No One Else Is Living This Way

Ghostly music swirled in Commander Bright’s brain, though the instrument of choice was whirring noises from his waking dizziness. He would have checked for a massive lump on his head if not for his hands being restrained behind his back. Any oxygen he managed to muster up came through his snotty nose as his mouth was obstructed. He wanted to wiggle around to break free from his new bondage, but the duct tape was too powerful, squeezing him down like a Gundam’s hand.

Bright’s darkened vision let just a little bit of light in at a time and eventually his salty eyes gave him the blurry, distorted shape of someone he used to know. Long gone was the innocent young man that he tried to push into becoming a true soldier. In his place was wide-eyed psychosis, a teenaged boy wearing not his uniform, but a wife-beater tank top, dirty brown pants, and a glazed over expression. Amuro Ray had gone off the deep end, but Bright had already known that the minute he could no longer move his body or express anger through his words.

Amuro’s superior wiggled around in his chair some more, but to no avail.  He was too weak from the dizziness and lack of oxygen. But he couldn’t find it within himself to accept defeat so easily. There had to be a method to Amuro’s madness. Something had to make him tick aside from the constant battle fatigue when he took his Gundam into any given war zone. Bright’s exhausted mind wouldn’t allow him to search so easily for answers.

“Guess what?” Amuro leaned his face closer to Bright’s. “I forgot to make my bed today.” The young man chuckled through his nose, a privilege not afforded to the bound and gagged Bright for fear of passing into darkness yet again. The joke wasn’t even that funny to begin with. Amuro wasn’t done there. 

“But of course…that’s hardly my only infraction.” He produced a file folder and thumbed through the pages like he was shuffling cards. “That’s a lot of pages for just one person. It’s almost like…you’re obsessed with me or something. I’m sure you have a lot to say about me.”

He pulled one of the pages out. “Amuro Ray. Sixteen years old. Gundam pilot. Received several infractions for behavioral issues, which include, but are not limited to insubordination, questioning authority (which is the same as insubordination, I don’t know why you’d put those two together), hijacking military property, desertion, aggravated assault, and aggravated mayhem. Has several psychological issues such as high-functioning autism, depression, post-traumatic stress…

“Do you really want me to keep reading this? We’d be here for hours if we went over everything. Wait a minute…” He looked around in mock disbelief. “There’s no file cabinet. How am I supposed to file this page with no cabinet? I’m sure it has to go somewhere.” He stared menacingly at Bright’s left thigh, causing his bound and gagged victim’s heart to thump loudly like a useless beacon to nobody coming to rescue him.

Amuro produced a staple gun from his back pocket and stapled the lone sheet of paper to Bright’s thigh. The Commander screamed so powerfully through his gag that his throat began to take more damage than his wound. His eyes watered and burned down his cheeks. 

“What? You don’t think that’s a good place for it?” More gagged screaming from Bright. “I agree. Let’s put it somewhere else.” Amuro ripped out the staple and this time the gagged screaming nearly caused Bright’s head to split open. The Commander cared little about the oxygen leaving his body in a gust of tears and snot. Amuro didn’t care either as he continued to taunt his former superior.

“Well, look at this! You got blood all over the page. How is anybody supposed to read about my horrible deeds when there’s blood everywhere? How is anybody supposed to judge me if they can’t see what’s there? This page needs to drip-dry. And I have just the place to hang it.” He stapled the non-bloody side of the page to Bright’s crotch and this time the screaming was high-pitched, like a female dragon wanting desperately to unleash her fireball. Speaking of fiery balls, Bright’s genitals bled more profusely than his thigh.

Amuro continued to taunt him. “Nah, that’s not going to dry it off. Let’s hang it somewhere else.” He ripped out the staple and Bright’s voice nearly blew like a bomb as he shrieked in pain. Seconds of torture turned to minutes. Minutes turned to hours. Hours turned to days, weeks, months, and years. In reality, it had only been a few seconds of agony, but it might as well have been eternal damnation.

The teasing wasn’t over, as Amuro pulled a bottle of liquor from the shadows of whatever room they were in. “Am I even old enough to drink this?” He popped off the top and did it anyway, teenaged years be damned. His innocence was gone long before he took his first sip. He held it out to the still screaming Bright. “Want some?” Amuro proceeded to splash the alcohol on Bright’s groin and leg wounds. The stinging pain was like a thousand scorpions digging into his body with their claymore tails. The bacteria was dead and Bright wished he was.

Amuro splashed the alcohol in Bright’s face, which would have spelt the end for his oxygen supply if the tape gag didn’t get saggy and fall off. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Bright screamed. The growls of agony were replaced by raspy, rapid-fire breathing. The blood in his gums pooled up and gave him a nice taste of nickels and dimes.

“I’m sorry, what was that? You want me stop? You had enough?” Amuro slapped Bright and reddened his already strawberry cheeks. “Come on, Bright!” Amuro slapped him again and again. “You can’t grow up unless you get slapped! If you’re depressed, snap out of it! Isn’t that what you said to me?” Amuro suddenly calmed down, but not in a charitable way. “My own father wouldn’t even hit me.”

Bright shot a snot rocket on the floor and breathed heavily as he spoke. “You can slap me and staple me all you want, but your head voices aren’t going away!” Amuro grew sullen in his once arrogant facial expression. “You think you’re the only one who has war flashbacks?! You think the rest of us aren’t hurting just as much as you are?! This is war, Amuro! Everybody’s feeling it! You’re the only one who’d even think about torturing me over this! You’re the only one with the staple gun right now! No one else is living this way…”

Amuro backed up, stunned in silence.

Bright spit a wad of blood on the floor. “See? You’re backing up because you know it’s true! Torturing me isn’t a substitute for therapy! Never has been, never will be! You can kill me for all I care, but no matter where you go, you take the pain with you!” Bright smiled through red and pink teeth. “You know what the best part about all of this is? Your trauma will only get worse once you go to prison. All that time alone in your prison cell with nothing but your thoughts. Your loud…destructive…violent thoughts…They’re all yours. They’ll only get louder. And louder.”

Amuro clutched his brown head of hair and doubled over in pain. “Stop it! Just shut your mouth! I’ll staple your lips shut if I have to!”

“What kind of nightmares do you have, anyways? Bombs going off? Getting shot at with lasers? Nearly dying every single time you’re out on the battlefield? Oh, I bet you hate those explosions, Amuro. I bet you absolutely HATE combat!” Bright started making bomb noises with whatever was left of his throat and mouth.

“I said stop! No more! SHUT UP!” Amuro broke the liquor bottle against the wall, fashioning it into a knife. He slowly crept towards his hostage with wildness in his eyes and spittle foaming on his lips. “You were the one who made me this way! You wanted me to be a soldier! You wouldn’t let me rest when I needed to! You’re the one who fucked with my mind!”

“Yeah…I am…And you know what? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Except this time, when I slap the hell out of you…I’m going for a knockout!”

“STOP IT! SHUT UP!”

“Or what?! What are you going to do, Amuro?! You’re going to keep wrestling with your mind until it gives you want you want?! Good luck with that! Face it, Amuro…you can kill me…you can kill my whole crew if you want to…but your mind…will always be a shitty place to be!”

Amuro couldn’t deny his head voices any longer. He turned the broken bottle on himself and sliced his own throat open. Bright’s voice may have been raw from death growling into a tape gag, but at least he couldn’t compare his throat pain to Amuro’s. The once brilliant Gundam pilot now laid on the ground in a pool of his own biological sludge, finally free from the prison of his own mind.

Bright’s breathing slowed down and his neck stopped radiating with pain like a nuclear rod. Every breath he took was one of relief. The pain in his crotch and thigh was completely forgotten about during his moments of bravery, but not when he tried to undo his tape. Squirming went from being a mere chore to a marathon in hell as pain shot throughout his entire body. But free himself from the tape he did. And then he collapsed on the floor with nothing to entertain his senses but the boots of his rescuers, who almost came too late.

He lost track of how much time had passed since he’d been asleep in the hospital. He thought for sure he had slipped past heaven’s gates. But the only part of heaven he could experience at that moment was the softness of his bed cushioning his aching body. Everything else felt like being engulfed in flames, whether it was the wrappings on his wounds, the tubes coming out of his skin, or his pounding headache.

