. You can’t change the past no matter how hard you try. Yes, people will willingly see the ugliest parts of you before they see the best. But for every zergling and goblin that eats you alive, there are even more people who love you. You have to go out of your way to find them, but love is there if you look for it. Hell, there are people who still love J.K. Rowling even though she’s a transphobic bastard. There’s hope for you yet if you have even half the number of Monuments of Cringe that I do.

Perfection is a myth. Everybody has something they’re not proud of. Those who work on atoning for their worst behavior will successfully do so. Those who can’t admit it when they’ve fucked up? Well, let’s just say the over party will be complete with a disco ball and a bowl full of cheese dip. I’m telling you all now that if you happen to stumble upon my Monuments of Cringe and you think the worst of me, I apologize with all of my heart. If it’s years after the fact and another person finds them, I’ll apologize again. And if the future continues to roll on and I get called out for it again, I’ll apologize again. And again. And again. And again. While it is true that you can’t please everybody, you should at least try to be a halfway decent person even if perfection is indeed a myth. You may feel like you’re being looked at under a microscope. I do too sometimes. But if you think you feel alone, try being in the shoes of someone you’ve disenfranchised with your worst behavior.

But if you must hold an over party in my name, at least bring refreshments. Bring lots of Diet Coke. Bring enough pizzas to touch the ceiling. Bring enough bags of potato chips to give me the heart attack you’ve always wanted me to have. While I am sorry for every horrible thing I’ve said over my lifetime, I do indeed have a life to live. Will I live it with you? Will we eat potato chips together and dip them in a wading pool full of sour cream? Will we shove giant handfuls of cake in our mouths and talk about the world together (not with our mouths full, of course)? When I’m done atoning for my sins, I want to party with all of you. The Garrison Kelly over party has a conga line that I’ll gladly lead. Let’s party like it’s…a year that hopefully aged better than whatever god awful nonsense the 80’s and 90’s were. But if you ask me, I’ve erected more Monuments of Cringe in the 2000’s than at any point in my career. Remember Deus Shadowheart and Dr. Scott Cain? No? Good, let’s keep it that way.

Cancel Culture Doesn't Exist

There are two potentially toxic mantras that are competing for the most real estate in my not-so-heavenly brain. One of them is, “It’s only offensive when I do it.” The other is, “Everyone’s excited to learn that I’m an author, until they actually read what’s inside my books.” In case you couldn’t tell, my hands are covered in blood when it comes to offensive content that could easily get me in trouble. It doesn’t matter how many bars of Chandrika soap I keep in my bathroom closet, and goddamn do I have a lot of them, because blood doesn’t come off without a fight. Or a war, depending on how deep my offenses run. I’ve tiptoed across the thin line of discussing both sides of “cancel culture”. Am I against it? Am I for it? Do I not have an opinion of it at all? After wrestling with my brain in a match that could break Dave Meltzer’s five-star scale, I’ve come up with a suitable conclusion: “cancel culture” doesn’t exist. I can’t have an opinion on something that isn’t real. It’s like the boogeyman, three little pigs, and Pinocchio: a complete work of pure fiction, I mean, perfection.

Sure, there are celebrities and authors who have a less than stellar record when it comes to disgusting beliefs. J.K. Rowling and her transphobic tweets come to mind as well as John Cleese’s support for her. Rosario Dawson and her mother beating the shit out of a transgender handyman is even worse, for obvious reasons. Marilyn Manson being an abusive boyfriend to every woman he’s ever come in contact with? Cue the shivers. Some offenses are worse than others, but unless the public figure is dead or in jail, their career isn’t really going to suffer much. Sure, the first wave of criticism will hurt like hell, but these celebrities and others have their core base that will stick with them through thick and thin. They know that. They take advantage of that, because they know they can get away with it. No matter how rotten a celebrity acts, they will always have their supporters despite a large chunk leaving for higher ground.

Even if a celebrity does get fired from whatever job they’re doing, it won’t be long until they find another. Adam Blampied was accused of sexual harassment when he was working for wrestling website Cultaholic, so he was fired. You want to know what he’s doing now? Working for Wrestle Talk instead, although he has gone to great lengths to redeem himself, so there’s that. You know who doesn’t give a shit about making amends? Louis C.K., who was accused of masturbating in front of women whenever he damn well felt like it. You know what he’s doing now? Same thing he’s been doing for years: standup comedy. He even has some new punch-down material handy: talking shit about non-binary people, the Parkland shooting victims, and Auschwitz. Lovely. Just fucking lovely. Being “canceled” is not the end of the world. It seems like it at first, but facing mass criticism can easily be deterred by either listening and making amends or staying off of social media for a while.