The nurses turned around to check his progress…and every last one of them had Amuro’s face. They even had Amuro’s voice. Everywhere Bright looked, he saw his torturer, who once took on the role of the one being tortured. It had to be an illusion, right? It had to be his mind playing tricks on him. That was the only explanation for this. 

In which case…everything Bright said about Amuro’s traumatic hallucinations came to fruition…for him as well. He gave away his own prophecy. The physical torture was over. The psychological hell was just beginning. Maybe taking Gundams onto the battlefield wasn’t a great idea after all. Bright wanted to shout his newfound insanity from the rooftops, but shouting required a little more vocal power than he was afforded. He was a prisoner of his own mind…and it would be like that for the rest of his life. The broken bottle sounded better with every passing day in the hospital.

Insane Asylum

VERSE 1

Prisoners have more rights than we do

Call it a hospital? That shit is see-through

A medieval dungeon with torture devices

A lobotomy is what you’ve decided

Electroshock to scramble the brains

Straightjacket so tight, extreme pain

Orderlies beating us up for no reason

Fresh new prisoners, it’s hunting season

CHORUS

Insane asylum, healthcare ward

Heard the euphemisms before

Spraying dog shit with cologne

Doesn’t make it smell like home

VERSE 2

Mental ward system is all about money

Got to keep them loonies from running

Lock them up and collect your payday

Maximize profit, taxman stay away

It’s not a crazy conspiracy theory

You motherfuckers refuse to hear me

Another wrestling match with the nurses

They too collect money like fight purses

CHORUS

Insane asylum, healthcare ward

Heard the euphemisms before

Spraying dog shit with cologne

Doesn’t make it smell like home

VERSE 3

It’s not the exception, it’s the rule

Whenever you pull out a torture tool

One day they’ll carry your ass away

You can be in the center of the fray

You can be strapped down to a gurney

Electroshock will leave you burning

A shot of horse to put you to bed

But like you said, it’s all in your head

EXTENDED CHORUS

Insane asylum, healthcare ward

Heard the euphemisms before

Spraying dog shit with cologne

Doesn’t make it smell like home

No insurance, no healthcare

The dungeon is right over there

Out of sight from the rest of town

Depressed frowns turn upside down

FINAL LINE

Hahahahahahahahaha!

No

Just no

Ozzy

***OZZY***

As someone who was born in the mid-1980’s, I’m chronologically predisposed to sharing details of my life on the internet, especially if they’re going to have even the slightest impact on my creative activities. I don’t expect that this incident will, but it is something to think about for all the times I’ve been too exhausted to work.

Our gray and white kitty Ozzy has a nasty abscess on the side of his face and yesterday it burst open and sprayed blood all over Mom and Dale’s sheets. We don’t know how he got this gash, but we suspect he’s been in a fight with another animal. He loves to go on little adventures outside for long periods of time, so it was bound to happen sooner or later. Mom and Dale are currently vacationing in New Mexico and won’t be back until Thursday night, so it was up to me and James to take care of Ozzy-Pie.

We had the elderly cutie-kitty taken to a 24-hour emergency animal hospital in Silverdale. He cried the entire drive over and we couldn’t blame him. Going to the hospital is no fun for an animal, especially if draining abscesses is on the agenda. The good news is, the doctors were able to clear it out and disinfect it without much incident. The rest is up to me and James.

Ozzy will have to have his wound wiped out regularly, he’ll have to take antibiotic pills covered in Spam, and he’ll have to have liquid painkillers injected into his mouth. So far, so good. He likes the Spam and wasn’t too resistant to the pills or the water that had to be injected afterwards. I haven’t given him his painkillers yet, but I trust that’ll go smoothly too. The treatment will last for a whole week, but I think we’re going to make him a permanent indoor kitty from now on, lest he gets attacked again.

Being a good animal parent to Ozzy and the rest of our fur babies is more important to me right now than getting creative work done. I was frantic the whole time I was preparing to give him his medicine, because I thought it was going to be harder than it needed to be. Turns out it was painless. Just seven more days and he’ll have to go back to the vet for a follow-up. I can do this. Ozzy will get better. I know he will!

If you want to leave your well wishes for our elderly kitty baby, you can do so in the comments section. Even though he’s not capable of checking internet posts, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 19

Scott could have spent eternity in the blackest of visions. His body could have numbed out until time itself stood still. Death was his most welcome visitor. If there was a heaven, he wanted a limousine ride to the pearly gates. If there was a hell, at least he could stay warm when everyone else’s hearts were cold as shit. In his mind, not even hell could match up to the evilness of this green and blue earth. Was the devil a cool guy to hang around? Scott banked on it since a lot of the “sinners” hung out in that fire pit apparently.

But instead of a poker game with the devil, he survived another round of Russian Roulette in the real world. As he awakened in his hospital room, his head and nose ached with explosive pain. His ribs stuck out further than his skin would allow. His depressed and anxious mood destroyed his brain like a forest wildfire. His wrist was purple with tightness as he discovered he was cuffed to his hospital bed. The pounding feeling in his head and nose was because he had an IV tube stuck in one of his nostrils (presumably because of malnourishment). To Scott the IV tube was just a clear-colored worm from a Floydian nightmare.

The judging eyes never took their gaze off of him despite the courtroom backdrop being replaced with hospital whiteness. A uniformed police officer stood over his bed and scowled at him, nearly making Scott empty his bowls of the worms that invaded his system. “Just so you know,” said the cop. “That stunt you pulled in the courtroom isn’t going to get you out of this mess. The trial is going on without you, which is smart on your part since your lawyer has advised against you taking the stand.”

“But…but…” stuttered Scott. “Don’t I get to see what’s going on at least? Don’t I have the right to defend myself?”

The cop gave a smart-assed smile and said, “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. Your lawyer is quite the standup guy for someone as low on the totem pole as him. Not bad for a public defender. But for every point, there’s a counterpoint. The prosecutor is running circles around him. It doesn’t help matters that all of the witnesses in this case can’t save your sorry ass no matter what they say.”

“W…witnesses?”

“Oh yes, Scott, there are plenty of witnesses to your crime even though you and that little girl were probably alone wherever it was you did the dirty deed. Some interesting characters, to say the least. Principal Linda Williams? She can’t even put a sentence together without that MSNBC bullshit filtering through her lips. Adrienne Simpson, the girl you slept with? She had so many tears in her eyes that it was amazing she didn’t flood the whole damn courtroom. Now Tom Simpson, her father, that guy’s a true character if I’ve ever seen one. He gave quite the Oscar-worthy performance. Too bad you couldn’t see it. I would have loved to see the look on you face after all the things he called you.”

Tugging on the handcuffs in vain, Scott’s expression turned angry when he said, “Why are you taking so much joy in this?”

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, the cop said, “Because it’s my job to take pride in my work, which is bringing justice to a place that doesn’t care about it. All these people cry and whine that you’re not getting a fair shake. Well, guess what, toots? Life is unfair. The sooner you accept that, the less disappointed you’ll be with your own failures.”

Scott clenched his fists and gritted through his teeth, “You sound just like my bastard history teacher. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the two of you were gay lovers at one point.”

The cop wagged his finger and said, “Careful, Mr. George, you’re bordering on the edge of slander.”

“I don’t care!” shouted Scott. “And as long as I’m all out of fucks to give, let me lay some more truth on your sorry ass! You know why life is unfair?! It’s because jackasses like you intentionally make it that way! You beat the shit out of minorities and then turn around and say that they shouldn’t have broken the law, even though most of the time they fucking didn’t! The whole world is onto you and your kind! I don’t care how poorly I’m doing in history and I don’t care what generation I come from: I’m not stupid enough to believe your horseshit! I’m more than mediocre! In fact, between the two of us…I’m the only one who makes any sense at all!”

The cop gave a sarcastic golf clap and said, “That’s a pretty ballsy statement coming from someone who’s cuffed to a bed. But you know what the sad part about all that is? You’re dead on, buddy. We do keep people down. You know why? Because that’s how we maintain order around here. Without order, society would spiral into chaos and you liberal hippie rebels would only have yourselves to blame. Besides, why do you care so much about what I do to minorities? You’re a white guy. You don’t have much to hide other than the fact that you’re a fucking pedophile. Why all the fuss?”

“Fuss? Fuss?! You want to know what the fuss is all about?!” Scott’s eyes glowed with rage as he stared a hole through the cop’s soul. “It’s called having empathy. You may want to try it sometime. I know other people have hopes and dreams different from my own, so I try my best to either nurture those dreams or stay the fuck out of those people’s ways! I don’t see any benefit in conforming the population into one zombie mind. But that’s just my opinion, of course. You’re entitled to your own even though you’re an ass clown.”

The cop smiled and shook his head before saying, “You’ve got a mouth on you, pal. If I had some medical tape around here, the only letter coming out of that sewer hole would be M. Lots and lots of M’s. And then I could make a joke about how your favorite candy is M&M’s. And then I could also make a joke about how you like to say MMMMMMMMM after you’ve eaten them.”

“You have the IQ of a packet of ketchup. No wonder you hate thinking so much: it’s not your strong suit.”

The cop stood up and slammed his knight stick against the railing of the bed, sending a fearful jolt throughout Scott’s body. Instead of sarcasm and corny smiles, the uniformed “ass clown” was all business and sneers. “By the time this trial is over, you’re going to be found guilty, mark my fucking words, dip shit. And when you put on that orange jumpsuit for the very first time, it won’t be a matter of if you get your ass beaten. It’ll be a matter of when. Prisoners and CO’s alike don’t care for smart-mouthed little bitches like you, Scott. The minute you start preaching about anti-conformist BS, your bones will crack so fucking loudly that the whole world will go deaf.”

Undeterred and unafraid, Scott leaned closer to the cop’s face and said, “If you’re so certain I’m going to die, why don’t you finish the job yourself…ass clown!”

The cop backed off, smiled, and said, “Nah, I’m not going to do that. I wouldn’t deprive my colleagues at the big house of their feast of fresh meat. And that’s what you are, Scott: fresh…fucking…meat. And speaking of meals, enjoy the nose buffet you’ve got going on there.” With a final chuckle, he exited the room and left Scott in a cesspool of his own rage and hatred.

“What a fucking jerk,” Scott muttered out of earshot of the cop. He believed that statement could apply to anybody who spoke out against him in that courthouse so many blocks away. He didn’t want to dwell too much on what they were saying behind his back. After all, that was when anybody was truly safe from his wrath: when it was all behind his back.

Alan Young couldn’t hang with Scott. Aloysius Striker was a crocodile tear away from loony land. The prosecutor’s bar exam results might as well have come back negative. Tom Simpson? He couldn’t control his own daughter, let alone a classroom full of free thinkers and wild dreamers. Beth George might as well be called The Artist Formerly Known as Mom. The undertaker guarding Carter George’s grave probably related more to corpses than he did living human beings.

“Is there anybody I’m leaving out?” asked Scott to nobody in particular. “Eh, I’ll think of them later.”

Knowing he couldn’t be touched even when he was at his lowest moment, Scott closed his eyes comfortably and attempted to get some shut eye before he would eventually hear his final verdict. If there was any truth to what the cop said about a guilty verdict, then Scott might as well have taken a one of the doctor’s stitching kits and sewn his eyelids shut. No sense in waking up to another nightmare. No sense in contending with people who were and will always be full of shit.

Brat Man

Brat Man lived in his little superhero costume. Once elementary school was over, the uniform came off and the superhero outfit replaced it. Playing in the streets with his buddies kept him smiling, energetic, and happy in his young days. The more he played, the more he would fantasize about what being a superhero was truly all about. Why just arrest his Penguin and Joker-like friends when he could play in the big leagues? One Saturday night past Brat Man’s bedtime, he tiptoed out of the covers, put on his black leather uniform and mask, and sneaked out of the house through his window.

The night air felt refreshing against Brat Man’s honey brown skin. He took a deep breath, twirled his cape around him, and ventured out into the streets with a high and mighty swagger. So far, everything in the neighborhood was peaceful and quiet. Not one soul walking the streets this late at night. But then Brat Man strutted deeper into the streets and could hear the faint sounds of hip-hop music off in the distance. There was nothing wrong with that particular genre of music, but Brat Man imagined people in the neighborhood were trying to sleep.

The further the little superhero explored the streets, the less it felt like the safety of home. Barbed wire fences surrounded broken down buildings with spray-painted curse words on them. Smashed up cars with no wheels were parked on lawns and sidewalks every which way. Brat Man’s anxious chills multiplied throughout his body when he found a dead cat in the middle of the road. He reached down and petted the poor little thing, whose body had been pancaked by a careless driver. He wiped the blood on his cape and closed the precious baby’s eyes for good. He knew his services were needed now more than ever.

Brat Man snapped out of his animal-loving trance when a pair of combat boots stood in front of him. He slowly panned his head up to see a baldheaded white male with a swastika carved into his forehead and a Resting Bitch Face that could strike fear in the hearts of ferocious jungle beasts. The man wore a leather vest with several racist symbols on it as well as a pair of blue jeans that were several sizes too big. He also had the name “T-Money” tattooed across his neck with the T looking distinctively like another swastika.

The little superhero swallowed a huge gulp of saliva, but put on a brave front as he swirled his cape around him and said, “Give it up, T-Money! Your days of evildoing are over!”

The racist smiled a slimy-toothed smile before grabbing Brat Man by the chest and pulling the shivering young man him face-to-face. “Let me guess: you want to know what that hip-hop bullshit is playing in the background. Me too, buddy. In fact, if you’re such a fucking superhero, why don’t you go out there an see what those niggers are up to. Get them before they get away. Halloween’s over, but they’ll probably give you some candy anyways.” T-Money threw Brat Man to the ground and snickered at him.

The small child wiped the dirt off of his uniform and stood back up with his hands on his hips, defiant until the very end. In a godlike voice, he boomed, “Any last words before I take you to the authorities?”

T-Money shook his head before delivering a thudding knee to Brat Man’s stomach and dropping him to his knees. While the small fry gasped for air and whined in pain, the skinhead pulled Brat Man’s puffy until they were nose-to-nose yet again. “This ain’t no Marvel Comics bullshit, little guy. The hero ain’t going to win in the end. I tried being nice and letting you leave, but I guess your welfare momma spoiled your ass, so I’m probably going to have school you tonight.”

Brat Man threw the world’s weakest punch and only managed to hit something in T-Money’s pocket and bruise his own knuckles. The child cried and shook out his hand. The racist smiled and pulled out the object of Brat Man’s blind attack: a smart phone with a solid steel protection case. “You see this, you little bitch?” he said. “When you actually work for a living instead of lazing around on tax dollars, you can afford shit like this. Look at how strong this thing is!” The last sentence was punctuated by T-Money smashing the steel case against Brat Man’s temple, knocking him down and bringing tears to his eyes.

“Please, Mr. Money,” whined Brat Man. “No more. I just want to go home. I won’t read anymore comic books, I swear!” He held up his hands defensively to show that his begging was sincere.

“Nah, man, you ain’t going home tonight,” said T-Money. “If I let you go home, your welfare momma’s just going to spoil your ass some more. No more free rides, motherfucker. No more nigger money. No more of those geeky ass comic books.” He leaned down and whispered angrily, “Welcome to the real world, buddy. There are no heroes here. Just bad guys. Lots and lots of bad guys. In case there’s any confusion…”

T-Money pulled out a hypodermic needle filled with a mysterious substance and grabbed Brat Man firmly by the wrist, leaving purple marks in his wake. The little guy yelled, “No!” as loud as he could and squirmed around like a cat avoiding a flea bath. This was not the way he imagined his superhero life to be. Superman never had to worry about getting beaten to death by skinheads. Wonder Woman could break any sexist man with her warrior spirit alone. The Flash could run circles around even the biggest and baddest motherfuckers. Brat Man wanted all of that, but instead got a dose of heroin stabbed into his arm like a murderer’s knife.

Once T-Money pressed down on the plunger, Brat Man convulsed violently on the ground and coughed hard enough to bloody his mouth. He gasped for air while clutching the B symbol on his chest. Visions of T-Money blurred around him with a sadistic, devilish grin. The words, “Welcome to the real world” echoed like a schizophrenic demon in Brat Man’s head. The obtrusive sounds of sirens blaring caused Brat Man’s ears to pulsate with agony. The veins in his brains thumped and pumped to where they almost exploded. His vision grew dark and fuzzy until all that remained was cold silence.