Do some celebrities deserve mass criticism? Absolutely. But will they go away forever because of it? Hardly. If cancel culture really was as effective as everyone fears it is, then Donald Trump would have never been elected president. His bigotry, insensitivity, and predatory behavior would have gotten him canceled a long time ago. Calling Mexicans rapists and murderers would have kept him out of the white house forever. But it didn’t, because cancel culture doesn’t exist. Jair Bolsonaro would have been thrown out on his ass for threatening to punch a woman. Vladimir Putin would have been eighty-sixed decades ago for being a dictator who assassinated his political enemies. Kim Jong-Un wouldn’t have an entire country brainwashed and obedient if cancel culture really cost people their livelihoods.

While mass criticism isn’t the end of the world, it isn’t completely without merit. In a free democracy, we can criticize whoever we want for whatever reason we want. People call cancel culture censorship when really it’s just the other side of free speech, which is supposed to be a double-edged sword. If one racist celebrity gets to spew their venom, his audience has the right to criticize him for it. By the same token, refusing to watch a standup comedian’s shows because of their vitriol is not the same as censorship. It’s not like Ryan Long’s standup specials are required viewing for college. It’s not like they contain important material for a top secret mission. People can pick and choose what they watch and what they don’t watch. Nobody is owed an audience; they have to work for it. Bill Maher complains about cancel culture all the time, yet he doesn’t produce anything worth watching. He called comic book nerds little children, he called fat people virgins who couldn’t see their own dicks, he calls millennials entitled and lazy, and he called COVID-19 a Chinese virus. Is his show over? Hardly. But do people have the right to not watch it? Absolutely. This isn’t A Clockwork Orange. There are no eye-bracers or straightjackets.

Cancel culture being nonexistent is something I’m going to have to remember for myself going forward. As I’ve said earlier, I’ve got some serious blood on my hands when it comes to my creative writing. I’ve used words in my poetry that I’d never say in a public space. I’ve written about undesirable characters even in the eyes of the reader. I’ve misrepresented sex and romance, sometimes to an absurd degree. Maybe there’s some truth in the idea that my audience will sing a different tune about their excitement for me once they crack open one of my books. I could give the perfectly acceptable answer of, “I’m sorry and I’ll do better next time” and that’s something I should be doing anyways. I should be improving my work. I should own up to my mistakes. I should make amends with the people I’ve hurt with my writing. I’ll do all of that. In fact, I’ll apologize to you all right now for fucking up as badly as I did. Will I be forgiven? Maybe. Maybe not. Honestly, being truthful and kind to my audience is more important to me than potentially losing my career. Yes, cancel culture doesn’t exist, but that doesn’t mean you all don’t deserve a sincere apology. Take notes, J.K. Rowling. You too, John Cleese. Make amends while you still can. We’re not too sensitive; you’re just too disgusting.

That’s something else that needs to be addressed: if the audience doesn’t like a celebrity’s work, it’s not the audience’s fault. It’s the celebrity’s fault for not putting out a decent product. Blaming the audience for your failures says to the world that you’re unable to take criticism. While cancel culture is still nonexistent, I know deep in your heart you don’t like to hear criticism. The more you listen to criticism and improve from it, the less likely you are to hear it in the future. Everybody has room to be better at their crafts. Stephen King may be the most recognizable author in the universe, but the way he sexualizes women in his books is absolutely atrocious. He doesn’t have to lose his career over it, but he owes it to himself and his audience to improve his writing. That’s what we all should do: improve ourselves. Life is evolution. You either fold or you get better. I don’t know about you, but I think getting better is the superior choice. Unless of course you’re like Harvey Weinstein and you raped every woman you came in contact with, in which case, your career is not only over, but you’re spending the rest of your life in prison. Some things can be atoned for, others are too late. Hitler didn’t need a hug. Trump doesn’t need a redemption arc. Vladimir Putin doesn’t need self-improvement. When human life is at stake, prison is the answer.

But no matter how bad things get, people and their legacies will always be subjective. Trump has his supporters despite everything he’s done. J.K. Rowling still has her defenders. People still watch WWE despite the fact that they have a business relationship with Saudi Arabia…and that they did necrophilia comedy in 2002…and that they made fun of Jim Ross’s colon surgery in 2005…You know what? I could go on forever when it comes to WWE’s offenses. But no matter how many times they win the yearly award for Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic, they’ll still have their defenders and supporters. Vince McMahon would have been canceled a long time ago, but he wasn’t, because cancel culture doesn’t exist. He can be criticized. He can be protested against. He can be pressured. But kicked out of the WWE? Hardly. While the audience does have the loudest voices, they’re not the boss who makes all the decisions. They can influence decisions, but they don’t get the final say. Even in an American democracy, that proves to be the case over and over again with our politicians.