In his nightmare, he huddled up for warmth while the bandages around his body did nothing to toast him up. The entire Justice League along with the Legion of Doom gathered in a circle around him, pointed, and laughed like horses at his “stupidity”. Tears flowed from Brat Man’s bloodshot eyes while he mouthed the words, “I’m sorry!” over and over again. No matter how many times he wiped his tears away, they just kept coming back stronger until they were more viscous than pipeline oil. Comic books formed a wall around him, but all he wanted to do was burn them all. With matches in hand, he struck the whole book and set the wall of paper ablaze while screaming, “I hate you! I hate you all!”

“Hey!” shouted a masculine voice, which jolted Brat Man out of his drug-induced nightmare. Except he wasn’t Brat Man anymore, not in those hospital bandages. The fact that he was lying in bed sicker than Superman around kryptonite made him even less of a hero on his mind. More tears were to come.

The trench coat and fedora-wearing detective standing over Brat Man’s bed patted him on the arm and said, “No more tears, young man. If you hadn’t dialed 9-1-1 when you did, we would have never caught that skinhead. We’ve been looking for him forever.”

Brat Man wiped his tears away and stuttered, “But…but…I didn’t call 9-1-1.”

“Maybe not on purpose, but somebody dialed 9-1-1 on T-Money’s phone,” explained the detective. Even in a drug-induced haze, Brat Man vaguely remembered accidentally striking T-Money’s phone. He pocket dialed the cops and they heard the entire conversation that night. Brat Man chalked this up to luck instead of having any real superhero potential.

“Make no mistake about it, young man,” said the detective. “Going out there in that silly superhero outfit at that time of night was dangerous. You may have done the right thing, but there’s always that chance that you could have died out there. Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

“I promise I won’t, sir,” sobbed Brat Man. “I hate being a superhero.”

“Funny you should mention that, sonny,” said the detective while ruffling Brat Man’s puffy locks. He pulled out his badge and showed it to the wide-eyed vigilante. “You see this? This is what a real superhero carries around with him. No kryptonite can ever take away this kind of power. But it takes a lot of work to get one of these. That includes doing well in school and training hard before you graduate. If you ever decide to be a superhero again, consider having this on your new uniform…when you’re old enough, that is.”

The cop left the room and gave Brat Man some privacy. He didn’t that much thinking time in order to know that the Brat Man gimmick was dead in the water. There was no way anybody could be that invincible. But with a police badge waiting for him at graduation, it was a good start. For the first time since being mauled by T-Money, Brat Man, or rather Officer Brat Man, formed a tiny smile on his face. But before he could take on the role of a real hero, he had to detox this poisonous drug out of his system. Beating withdrawal was a tough challenge worthy of a superhero’s might. He could do it. He had to do it!

Dale's Heart

***DALE’S HEART***

Over the past few days, my step-dad Dale has been having minor chest pains that were treated with aspirin up until now. Today my mom took him to the emergency room to see what the hell’s going on with his heart. Dale is still at the hospital, but Mom came home hours ago. She told me that the doctors and nurses ran several tests on him and they’re going to run a stress test tomorrow morning. All of the preliminary results are leaning towards angina, which means the blood vessels in Dale’s heart are too small to allow proper blood flow. If he passes his stress test, he could be home as early as tomorrow afternoon. If he doesn’t, then there’s a good chance he’ll need to have a stint put in his blood vessels.

Dale has a lot of factors working against his body whether it’s his 69-year-old age, his overweight body, his past with cigarette-smoking, or the fact that heart disease runs in his family. Despite all of this, I have a positive feeling he’s going to make it out of the hospital as good as new. His father had heart disease and he lived well into his 90’s. Dale’s fought through worse health problems in his life and he’s going to fight through this too. Ever since he married my mom in 2005, he’s been a huge reason why our family is living a peaceful life today. If there’s anything our family can do to help him through this tough obstacle, we’re going to do it.

That last part includes canceling a few trips he and my mom were going to take in June. A few days after my 32^nd birthday, the two of them were going to fly to Pennsylvania to visit with family. That’s not going to be possible if Dale’s heart problems are more serious than we imagined. They also have a concert they’re going to in Denver with their childhood friend Sandy. It’s Paul Simon’s final concert before he retires and I’d really hate for them to miss that. Poor Dale-Pie. Poor, poor Dale-Pie.

If you want to leave well-wishes for Dale, you can do it on Good Reads, Deviant Art, Blogger.com, and Face Book since that’s where I plan on leaving this blog. He needs all the love he can get right now. But like I said earlier, I have faith that he’ll pull through like he has against every other obstacle in his life. I know I use the word “warrior” a lot in my writing, but I believe it applies to Dale as well as the magicians and barbarians in Poison Tongue Tales and Occupy Wrestling. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time.

Illness

***ILLNESS***

The Mexican cruise and the Californian trip was without a doubt the most fun I’ve had in a while with the major highlight being the sea lion and stingray encounters in Puerto Vallarta. Coming home from this lengthy vacation was supposed to be a nonstop relaxation fest where I snuggled with kitties and slept soundly in my own bed. But last Wednesday was anything but relaxing. I got some writing done that day, so that was worth celebrating. It was the boiling hot fever I got at the end of the night that set the tone for the rest of the week. And thus begins the very boring blog topic of…(yawn)…physical illness. Grab a pillow. It’s going to be a long one.

The night I had the fever, I also vomited in the toilet several times and had loose diarrhea. My sickness got so bad that I elected not to use my CPAP for fear that I might puke in it in my sleep. My breath was also so hot that it made the mask uncomfortable. I spent most of that night drinking Sparkling Ices and staying awake in my computer and reading chairs. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well that night and it would get worse over the next two days.

More vomiting ensued, so much so that my ribs were sore afterwards. Every time I would cough or sneeze, my rib pain would flare up. I was practically begging my mom to take me to the chiropractor after my sickness was over. Because I had more loose diarrhea and vomiting, instead of a chiropractor, I spent Friday night in the hospital. I had to be rehydrated with four pounds of water, but I probably lost even more than that throughout the sickness. What a hell of a way to lose weight.

During my stay in the hospital, I had a CAT scan to make sure I didn’t have appendicitis (I had gut pains on the right side of my body). I was greatly relieved when I tested negative, so chances are this whole sickness of mine was due to a virus going around or potentially food poisoning. The bug made more sense because my brother James and step-dad Dale got sick as well. My mom was already dealing with a bout of whooping cough once we got off the cruise ship. This whole week has just been one big barfaroni fest for all of us.

As a result of our collective sicknesses, my family has a shit ton of Gatorade and Campbell’s soup stocked up around the house. I didn’t start eating solid foods until just a few days ago. I’m doing much better today than I was a week ago. In fact, I might even go for a walk to the convenience store later today. It used to be that I was too weak and lazy to do basic chores like clean the litter box or take out the garbage. While I’m still sneezing and coughing like crazy, a sense of normalcy has been restored to the Haines-Temons-Stevens-Wilson household. Normal is good.

I can only hope that we’re all feeling well enough to see Garrison Keillor perform tomorrow night in Tacoma. We need him now more than ever in this Trump-ruled country. It’s going to be me, mom, Dale, and my therapist Rachel tagging along to see Mr. Keillor do his monologues. I hope it’s a wonderful performance! We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER 19***

In the interest of head-hopping fun (because that’s totally acceptable in literature), this chapter is going to focus on a confrontation between King Arthur Triscloud and Roger Zee. Arthur is bound to a crucifix atop a holy mountain with Roger Zee lecturing him the entire time. The two of them have a conversation about Roger’s motives and wondering just what the hell has gotten into him. It is during this conversation that Arthur reveals that he has some “special friends” coming for him and that Roger should heed his warning. The zealot laughs it off like it’s standup comedy, but is that a wise approach to such a stern threat?

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

MICHAEL: At least your name isn’t Michael Bolton.

SAMIR: You know, there’s nothing wrong with that name.

MICHAEL: There WAS nothing wrong with it, until I was about twelve years old and that no-talent ass-clown became famous and started winning Grammies.

SAMIR: Why don’t you go by Mike instead of Michael?

MICHAEL: No way! Why should I change? He’s the one who sucks.