We all want to have our dream careers to carry us through life. We don’t want that taken away from us. It’s natural to feel that way. But a dream career isn’t everything. Some things are more important, like integrity, honesty, kindness, and humility. There’s always room in your life to be a good person. If you hurt somebody unintentionally, apologize profusely. Don’t do it to save your career. Do it because you’re a good person who values love. Don’t do things in the name of mass support. Do them because they’re the right things to do. Everything we do has a consequence even if it doesn’t always mean the end of a career. J.K. Rowling has millions of dollars and won’t go away anytime soon. But the damage she’s done with her transphobia has grave consequences for the world at large and undermines every progressive belief she had before that side of her came out. Her readers will be afraid to be themselves. They may even resort to suicide if they believe there’s no avenue for help. We as creators have the power to influence the world. Use it wisely.

It's Not Porn

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

VERSE 1

Lesbian ladies on a double-decker bus

Homophobic men spying on their love

“Give us a show and make the fuck out

While we snort with our big piggy snouts”

The answer was no because they said so

Barbaric men decked them in the nose

Punching, screaming, secretly creaming

Where are the police when you need them?

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

VERSE 2

Unconscious girl behind a dumpster

Rapist swimmer summons the thunder

He called it twenty minutes of action

As he grinned with sick satisfaction

Slap on the wrist for Mr. White Privilege

A new idiot for the concrete village

He blamed it all on the damn alcohol

But at least his career never had to fall

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

BRIDGE

The faces of hate in the Sunday paper

The violence never seems to taper

No abortions for the pregnant victims

The right-wing never wants to listen

VERSE 3

If they dress like “sluts” and you grab their butts

Don’t be surprised when they kick you in the nuts

A revealing cosplay doesn’t give you the right

To fill her head full of trauma every fucking night

The real world isn’t like the porn on your computer

This urban war zone isn’t a First Person Shooter

You weren’t the first and you’re not the last

To need to have your head pulled out of your ass

CHORUS X4

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

"Theft By Finding" by David Sedaris

BOOK TITLE: Theft By Finding

AUTHOR: David Sedaris

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: LGBT Memoir

GRADE: Pass

From 1977 to 2002, David Sedaris keeps a personal diary of growing up as a working class gay man, traveling all over America and Europe to make ends meet. He comes in contact with all sorts of wacky characters, publishes many pieces of writing, puts on multiple plays, teaches classes full of ungrateful students, and takes classes of his own whether it’s learning to speak French or putting together an artistic sculpture. There’s never a shortage of weird moments in this memoir. In fact, if the book had been completely wholesome, it wouldn’t have been as entertaining as it was. Thank you, David Sedaris, for living through these strange experiences so that the rest of us don’t have to!

Speaking of strange experiences, the crazy people David describes in this book remind me a lot of anyone I would have to share public transportation with during my college days. Sometimes he’d cross paths with belligerent beggars who’d relentlessly swear at him whenever he refused to give them change. Sometimes he’d work with blatant bigots whether they were homophobes, racists, or sexists (this is not-so-shockingly frequent during his time in North Carolina in the 70’s and 80’s). And then there are just people who want to talk to nothing or have a good scream, also at thin air. No matter where in the world he goes, he can’t seem to get away from all the madness. He could go to heaven itself and it would still be full of awkward and uncomfortable people. These are not memories I necessarily want to relive, but I’m also grateful that I’m not alone in experiencing such discomfort.

The one part of the book that really got my blood boiling though was when David studied French overseas and had an overly aggressive teacher. This woman was a hybrid between the Scottish teacher from Pink Floyd the Wall and Gunnery Sergeant Hartmann from Full Metal Jacket. She yelled at her students, humiliated them, and did it all in the name of a “good education”. The only thing that angered me more than her attitude was that David Sedaris and many of his fellow students actually praised her for her tough love approach. Folks, I’ve had my fair share of bad teachers and if you ever caught me praising them, just do me a favor and shoot me in the head. The tough love approach doesn’t do anything except breed contempt. I’ll never understand why people say that they learn better from tough teachers. Again, this is not a memory I enjoyed reliving, but I’m also grateful to know that I’m not wrong in feeling the way that I feel.

One more thing I want to touch on. I know David Sedaris’s writing is supposed to be categorized as humor, but I can count on one hand how many times I’ve laughed throughout reading Theft By Finding. These weren’t even hyena laughs either, they were just casual chuckles. Granted, it doesn’t take away from the passing grade I’m giving this book, but a little true advertising would have helped. If anything, this memoir depressed me rather than made me believe in laughing out loud. It makes me appreciate my comfortable life even more, so at least I can be thankful for that. One of the lines that made me laugh though was that a gun store in New York was having a “blowout sale”. Oh, the irony!