-Office Space-

Demon Axe, Chapter 14

In traumatic situations, doctors were supposed to provide delicate care so as not to trigger raw emotions. But when Daniel Mercer thrashed around in his hospital bed punching and kicking anything that moved, he had to be held down by the toughest of the tough. Three different nurses held his left arm. Two doctors held his right arm. One of the bigger nurses laid across his shins.

The Lord of the Pit roared and screamed his head off with his most demonic voice, but the medical staff’s pressure on his limbs increased even more. He got so cantankerous that they had to strap him in bed with leather buckles. Even in bondage his head bounced off the pillow as he howled like a wounded animal.

All it took was one jab in the arm and a press of the plunger. Daniel felt coldness running through his veins to sooth his burning anger. The volume of his possessed screams got lower as his breathing intensified. His eyelids became heavier than dumbbells. His clenched jaw relaxed to where his tongue was hanging out like a dog. While he wasn’t completely knocked out, he was drowsy enough that the doctors and nurses could wipe the sweat off their foreheads and breathe sighs of relief.

“I’ll take it from here, guys. Thank you very much,” said a familiar male voice. The medical staff huffed and heaved their way out of the semi-private room after such an exhausting struggle. Even with blurry vision and a relaxed mind, Daniel could make out the cue ball head of Detective Shawn Henry, the man who brought him to this hospital in the first place.

As the delirious snoozer tried to form words, Detective Henry placed a gentle hand on his shoulder to signify that he’ll be the one who does the talking. “You’re in a safe place now, Daniel. You were a pain in the ass to get here, but that just goes to show how much of a fighter you really are. I can only imagine what kind of pain you were in when Roger Zee tortured you. It’s one thing to use musical torture on somebody else. But to a man who built his entire life around that genre of music…it’s unacceptable. It’s like A Clockwork Orange for the good guys.”

Daniel once again tried to form a coherent sentence, but he ended up sounding like a drunken stroke victim. He seemed to get Shawn’s message with little nods here and there.

The detective placed a hand on Daniel’s knee and said, “You may not realize it right now, but we need you now more than ever. Roger Zee has the entire police force under his control. I should have never let him get to those computers. Even so, there’s still a chance we can put him away once and for all. I have a pretty good idea of where he’s taking his newfound forces.”

“…Lay-len…Lay-len!” said Daniel with a swollen tongue.

“Yes, Daniel, you’ve mentioned this Raven girl to me before. Is she your girlfriend?” asked Shawn, to which the Lord of the Pit flashed a retarded grin. The detective flashed a small grin himself and said, “Whoever she is, we’ll find her before Roger can hurt her. I know it seems like we’re wasting time in this hospital, but trust me, you’re in no condition to be chasing bad guys right now. You might be better in the morning, depending on just how long you spent at that black site. Either way, you’re the only one who can stop this madman. With that microphone of yours, you might even be able to talk some sense into my colleagues.”

Daniel shook his head and allowed his tongue to dangle from side to side like a pendulum of spittle. His attempts at “Uh-uh” grew stronger the more he realized what he was being asked to do.

“I know you don’t think much of your music right now. I know you think that you can’t do this without your band mates. But like it or not, you’re a huge part of this puzzle. While you’re not even close to being the one to blame for Roger’s violence, he’s taking a huge interest in your vocation, not to mention everything your music stands for.”

Shawn leaned in closer with this next sentence. “You are the creative force behind every music group you’ve been a part of. Even with traumatic nightmares, you’re one of the most imaginative people I’ve ever known. That scares Roger. He doesn’t like creativity. He shuns individuality. He wants this world to be just as boring and dull as him. You can’t let that happen. You’ve got to put a line through that.”

Daniel made a whiny groan in his throat while slamming his head on the pillow in disbelief. Shawn patted his knee and said, “I know we’re asking a lot of you. But this is a responsibility you were custom built for, my friend. Don’t think of these civilians as mere strangers. Think of them as audience members. They’re gathering around you so that you can put on a show for them. Not just any show, but one that will fill them with positive memories. Memories that will make them want to come back for more. Even with your most violent lyrics, you inspire an entire generation of listeners to face the hardest parts of life.”

The Lord of the Pit had a flat tire hiss and shook his head. Breathing a sigh of relief, Shawn knew he had to pull out the big guns to get this reluctant hero’s attention. He reached in his pocket and pulled out something that made Daniel’s eyes light up like Las Vegas.

“You see this, Mr. Mercer? This right here is the very first Demon Axe album. I bought it after the two of us met for the very first time. I admit, it was a god-awful interview at your house, but if it wasn’t for that, I would have never known about your music. I have to say, this is a pretty goddamn good album. I don’t claim to be the biggest metal head on planet earth, but even I think this is pretty fucking good. You and your band mates put a lot of hard work into every song on this CD. Your band mates gave you their lives, now it’s time to finish the job.”

Tears rolled down Daniel’s cheeks as he made little whimpering noises through his nose. Shawn grabbed a paper towel from the counter and wiped them away ever so delicately. He said, “I can tell you’re still not convinced. You somehow have it in you that you let everyone down by allowing yourself to be tortured. You didn’t let anyone down, Daniel. Some things in life are beyond our control. But this road that lies ahead of you, this road to recovery, it begins and ends with putting Roger Zee in his grave. To help you along the way, I brought another surprise for you.”

Shawn motioned toward the doorway and two nurses wheeled a gigantic radio into the room. The detective pulled out yet another CD, though Daniel’s eyes widened when he couldn’t tell what the album was. The Lord of the Pit made loud whining noises in anticipation of more torture. He thrashed around in his straps, but no amount of white hot rage could set him free.

The gentle piano music, on the other hand, could, at least psychologically. The pianist’s fingers danced lightly and gracefully across the keys, especially near the lower octaves to provide the sweetest lullaby to a pain-wracked Daniel. The whining and whimpering was reduced to silent drooling and a spaced-out look in his eyes. With his hands at his lap, he performed the one technique that got him through the death of his Demon Axe brethren. He tapped his left leg, then his right, then his left, then his right, almost in perfect harmony with the tranquilizing piano music.

“Lay-len…Lay-len…Lay-len…”

Shawn smiled at Daniel and said, “Raven was the one who taught you that technique. That’s called EMDR. I’d definitely say she’s a keeper, my friend. If you don’t do this for anybody else, do this for her. She’s depending on you.”

Daniel formed another stupid-looking grin on his face while his eyes danced in different directions. Shawn covered his own face as he noticed a sizable lump growing in Daniel’s shorts. The detective jokingly said, “Too much information, buddy! Too much information!”

The Lord of the Pit chuckled in his moment of quasi-embarrassment and kept tapping his thighs until his eyelids closed for the final time of the night. Daniel’s face fell to the side of his pillow and he ended his evening with a combination of frothing drool and lawnmower snores.

Shawn smiled again and shook his head. Meanwhile, one of the nurses produced Daniel’s magical microphone and asked, “Where do you want me to leave this?”

The detective took it and said, “I’ve got a nice place for it when he’s ready to wake up.” Confident that the singer was lost in dreamland, Shawn placed the microphone handle in Daniel’s hand and closed his fingers around it. The cop was careful not to allow the mouthpiece near his drooling sewer hole, but it was right there when he needed it. Even in his subconscious’s theater, Daniel Mercer had a decision to make: run away and never turn back or fight like the warrior he was always meant to be.

Mom's Knee Surgery

***MOM’S KNEE SURGERY***

A lot of my friends and family members are asking about this, so I’m going to use this journal entry as an opportunity to answer those lingering questions. This past Tuesday morning, my mom had surgery on her left knee. This operation had been a long time coming since she was always having trouble walking around, especially when it came to climbing stairs. There was even a time during our Hawaiian vacation back in October where she had to be pushed around in a wheelchair to get to our flights on time.

Dale and I visited Mom in the hospital yesterday and she was in good spirits. She said that the surgery wasn’t anywhere near as bad as she thought it was going to be and that she would recover quickly and uneventfully. The whole operation took an hour and half and she was up and walking by herself a short time later. She had to use a walking device that we borrowed from our next door neighbors Bill and Chris and it turned out to be a huge help in her getting around. I can’t thank my neighbors enough for their undying support.

Earlier today, Mom came home with Dale doing the driving. Mom isn’t allowed to drive for at least six weeks while her knee heals. She’s also going to need to take Vicodin in case her pain flares up. I personally would have suggested medical marijuana since it’s legal in Washington state, but I’m pretty sure it’s a banned substance when it comes to receiving social security benefits. Oh well. Mom is a fighter when it comes to hardships. She survived the remodeling of two houses in 2016, one in North Carolina and one on our own home. She also survived a rat infestation which has her traumatized for life. At 69 years old, she still has a lot to give in this life. If she needs hair fuzzles and shoulder rubs along the way, I’m more than happy to give them to her.

Tomorrow morning, she begins physical therapy to rehab her knee. I’ve had physical therapy before when I had to tighten my left labrum back in place, so if she needs encouragement or experience, she can turn to me. Yes, the exercises can be excruciating sometimes (especially for a 69-year-old woman), but all of the hard work will be worth it in the end. We have a Mexican cruise planned in March, so she’ll have plenty of time to get her knee ready for some fun in the sun. I’d love to see Mom swimming around with manta rays and turtles like we did when we were in Hawaii in 2010.

Just like with any physical setback, the road to recovery is going to take some time and hard work. My mom has been through a lot in her lifetime, so doing physical therapy exercises isn’t at the top of the list when it comes to hardships. She can get through this. I know she can. She’ll have all of us to cheer her on. And then when she comes home for the day, she can fall asleep in her rocking chair with a kitty on her lap and Bones on TV. I always rib her for being a stereotypical old lady who falls asleep in her chair, but it’s all in good fun. To be honest, she’s earned her right to snooze and snore for as long as she wants to. She’s a wonderful mother and I wouldn’t trade her for the world.

If you want to wish my mom a speedy recovery, then you can do so in this blog entry. Thanks in advance! We’ve got ears, say cheers!

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

The new contest started yesterday and the theme will be “Brand New”. When I posted this synopsis on Good Reads, I already had someone say they could relate to the main character (Bernard). Let’s hope he can keep relating when I actually write the story. It’s called “A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Swear Words” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Bernard Hamm, Corpulent Author
2. Diego Martinez, Obnoxious Photographer

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Bernard’s debut novel could be considered brand new.

SYNOPSIS: Bernard’s debut novel was just published and he’s promoting it at a local bookstore by signing free copies. His only request is that nobody takes pictures of him due to his self-consciousness about his weight and general appearance. Diego completely dishonors Bernard’s request by pulling out his smart phone and taking unwanted selfies with him. Diego justifies his forceful photography by saying the author owes it to his fans and that this is a free country. Bernard becomes increasingly angry with the intrusive picture taking and attempts to strangle Diego with his own bare hands. Diego goes so far as to threaten a lawsuit against his attacker, but Bernard doesn’t care.

FUN FACT: This story is inspired by an incident that happened to Amy Schumer a few years ago when an obsessive fan took unwanted pictures of her in South Carolina. Now Miss Schumer won’t allow pictures of any kind because of what happened.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Up next on the chopping block is Casey Carter, the creepy undertaker from “Having a Cold One”. Come to think of it, there aren’t really any heroes in that story. It’s just two villains fighting over a dead body, but for different and often disturbing reasons. I already did a drawing of the other character in that story, Jay David, so Casey Carter was naturally next.

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

CUSTOMER: Cute cat. What’s his name?

RANDAL: Annoying Customer.

CUSTOMER: Fucking dickhead!

-Clerks-

Cold and Scared

One month was all it took. One month of missed paychecks, lost sleep, hyper-vigilance, and moodiness was all Officer Casey Rasmussen needed to find what she needed to find…at least she was sure she did. This forest had to be the place. If not, then the baggy eyelids, messy hair, and hunched over tiredness would continue for another month. The trail might have been colder than the nighttime air by the time Casey checked out this lead.

The officer pulled her puffy coat over herself even tighter while shining a flashlight on the dirt trail. The foot prints were deep and fresh, which meant someone had been here recently. Another good sign was the distinct print pattern of someone wearing size thirteen sneakers. A tiny smile formed on Casey’s face as her teeth chattered and her breath became steamy. If these footprints went on forever, she would walk forever. This was too good of a lead to throw away those sleepless nights.

Just a powerful yawn and a few more steps later and Officer Rasmussen’s flashlight shone brightly in the face of a shivering twenty-something sitting against the tree with little to protect him from the cold other than tattered blue jeans and a ripped hooded sweatshirt. Size thirteen sneakers as well; it was definitely him. But what the hell was this young man doing with a dream-catcher in his shaking hands?

“Eric Bradley? My name is Officer Casey Rasmussen. I’m here to bring you back home to your mother. You’ve been gone for a whole month. She’s worried sick about you. Come on, let’s get you warmed up in the car.”

But as Casey approached the shaky and erratic manchild, he crawled backwards while holding the dream-catcher in her face like a priest with a crucifix. “Stay back! I don’t want to go back home! She’s evil! She poisons my food! She wants to make me into one of her zombies!”

The cop laid her weapons belt on the ground, a belt which contained a pistol, pepper spray, and a stun gun. While holding her hands up in surrender, she kicked the belt off to the side, but not too far out of sight. “I’m not here to hurt you, Eric. Your mother doesn’t want to hurt you either. You don’t mean those things. How long has it been since you’ve taken your schizophrenia medication?”

“Not long enough!” shouted Eric. A tense silence hung in the frigid night air, making chatters and shivers even more audible between the nervous cop and civilian. Even in pants-wetting fear, Eric held that dream-catcher like it was his own version of a pistol, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

Casey tiptoed over to Eric, who crawled backwards just as slowly until the cop caught up with him and sat next to him against one of the trees. Mr. Bradley’s hostility soothed into calmness as he threw his dream-catcher to the side and gently rested his hooded head against the rough bark.

“That dream-catcher is special to you, isn’t it, Eric? Your mother told me that it’s your favorite thing to play with,” said Casey with a warm smile.

“Play with? Shit, this thing was supposed to do something for those goddamn voices. It’s supposed to heal me. Turns out it’s just a bunch of urban voodoo bullshit,” said Eric. He banged his head against the tree and breathed deeply and rapidly during his rant. “I just want them to shut up. Is it too much to ask? Why won’t they let me live in peace? High school is over. They’re all gone! Those stupid jocks are never coming back! Why do they keep talking to me?! Why do they keep calling me every fucking insult in the book?! Why are they laughing at me?!” Eric began pounding the dirt ground like a child having a fit.

The only reason he stopped was because Casey grabbing his hands snapped him out of that nightmarish trance. She looked sternly into his eyes and said, “Listen to me, Eric. That dream-catcher is not going to heal you, you’re right. Then again, neither will forgetting to take your pills or skipping your therapy sessions. You were doing great after you got out of high school. And then somewhere along the way, you…”

With tears in his eyes and snot in his nose, Eric interrupted, “I what? I blew it? Is that what you’re going to tell me? That I fucking blew it?!” He stood up and towered over the seated Casey, who had her hands raised defensively. He pointed harshly at her and ranted, “What do you know about me and what I’ve been through?! Are you some kind of shrink now?! Do you want to pick my brain?! Nobody’s picking my brain tonight! Keep your poisonous food and pills, because I see the world for what it really is: a shit-hole! A putrid…vile…evil…shit-hole! It’s fucking dystopia all over again!”

Casey decided this conversation was going nowhere fast and performed a double-leg takedown on Eric, who thrashed his arms and wailed like a baby. The cop advanced her position to his chest and held his arms straight in a bear hug. No matter how many times Eric yelled, “Let me go!” Casey continued to restrain her target with a firm grasp. Eric’s yells got more frantic and less intelligible, but he eventually gave up and broke down crying.

“It’s too late for me, Officer!” he sobbed. “I’ll never be the same again! I’ll never write poetry like I used to! I’ll never make money on my own! No woman will want to be with me after this! I’m useless! Damn it, I’m useless!” Casey shushed him a few times and the rabid crying defused to a gentle weep.

“You need help, Eric. This is not the way people are supposed to live. You can’t live out here in this forest on your own. How long has it been since you’ve eaten anything other than berries and nuts?” asked Officer Rasmussen in a gentle whisper.

“It’s better than choking down that poison my mom cooks,” said Eric.