Despite the minimal laughter I got from this book, it was still an entertaining read that I would recommend to anybody looking for good nonfiction. If nothing else, it’s a sobering look into the darkest parts of American and international life, especially North Carolina during the Reagan years. The bigotry that went on during those times was heartbreaking and overwhelming. The sad part is, we’re repeating all of that in today’s world in the age of Trump. A passing grade will got to this dark, dystopian piece of nonfiction!

Gyromancer

Are you a spin doctor or a gyromancer?

Both of those options are your final answer

Excusing racism and other forms of bigotry

Excusing homophobia while practicing bigamy

Excusing cop violence as the body count soars

Excusing blood oozing from minorities’ pores

As long as you have an R next to your name

You’re instantly immune to shame and blame

Justice was tailor made for the silver spoon

You’re not fooling anyone anytime soon

You wonder why we march in the streets

When the flag is flying, we take our seats

It’s Freedom of Speech, you fucking leech

It’s something you’re always proud to preach

As long as you’re the only one who uses it

Who’s triggered now? You’re the one who loses it

You call us snowflakes for doing what’s right

You’re triggered too! You’re not too bright

You don’t give a shit about liberty and freedom

You only give a shit about ruling the kingdom

Goosestep your ass back to the 1930’s

Or the 1500’s where it’s diseased and dirty

But at least your old values will be alive and well

Gyromancer, I’ll see you in hell!

"Stuck Rubber Baby" by Howard Cruse

BOOK TITLE: Stuck Rubber Baby

AUTHOR: Howard Cruse

YEAR: 1995

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: LGBT Fiction

GRADE: Extra Credit

Closeted gay man Toland Polk is caught in the crossfire of the civil rights era in America’s bible belt. Minorities are being killed, buildings are being bombed, the police use excessive force, and the politicians are content to just let it all happen. Being himself is something Toland struggles with throughout this graphic novel, considering the violent consequences of his sexual preference. When he starts making friends with the black and gay communities, he eventually has to let his guard down and give into his individuality. That includes trying to have a painless breakup with his folk singer girlfriend Ginger.

What’s important to me about this graphic novel is how much it echoes today’s American society despite this piece of fiction taking place in the 1960’s. Racism and homophobia never went away. In fact, with Donald Trump as president and his bigoted rhetoric emboldening his supporters into doing heinous things to minorities, the hatefulness is alive and well. It always has been. Stuck Rubber Baby is a call for the world to come together and love each other despite the violent opposition. Hate begets more hate, but love conquers everything. It’s the acts of love Toland experiences from the true friends he has that eventually bring him out of the closet.

Another thing the reader will notice is the pacing of this book. Yes, graphic novels and comic books are usually easy to blow through in about five minutes or less, but that’s not the case with Stuck Rubber Baby. In fact, the pacing encourages the reader to slow down and really think about what’s being said. There’s quite a bit of important content to mull over whether it’s the acts of violence against minorities or the love and fellowship between those who need it the most. When someone dies in this book, you have no choice but to give a damn about it.

Speaking of people to give a damn about, this graphic novel is filled to the brim with characters the reader can root for. Of course, Toland Polk is the odds on favorite as we cheer for him to find the love and acceptance he deserves in the midst of all of this destruction. Ginger is a songstress that can bring out the butterflies in everyone’s tummies and the tears in their eyes. Sammy is as wild and free-spirited as they come, which is what makes seeing him angry and depressed a vicarious experience times ten. Harland Pepper is an endless well of wisdom when he encourages his fellow protesters to use peaceful tactics rather than incite more violence. There are plenty more characters that will tear your heartstrings out, even more so when some of them get beaten and murdered. The murders are frequent, but it’s not a case of darkness-induced apathy. Not in the least.

Stuck Rubber Baby is a wakeup call to the whole world when it comes to peace, love, and unity. Without those three things, history will repeat itself over and over again like it normally does. This graphic novel is sure to drag its readers kicking and screaming over to the left wing. If you’re already there, then you have even more power to change the world for the better. An extra credit grade goes to this beautifully written story with more powerful moments than I care to count.

The Golden Angel

The Golden Angel sat hunched over on a tree stump with a fiery look in his wild eyes. His bright yellow spandex, his dazzling angel wings, his flowing blond locks, they were part of an image that was all for nothing. He kicked a stone across the dirt into a nearby lake as he thought about what Pastor Jane had said over those airwaves. All of those homophobic slurs, every suggestion of violence, every invocation of hellfire and brimstone for the LGBT community, they caused his blood to boil like a witch’s cauldron. He kicked even more stones into the lake, every shot more aggressive than the last. Goldie even pounded the side of the stump with his fist and sat there in his grumpy state.