Casey got off her target’s chest and sat on her knees in front of him. “You’re right about one thing: I don’t know what you’ve been through. I only know what your mother told me about you. I keep trying to talk to you, but you’re going off on different tangents and not making any sense. This needs to stop, Eric. Please, come with me. Not just for your mother’s sake, but for yours. Is this really how you want to live?”

A monstrous growl echoed across the scene and glowing animal eyes lingered in the background. Casey and Eric watched on in horror as the creature’s fangs came into the light. A thick coat of brown fur encased this savage forest warrior as the drooling wolf descended upon its victims. Casey and Eric slowly made it to their feet and tiptoed backwards to avoid aggravating the beast any further.

The wolf lunged at the pair with the intent to rip flesh and shatter bones. Casey pushed Eric out of the way and felt the wrath of this beast’s teeth sinking into her leg. She bled profusely as she stumbled over in an attempt to reach her weapons belt. The more she struggled, the tighter the wolf’s fangs latched onto her leg. But struggle she did. She clawed into the dirt and dragged her tired body across the ground. She was fingertips away from her belt, but the massive bleeding in her leg caused her to feel lightheaded. The weapons she needed were a blur to her and everything was fading to black.

And then the razor-sharp teeth in her leg released their grip as Eric let out a primal scream and palm struck the wolf in the nose, the most sensitive part of a dog’s body. The wolf ran away whining and moaning, but the bleeding in Casey’s leg created a flood around her body. Eric was pacing back and forth nervously biting his fingernails wondering what to do next. When the answers didn’t come to him, he dropped to his knees and let out yet another primal scream while pounding his forehead with his fists.

Despite the brutal wound, Casey found enough strength to sit up on her butt and contain Eric with another bear hug. With one arm wrapped around her target, she pressed the buttons on her walky-talky and said, “I need an ambulance to come down to Redwood Forest stat! Officer down and suspect Eric Bradley is having a breakdown! Over!”

The cop and the suspect breathed sighs of relief and plopped on their backs when there was a “Roger that!” on the other end of that transmission.

Eric sobbed softly and asked, “What’s going to happen to me now, Officer? Am I going to be locked up in a nut house? Wherever I’m going, I don’t want to be out here anymore. I hate this place! I hate it!”

Casey held Eric’s hand and said, “I’m not going to lie to you, Eric. You’ve endangered a lot of people with your behavior prior to coming to the forest. That’s why your mom called us. But after you saved my ass tonight, I’m going to make sure you get the best treatment you can possibly get. With any luck, you’ll go straight to the psychiatric hospital and you won’t have to do jail time.” She chuckled in a petrified manner and said, “Shit, man, I should have known punching the wolf in the nose would have gotten him off me. That’s the oldest trick in the book.”

Eric turned to Casey, smiled, and said, “Now who’s fucked up in the head?”

Pills

CHORUS 1

Pills, pills, they’re good for your brain!

Keeping your ass from going insane!

Pills, pills, they’re good for your boner!

Keeping your ass from being a loner!

Pills, pills, they’re good for your heart!

Keeping it from being torn apart!

Pills, pills, come and get some!

The side effects are so much fun!

VERSE 1

Ask your doctor if it’s right for you

Ask your lawyer if you should sue

Ask your banker if you need a loan

Ask your therapist if you’re all alone

Ask your family for a helping hand

Ask your shelter for food that’s canned

So many questions that need to be answered

Side effects include diarrhea and cancer

CHORUS 2

Pills, pills, they’re good for your soul!

So what if you feel empty and cold?!

Pills, pills, they’re good for your penis!

Make it so big, it’s seen from Venus!

Pills, pills, they’re good for your liver!

So what if they make you vomit and quiver?!

Pills, pills, come get a prescription!

Fighting yourself is a war of attrition!

VERSE 2

Don’t take the pills if you want to live

Another prescription to write and give

Side effects may include a big ass stroke

This is all just a prank; it’s all just a joke

We love watching you shiver and fall

We don’t care which lawyer you call

We’ve got more power than a mighty king

With our kind of money, we can do anything

CHORUS 3

Pills, pills, take them for thrills!

Who cares about the pile of medical bills!

Pills, pills, to worsen your ills!

We are the ones who legally kill!

Pills, pills, come get your fill!

Whine all about it on Dr. Phil!

We’re the doctors, we own your ass!

A gallbladder stone is what you’ll pass!

VERSE 3

They could be labeled with an E or V

Swallow them all with sadistic glee

Taste the rainbow like a bag of Skittles

Use your hard-on before it gets little

FINAL LINE

Ask your doctor if Bullshitlexia is right for you.

Pull You Under

Spencer Henry spent what seemed like hours at his apartment staring angrily at a photo of himself. His cheeks were trembling. His eyes were burning and watery. Every muscle in his body tensed up. The picture he held in his hand was taken at the age of 21, when life was beautiful and happy. At age 40, all he felt was the fiery sensation building in his belly.

“I hate you,” he finally said to the picture. He said it again. And again. With every repetition came more fire and volume in his throaty voice. He said it so many times that his hot breath started to resemble that of a dragon. He couldn’t care less how thin the walls in his apartment were. He didn’t care how many warnings he got from the superintendent. There wasn’t a whole lot about life that Spencer cared about. Just rage. More and more rage.

“I’ll pull you under, motherfucker!” he suddenly screamed before punching the glass-encased photo. Punching glass probably wasn’t the wisest move of Spencer’s life, but a middle-aged man’s wisdom went away a long time ago when the hateful dialogue poured from his mouth like snake’s venom.

The shattered glass cut deep into Spencer’s fingers, splattering blood all over his carpet. The screams were much louder and more barbaric, but this time it was out of mind-blowing pain. He wrapped his hand in his burgundy polo shirt, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It kept pouring like a raging river and all Spencer could do about it was kneel to the ground and wait for help to arrive. Someone must have heard him and dialed 911 by now. The walls were thinner than a Catholic wafer sometimes.

The last few minutes of Spencer Henry’s consciousness were spent bleeding all over the floor and adding tears and snot to this hodgepodge of emotional fluids. Fading to darkness was probably the best thing that could have happened to him at this point. He wouldn’t have to think those hateful thoughts of himself any longer.

But the thing about being rescued by first responders was that the patient eventually had to wake up. The fuzzy brown and white-haired Spencer awakened slowly and painfully while wearing a paper thin hospital gown. He had wires and tubes going into his body as he lay there on a semi-comfortable bed. His previously bloody hand was covered thickly in white gauze and showed no distinction between fingers, like a mitten of sorts.

“I’m glad to see you awake, Mr. Henry. We thought we’d lost you there for a minute. I’m Dr. Josie Cosgrave. I was in charge of your hand surgery.” The good doctor sat at the edge of Spencer’s bed with a hunched over posture and her chin on her arms. Her pose suggested that she wanted to talk about more than just a few stitches or some medication. The look on her darkly-complexioned face suggested something far more serious. “Is there a reason why you punched a picture of yourself, Mr. Henry?”

He let out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders before saying, “I’m just a little stressed out right now.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” said Josie with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “There’s just one problem. People who are just a little stressed out don’t unleash a Mike Tyson assault on a piece of glass. They also don’t cry incessantly and fight the same EMT’s who are trying to load them into the ambulance.”

“Wait a minute…I did all of that?” asked a weary Spencer.

“All that and more,” answered Josie. She meandered over to the side of her patient’s bed and held his good hand in a semi-affectionate way. “Something’s bothering you, Mr. Henry. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out one way or another. The answer just might determine if you need psychological counseling or not.”

“Yeah, like my insurance is going to cover that,” said Spencer while throwing his bad hand in the air sarcastically. “Oh wait, I forgot. I don’t have insurance. People who fry fish in the afternoon and write crappy novels at night don’t have that kind of luxury.”

“So is that why you’re so angry at yourself?” asked Josie. “Because you’re pissed off about how life has treated you?”

“What a mind,” said Spencer with even more sarcasm in his voice.

“You don’t have to be a wise-ass with me, Mr. Henry. I’m not your enemy here. I’m your friend. Yes, the hospital bill is going to be expensive, but I personally didn’t take this job as a doctor for a paycheck. It took it because that’s what I love to do. I love helping people like you get through their worst moments.”