Normally the sounds of a woman screaming for help would send Goldie into an adrenaline fueled frenzy in an attempt to be the daring superhero he once was. With super strength and the power of flight, he could have won those fights in record time. But all he did was place a fist under his chin and stew angrily. The woman’s screams were more ear-piercing by the second and Goldie’s indifference turned to irritation. “What the hell’s going on around here?” he asked rhetorically.

Sure enough, a woman in gray sweatpants and a cyan hooded sweatshirt came screaming like hell as she leapt into the Golden Angel’s hulking arms. “Help me!” she cried. “He’s after me! The Dark Paladin is after me! He wants to give me his demon baby! Dear God, help me!”

Behind the drenched tears and bubbling snot of sorrow, Goldie recognized that face as clear as day: Mia Jane, the pastor’s twenty-something daughter. Same long black hair, same dimpled face, same gray eyes, and the same silver crucifix around her neck. Goldie glared at her before dumping her on the ground and causing her to crab walk backwards into another stump. “You’ve got some serious balls asking for my help, Miss Jane. Oh wait a minute, I forgot, women can’t have balls because that’s just an excuse to shower with little girls in the locker room. That is what your father said on the radio the other day, right?”

“Listen, Goldie, I’m begging you, please!” said Mia on her knees with her hands together prayer-style. “I’m sorry for everything my dad said about you and your…people. But you have to help me!”

“My people? What do I look like to you, a fucking alien?!” snapped Goldie as he shot up to his feet. “You think gay people like me are invaders from another planet? Oh wait a minute, they’re just Satan’s creations, which is something else your genius dad said.” He approached her with more muscle in his step. “You know what else he said? He was the one who outed me on national television! He’s the reason I’m hiding out here! What good is being a superhero if I can’t live in the fucking city where all the nasty shit is going on?! In fact, how do I even know The Dark Paladin is out here?! I didn’t hear him at all!”

“He’s here, Goldie. I saw him chase me. You have to believe me!” said Mia through a stream of tears not unlike the one rolling through the forest. “I was out here on my morning run and he flew right in front of me. He said he wanted to…” Her sentence was interrupted by an even bigger storm of tears.

Goldie’s furrowed eyebrows straightened when he knelt beside Mia and placed his pink gloved hand on her shoulder. “I desperately want to be a superhero again. But as long as your dad is spreading his ignorant bullshit around, nobody will let me in. The gay bar has been burned to the ground, transgender folks are being lynched, and I’m just another piece of this puzzle. If I wasn’t for my powers, I’d be a dead motherfucker by now. Just another footnote in Paulson City history. Just another body freezing at the morgue.”

“You’re more than that,” sobbed Mia. “You were an inspiration to us all. And now you’re just going to throw it all away because your feelings got hurt?”

Goldie’s hand slowly traveled up the back of her neck before he grabbed a handful of hair and snapped, “This is more than just emotions! People are dying! People are being beaten! They’re being tortured because of your father’s work! You’re damn right my feelings are hurt! But I bet you’ll be the quintessential tough bitch when it’s a member of your family that has to suffer through the torture!”

Trying to steady her chattering teeth from both the cold morning air and her sorrow, Mia said, “People are dying anyways because you’re out here doing nothing! You’re too good for them! Not everyone in the city is like my father!”

“But you are, Mia. I know you are,” whispered Goldie angrily. “You hang on his every word. You claim to be about love and honor while casting aside those who dare to be different, those who dare to be themselves. I’ve seen a million of your kind come and go, but I’d never thought you’d give up on your city’s only superhero just because you don’t like the fact that I fuck men!”

Mia’s brow furrowed as she smacked away Goldie’s clutch on her hair. “Who’s giving up on who?”

The two of them shared a moment of intense glares when the Golden Angel was blasted off his feet and into the creek, suffering a burn mark on his chest. Mia Jane screamed in horror once again and kept Goldie conscious long enough for him to pull his face out of the water to take in the view of The Dark Paladin. There he was with bulging red muscles, black metal armor, devilish horns, and yellow fangs dripping with the blood and flesh of a forest critter, potentially a squirrel.

“Miss Jane, I personally want to thank you for leading me to the Golden Angel. This couldn’t have been more perfect!” chuckled the Dark Paladin in a throaty voice.

Goldie glared evilly at Mia and whispered, “You bitch! This better not be true!”

“It’s not true! I would never do that! He’s lying!” yelled Mia. “I didn’t even know you were out here!”