Spencer shook his head and smiled unconvincingly when he said, “That’s it, huh? That’s the answer to my problems? Just love what I do and do what I love?” Silence overtook the room before it was broken with a sad sigh. “I really thought I could do it. I thought writing a novel and getting my name out there would give me a comfortable life. I thought I’d be a rock star by now. My novel, ‘Pull You Under’, has been edited countless times by countless people. God knows how many drafts I’ve got.”

Instead of interrupting the flow of the conversation, Dr. Josie Cosgrave squeezed Spencer’s good hand and gave him a look of concern. She didn’t want to talk at that moment, just listen. And damn, did Spencer have a lot to say.

“And then…just when I think I’m finally getting a big break…” A solitary tear rolled down his cheek. “Those asshole editors take their rubber stamp and brand my manuscript with the word ‘reject’ in beg red letters. Reject! That’s what I am to these people! I’ve spent the last ten years sending in that novel and all I ever got was a mouthful of battered fish and French fries for lunch! Every damn day! Every day, another fucking stamp! How many more times are they going to do it?! Why can’t they just say ‘yes’ for the first time in their lives?! Three fucking letters, one fucking word! Yes! Yes! Yeeeeeeeees!!”

The rage has finally boiled over for Spencer Henry. He ripped his good hand from Dr. Cosgrave’s clutches and tried to rip at the bandages and stitches in his hand. Josie tried to pin the furious man’s arms down, but he was much too powerful for her and shoved her to the floor. The man was so pissed off that he started foaming at the mouth with saliva. He was determined to rip his hand to shreds and put an end to his lackluster writing career forever.

Once again, the power of his fiery vocal cords brought help when he needed it the most. Dr. Cosgrave got up again and along with a team of blue scrubs nurses who just came rushing in held Spencer’s tensed up arms down. He put up a wilder fight than a raging bull being lead to the slaughter. Nurses were shoved backwards and more foam poured from Spencer’s mouth.

In one quick motion, Josie stabbed Spencer in the arm and pumped his bloodstream full of sedatives. He fought like a rabid wolverine for a few more seconds and then slowly, but surely descended into darkness once more. By the time he was knocked out, the spittle on his chin looked like he had a Santa Claus beard. The nurses all breathed sighs of relief while Dr. Cosgrave took a napkin and wiped the spittle off.

Spencer Henry didn’t wake up for another hour or so. When he did, his head was pounding and his jaw felt like he’d taken one of his own right hooks. His vision was blurry, mostly from the tears he shed, but it was eventually restored to where he saw Dr. Cosgrave at the foot of his bed again along with a team of nurses in the background.

“Truth is, Mr. Henry,” said Josie in a much more stern voice. “The writing business isn’t all frills and gimmicks. Rejection is common even for the most popular authors who are drowning in a sea of revised drafts. They have a name for going through that kind of hell: it’s called paying your dues. I know you felt like you’ve paid yours with one hundred percent interest, but you have no idea how much further you have to climb.”

“I…I didn’t mean to scare you guys like that,” said Spencer with a weak voice.

“I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Henry,” said Josie with her arms tensed at her sides. “But we all know why you did it. You did it for the same reason that me and my nurses have: because you feel underappreciated. You’ve paid your dues time and time again. Well, guess what? So have we. So has anyone else who’s ever had a career. We as a society are all in this together. The sooner you let us into your world, the better off you’ll be. Whether you’re a writer, a doctor, a construction worker, a teacher, or otherwise, the struggle and the stress are both real. How will you respond to yours, Mr. Henry? Are you going to give up and flat line in that bed of yours? Or are you going to keep on fighting this endless war? We’ll fight for your life, but only if you fight for yours too.”

Spencer let out a deep sigh and said, “I want to keep going on. I want to believe there’s something out there for me. I just don’t know what it is and how I’ll get there.”

“That’s the beautiful thing about life: you don’t have to know, because it’s not laid out for you. You have to make your own destiny. Your medical chart says you’re 40 years old, but your life is far from over, my friend,” said Josie. She let her words resonate with Spencer for a minute and then she continued. “I’ve been saying that shit for a long ass time now. Some of my patients believed it, some of them didn’t. Those who believed it became successful in their lives or at least happy with what they’ve got. Those who didn’t believe it eventually grew up to be stored in our morgue’s body lockers.”

Spencer tried to calm himself with some basic breathing techniques as he thought about what the good doctor said to him. Was she right? She could be. But she could also be someone collecting more money than a professional fish fryer. Either way, it didn’t matter. The pissed off author was now calm enough to make his decision in his 40 year old crossroads. “Does anybody here know of a good editor I can hire?”

“Not off the top of my head,” said Josie with a satisfied smile. “But I can look it up for you.” As she pulled out her smart phone and did a Google search, Spencer relaxed into his pillow and let out a deep breath, thinking at last that he was on the right path once again.

The Franciscan Death Scream

There’s been speculation among every psychic my mother has visited that in a past lives I was always a warrior of some kind. It could have been a barbarian in the dark ages or a marine in Vietnam. I’d say those assessments are true to the fullest extent, especially as they relate to battle cries. Well, these days, the only battle cries I let out are ones where I’m in an extreme amount of pain. You want to know how I define an extreme amount of pain? Stepping on a thumb tack. Banging my elbow against the wall. Banging my head on the roof of a short car. With the way I scream loudly and whiningly in pain, you would have sworn I’d broken a bone or had a limb amputated. But that’s the price of being autistic: high sensitivity to everything, including the most insignificant kind of pain.

My blood draw in 2006 at the Franciscan Hospital in Gig Harbor, Washington was no different. I had to have one because it was part of my physical checkup. Just because I had to have one, didn’t mean I had to particularly enjoy it. Needles are sharp. Sharpness creates pain. Pain creates death screams that make me sound like I’m being fed through a wood chipper or being cut in half crotch first with a chainsaw. I don’t know why people say that needles aren’t a big deal. They’re always going to be sharp and they’re always going to hurt whether they’re drawing blood or threading yarn through a piece of cloth.

My blood draw went exactly how I expected it would. I sat in a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. The anxiety in my stomach builds. The nurse tied a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm. The anxiety in my stomach builds even further and now I start making little whining noises. The nurse tells me to look away as if that’s going to help ease the pain. It didn’t matter where I was looking, because the end result was having a bastard sword-like needle plunged into my arm.

As to be expected, I let out a blood-curdling death scream. It was loud. It was throaty. It was slightly girlish. It was like being a female lion in an extreme amount of pain. Apparently, there were frightened little kids in the waiting room who ran upstairs after hearing my shriek of agony and their parents ran after them. Any stragglers would have hurried up after hearing me cry, “Take the needle out! Take the needle out!” The nurse did and I let out another bellow of berserker pain.

Ever since that day, anytime I go to that hospital in Gig Harbor, the nurses and doctors always expect me to scream. They make no attempt to silence me, unlike my mother whose favorite line is always, “There’s no yelling.” Oh, but there is. There is and there always will be, dear mother. There was screaming when I had to have my big toes operated on for ingrown nails, there was screaming when I had to have my foot examined after a cat bite, and there’s even screaming at my eye doctor appointments in Port Orchard when he puts stinging drops in my eyes for a glaucoma test.

Unless my mother is considering a career as a dominatrix, there will be no silence anywhere we go. If we go on another horseback ride in Arizona, my groin and legs are going to hurt so badly that I’ll yell as if they’re being blasted with an AK-47. If my computer malfunctions at home or if a WWE pay-per-view on my Roku freezes up, I’m going to scream and swear at either one until my blood pressure is in the 300’s and my pulse is in the 1000’s.

Three things are certain in my mother’s life as well as the life of anybody who lives with me: death, taxes, and barbaric war cries. The only thing I’m missing is a horned helmet and a double-sided battleaxe. Of course, carrying such a heavy weapon would cause strain and strain causes even more shrills of extreme pain. I’ve got the barbaric ethos down to a science and I haven’t even swung my weapon yet (and I’m not sure I will be able to).

　

***COMMERCIAL DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

GUY: I’m eating right and staying in shape. I’ve been doing the Duck Dodger.
GIRL: What’s the Duck Dodger?
GUY: It’s like a triathlon, but with dodge balls.
GIRL: Do they leave a mark?
GUY: Not on the outside.

-Subway-