“Bullshit!” roared Goldie as he leapt to his feet and took to the skies with his flapping angel wings. Every time Dark Paladin’s eyes radiated with red energy and he shot another scorching beam, Goldie would punch and kick them away like they were dodge balls. Having had enough of the demon’s laughter, the angel zoomed down upon him and threw heavy fists against his already contorted face.

Not one punch cracked bones or loosened teeth. “Is that the best you can do?” Darkie taunted. “Why don’t you try slapping me on the ass instead, lover boy?!” After throwing a mock kiss Goldie’s way, the superhero kneed Darkie in the balls and doubled him over, but only got another throaty laugh for his efforts. “Shouldn’t you take me out to dinner first?”

Dark Paladin attempted an ear clap, but Goldie ducted down and threw rapid fire punches against his stomach, each of them more powerful than the last, some of them cracking the metal armor, but not ribs like he intended. Goldie military pressed the Dark Paladin in the air and slammed him down against a gigantic stone, crumbling it into powder. The demon refused to sell his pain and instead gave a wicked grin.

“I’d say you fight like a sissy, but that’d be a little redundant, don’t you think?” said Darkie with a wink before throwing a knee against Goldie’s ribs and sending him rolling into the creek once more.

Mia Jane shouted, “No!” and ran by her would-be hero’s side. “Are you okay? Please be okay! I never wanted this to happen!”

“Get off of me!” shouted Goldie as he stood back up and attempted to dive bomb Darkie again with flying fists and feet. Instead all he got was a head butt to the skull upon landing. Dark Paladin grabbed the Golden Angel by his shin and twirled him so around so powerfully that the resulting whirlwind took Mia off her feet. Darkie slammed his nemesis against multiple trees and shattered them into beauty bark before tossing Goldie’s limp body on the ground, bloody and bruised.

Mia crab walked backwards in a shaky attempt to get away from the stalking Dark Paladin, who grunted at her, “Time to get my jollies, little lady! You’re giving birth to my child whether you want to or not! Don’t even bother going to one of those special clinics afterwards. Daddy dearest wouldn’t approve!” The last sentence was accentuated with a wink before the Dark Paladin dropped his metal pants and revealed not only his worm-infested meat, but also a familiar crucifix tattoo on his shin.

“D…Dad? Is that you? No…no, it can’t be! That’s impossible! You can’t be the Dark Paladin!” cried Mia while pounding the leaves on the ground with her fists.

“That’s right, honey! The Golden Angel ain’t going to help you this time! Not that he ever would, the little coward! Open wide, sweetheart!”

The Golden Angel’s vision was stained with blood and pieces of dirt, but he was conscious long enough to hear the entire conversation. It all made perfect sense to him now why Mia’s demonic father wanted to get rid of him. All the propaganda. All the lies. All the hate. Every one of the newly minted Dark Paladin’s dangerous words haunted Goldie’s mind like schizophrenic voices. Every time he said faggot, queer, or hell in the same sentence lit a hellish flame inside Goldie’s belly, a flame that burned brighter than the bloody pain he was feeling.

He watched Mia Jane crouch on the ground and close her legs as tightly as possible. He watched Dark Paladin’s rotten meat get harder and larger with every close step he took. The more Goldie watched, the more his heart was ready to explode in a volcanic burst. His eyes welled up with hot tears, his blood burned like acid, and his head pounded with a sledgehammer’s fury. He saw red for more reasons than Dark Paladin’s skin and the blood in his eyes.

In one swift motion ignorant of pain, Goldie flapped his wings and buzzed over to the Dark Paladin with a sharp stone in his hand. Before the demon knew what hit him, Goldie smashed the flat stone against Darkie’s groin and sliced off his monstrous genitals. Screaming agony and bloody fountains aside, no genitals meant no demonic birth, and no demonic birth meant the Dark Paladin’s plans for world conquest were ruined.

“You haven’t won shit, Golden Angel! I’ll see you in hell yet!” snarled the Dark Paladin before elbowing Goldie in the chest and sending him rolling backwards. With blood pumping out of the demon at a rapid rate, Darkie held his wound and flew away, dropping pus, maggots, and redness onto the ground below him. Mia Jane had been saved…for now.

The grateful preacher’s daughter, still bubbling with tears and snot, crawled quickly towards the downed Golden Angel and hugged him tightly, unintentionally aggravating his bloody wounds. “Thank you, Goldie! Thank you so much! I’m so sorry everything happened the way it did!”

Groaning painfully, Goldie wiped the blood off of his mouth and said, “Don’t be sorry, Mia. This isn’t over by a long shot. He’ll come back stronger than ever and we have to be ready.”

Mia gently stroked Goldie’s battered chest and said, “I’ll tell everyone the truth. The whole city will know who my father really is. I promise I will undo the damage he has done! This is not the loving priest I know! This is a monster!”

“You? You’re going to bring the people of Paulson City together? You’re going to end the hatred?!” scoffed Goldie. The two of them shared an intense stare together before the superhero said, “You’d better do it, Mia. You’re going to use your loudest voice possible. All that hellfire and brimstone crap? You’re going to use it to end this senselessness. You’re going to be the voice for positive change. You’re going to be the voice of the voiceless. Are you ready for that shit?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, Goldie. Ready as I’ll ever be!” said Mia as she wiped the tears and snot from her face with her sweater sleeve.

The Ballad of Gravedigger Jane

Gravedigger Jane stewed in the middle row next to the aisle of the college auditorium, a place that was nearly packed with hee-hawers and pot smokers. She wished she could have some pot to soothe her boiling anger, but if she tested positive for it, it could mean the end of her college boxing career. Instead she pulled a metal flask out of her hooded vest and took a swig of booze. She shook her head at the hypocrisy of allowing alcohol but banning marijuana. What the fuck was that all about? No matter what her drug of choice was, hopefully it would get her through this god-awful performance.

As Jane relaxed in her seat with her sneakered feet on the empty chair in front of her, the madness was about to begin. Royal trumpets blasted over the sound system and almost gave her a migraine. While holding her ears with her taped hands, she turned around to see why such ludicrous music was playing at an obnoxious volume. There he was in all of his nose-in-the-air arrogance: Chris Duncan riding a horse while wearing a musketeer outfit: a blue tunic with a crucifix on it, black leather pants, knee-high brown boots, and a fedora with a feather in it. His bloated neckless bodyguards were also dressed in musketeer garb.

Chris swung his thin blade and pointed it at Jane before giving her a saucy smile and a wink. Jane responded with a shake of her head and a bruised middle finger, to which Mr. Duncan gave a royal belly laugh. The audience around her didn’t know whether to cheer or boo, so they just sat in wide-eyed silence. Then again, that could have been the pot talking. Jane took another swig of booze as Chris dismounted his horse and slapped it on the ass to send it trotting out of the theater. The speaker took the center of the stage with his bouncers standing at the edge, arms folded and attitudes in check.

The speaker adjusted the mini-microphone on his tunic and said, “Testing, testing, one, two, three.” Sure enough, everybody could hear him loud and clear as evidenced by the mixture of cheers and boos. The initial shock of Chris Duncan coming down in a musketeer outfit war off in a big fucking hurry once they figured out what he really came to talk about. Knowing that time was near, Gravedigger Jane took yet another swig and let out a monstrous burp.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” opened Mr. Duncan. “You’re probably wondering why I’m out here dressed as a musketeer. Two reasons: one, the musketeer has always been a symbol of loyalty to king and country. I’m loyal to my country and I would like to make it great again, if you know what I mean!” The mixed reaction blasted through the arena once again, but Gravedigger Jane sat still and clicked her knuckles.

Pacing around the stage and swinging his saber, Chris said, “The other reason I’m wearing this outfit is because it doesn’t look anywhere near as ridiculous as the dresses men put on to pass as women. You’ve got big ass men with neck beards going down to their knees walking into women’s bathrooms and locker rooms and this university doesn’t do a damn thing about it! It’s time we scrubbed this politically correct filth from college campuses everywhere! Political correctness is a threat to our free speech rights in the same way these so called transgender students are a threat to our purity! And while we’re at it, let’s get rid of the rest of the fag population!”

While the auditorium unleashed a firestorm of half-cheers and half-boos, Gravedigger Jane’s muscles were bulging in red hot anger. Her teeth were clamped tightly enough to make her granite jaw ache. She popped both of her wrists while staring bullets into Chris Duncan. The sick prick pointed his musketeer sword at her and she knew it was time to get her violence on, but not just yet.

“You see that man slash woman over there? Boxing fans might know that person as Gravedigger Jane. But I know him as Kevin Ferguson!” snapped Chris. The combination of hearing her old name along with the catcalling of the crowd caused the blood vessels in Jane’s eyes to pop like hot air balloons.

Chris had only begun his verbal assault. “Thanks to your school’s lenient policy on gay crap, Kevin over here can waltz into a woman’s locker room without so much as a bat of the eye! He can swing his dick around like a baseball bat and let his nuts hang down to his feet in front of all those poor women! Not only that, but he can punch out women legally and split their skulls down the middle! You call this equality?! I call it bullshit! You’re a fucking man, Kevin! You will always be a man!”

The guffaws of laughter, the screaming, the vulgarity of Chris Duncan’s speech, they all led to the tightly-muscled, predatory-faced, and stone-fisted Gravedigger Jane to pop out of her seat and storm down the aisle towards the stage. The fat bouncers formed a blockade between Chris and Jane while the former dropped his saber and backed off, screaming, “Whoa!” multiple times in rapid fire succession. Jane breathed heavily and punched her fists together while the students chanted, “Fight!” repeatedly.

“Easy there, Kimbo Slice!” shouted Chris. “You’re not going to do a damn thing to me! This is America and I’ve got free speech until the day I die! Nobody’s making you be here! Go run off to your safe space, little boy!” To add spice to his already flaming rhetoric, Chris stood on the edge of the stage and pointed his chin out to the crowd. “You want to hit me so badly, go right ahead! I’ll sue the shit out of you and have you blackballed from the sport! Come on, tough nuts! Throw a big one! Knock my ass out!”

“I’d love to knock your ass out, you little turd biscuit!” shouted Gravedigger Jane. Despite the raucous noise of the crowd, she was as audible as every news pundit who liked to turn it up to eleven. She even threw her hood back and revealed her corn-rowed hair and rolled back demonic eyes. Chris’s own eyes were wide with horror as he slowly backed away while Jane gave her oratory.

Jane continued with, “I paid for my tuition by beating people up! I’ll punch you so fucking hard you’ll be shitting teeth for two weeks straight!” Using her taped hand for visual references, she gritted her own teeth and throatily bellowed, “Your nose will be stapled to the back of your head! Your eyes will explode like little hand grenades! Your brain will splatter like a bucket of paint! I’m not even sure you’ll have a fucking head by the time I’m done with you!”

Chris slipped on his ass and convulsed in terror as the students chanted, “Fight!” some more. Gravedigger Jane looked like one of her punches could tear this whole building down. She looked like a simple left jab could turn these bouncers into protoplasmic jelly. She was ready to start swinging and show why she was a multiple time boxing champion.

But then a tear rolled down her cheek and her bear trap jaw trembled and ached with sorrow. Once that one tear rolled down, several more followed. The levies in her eyes broke in the same way her heart did. With a shaky voice, she said, “You’re right about one thing, though: if I punch you or your bouncers out…I could lose my career. I could lose my scholarship. I could lose everything. You’re not worth it. You’re loud and stupid as hell, but you’re not worth it. I…I…um…”

The avalanche of tears interrupted her passionate speech to where all she could do was storm out of the theater with half of the students chanting, “Get a job!” in succession. She slammed the door behind her and plopped backwards against the brick wall. The tears wouldn’t stop coming. They raged on and on while all Gravedigger Jane could do was punch the bricks behind her and scream with no audience…except for the horse.

“What are you looking at? Huh?” asked Jane with trembling lips, the same trembling lips that took yet another swig of booze. And another. And another. The horse gazed at her with innocent puppy dog eyes and Jane said, “Aw, fuck it, you can have some too.” She gently poured some booze into the horse’s mouth and watched it drink the last of the liquid courage. “That’s some strong shit, isn’t it. It’s not doing a damn thing for me right now, but oh well.”

As Jane tucked the flask in her vest, the horse started shaking its head and neighing in a thunderous voice. The transgender boxer watched the erratic behavior turn into violent galloping and said, “What the hell?” More neighing and more galloping ensued before the lightweight drunken horse stormed inside the theater to the sounds of horrified screams.

Jane placed her ear against the door and heard even more heavenly sounds: furniture being destroyed, bones shattering, even Chris Duncan and his bouncers couldn’t help but cry like bitches in pain and terror. She even heard Chris yell, “Why, sweet god, why?!” The next “Why?” he let out was more like a child’s whine and less like a brave and mighty musketeer. This put a smile on Jane’s face as she wiped away the tears.

She was nearly bowled over as students flooded all exists in an attempt to escape the drunken horse’s mad kicking. Soon enough the horse itself chased after a winded bouncer and toppled him before stomping the shit out of the poor bastard. Jane’s smile was even bigger than before and her rainy tears were all but gone.

As soon as the doorway was cleared, she peeked inside and saw broken bodies of students and bouncers lying about in total agony while theater chairs were splintered into nothing. Chris Duncan huddled in the fetal position while holding his groin and coughing up blood. He cried like a baby as he met Jane’s warrior gaze.

“For the record,” Jane shouted. “I didn’t lay a finger on you! Your stupid horse did! I guess the horse won’t have a boxing career after all! Maybe that big ass thing shouldn’t be trotting into women’s locker rooms with his saber sticking out! Adios, amigo!” Gravedigger Jane blew Chris Duncan a kiss before shutting the door behind her and leaving her haters covered in blood and darkness. Freedom of speech wasn’t free. In fact, the price was higher than Chris’s new soprano voice.