Three Days Grace vs. ChatGPT: Who's the Real Machine Around Here?

 

Beautiful Monster, Prologue

Elves from all walks of life filed into the Magetan church as though they were already in a Death Valley March trance. Farmers, warriors, healers, scholars, adults, children, they had all seen their fair share of trauma by virtue of their light green skin and pointy ears. It was just another form of othering that the human population had gotten far too comfortable with. The Xavier Village was their only refuge from it all, yet the luster of safety was growing dimmer with each passing day, with each missing elf, with each instance of violence and every microaggression. 

The elven flock took their seats in the wooden pews. Some of them breathed slowly to try to calm themselves down. Mothers held their bewildered children in their arms. Married couples of all sexual orientations rested their heads on each other’s shoulders and held hands as tightly as they could, as if letting go would cause them to float away into the dark abyss. Most of these elves didn’t bother dressing up in their finest clothing for this sermon. Dirt-covered overalls, torn leather vests, baggy pants that were the only source of comfort for some, and dresses with faded purple colors were among the fashion of the day. The collective trauma must have made dressing their best seem like a laborious chore. No one could blame them. Combing their flowing locks seemed like the only notable effort.

Conspicuous by her own presence was the woman with prematurely gray dreadlocks sitting alone on the far end of one of the pews. While other elves were simply sick and tired of the grind of their disenfranchised lives, Bijou Birdwing seemed to carry that burden more than anyone else. The bridal gown she wore looked as though it had seen many years of fights and lonely nights in the streets of Morgan Town, judging from the blood and dirt stains smeared every which way. Her body odor was forgivable among the flock, but the constant twitching, muttering to herself, and staring off into the distance caused them to hold onto their loved ones even tighter. Bijou had been through hell and she seemed determined to put the world through worse.

Queen Llewellyn Xavier took notice of every disturbing aspect among the congregation’s presentation, yet remained the sole beacon of hope in this village by virtue of how she herself was presented. Her pristine purple velvet robe adorned with leonine faces and golden trim along with her wooden crown were symbols of her regality, but her calm composure, her hands across her lap, and her gentle stare were what solidified her as a symbol of strength. 

Her therapist and personal confidant Vera Echo rubbing her shoulders helped in keeping her calm as well. One final squeeze and the fluffy blue robed therapist took her seat in the front pew. Llewellyn smiled at her confidant as Vera pulled out her plush doll and flipped it around as her own source of comfort. Everyone had their own things. This was Vera’s. With her age showing in the white strands in her long black hair, she’d seen enough in her lifetime and didn’t want to take shit from people telling her to grow up.

Now that everyone had taken their seats and were waiting patiently for the sermon to begin, Llewellyn took center stage and lightly banged the gong with her mallet. “Nagata,” she said while doing a fist-to-palm prayer stance. Others in the congregation repeated this gesture. This was a sign of respect among the Magetan covenant, a source of siblinghood, and a token of love. These people needed all the love and siblinghood they could get, especially Bijou who continued to twitch like she had consumed something poisonous for her already fucked up mind.

“Welcome, everyone. As you all are aware, there’ve been many changes in our village over the past few months. Most of our brothers and sisters have gone missing through mysterious circumstances. Those who try to investigate end up missing themselves…including my own flesh and blood Windham. He is out there somewhere looking for our loved ones. But until the day comes when everyone returns, it’s important to know why this is all happening. This isn’t but a random occurrence. There’s a history behind these actions. A history of othering. A history of violence. A history of fascism among the human race, the same humans we depend on for our currency with the outside world.”

Llewellyn tucked her head and cleared her throat, the smallest sign of crumbling under pressure, yet invisible to all. “To understand the history of our people, it is always important to remember that this land we call ours doesn’t belong to us at all. It in fact once belonged to a society of dwarves that have since moved underground due to human meddling. It is unclear when they will return to the surface for vengeance. The dwarves were painted as savages and cutthroats, when it was in fact the accidental consumption of a single poisonous plant that caused many of them to lash out the way that they did. Was the Brock Flower planted there on purpose? May have been. But ever since the consumption of that plant, this land was used by other kingdoms as an execution ground for undesirables and prisoners. They would be airdropped into these lands knowing the sickly dwarves would kill them.”

While the Queen took a brief sigh, Vera clutched her doll tighter while Bijou grew more agitated in her little corner. Other elves held onto their loved ones for comfort. The Queen continued. “These undesirables weren’t killers and hardened criminals. They were innocents that we would have welcomed into our church if given the opportunity. Those with mind ghosts, those who loved the same gender, those who identified as other genders, progressives, artists, they were all airdropped onto this island and killed off as to be expected. But then the kingdom got greedy and dropped too many prisoners onto the island. The prisoners soon outnumbered the dwarves and in fact held their own in combat. The dwarves had no choice but to retreat underground.”

Llewellyn noticed Bijou twitching even harder than before, but continued the sermon nonetheless. “The dwarves are not to blame in all of this. They were victims of circumstance. That is why we take care of their land and grow the finest vegetables and fruits…like this one.” She pulled a baby corn cob out of her robe’s breast pocket and handed it to a small child in the front row, who thanked her with wide eyes and gobbled down on it happily. Everyone smiled at this beautiful gesture. Vera held onto her doll like it was a beloved family member. Bijou calmed down, but only a little bit.

“But as you all know, not all of our vegetables and fruits have turned out to be healthy. A blight had infected our crops, one which could be solved with our grangers had they not disappeared. They too were victims of othering, just like the first elf Ryoka, a warrior with brain ghosts who was among the class of prisoners who forced the dwarves to move underground. She did nothing wrong other than have a skin condition that turned her dark green and struggle with her inner demons. That’s all it took for her to be considered undesirable. She, like many elves after her, was accused of witchcraft after the accidental burning of Morgan Town property. Maybe there was magic in those days, but it has long since been suppressed by human colonialism.”

The initial happiness from Llewellyn’s corn offering turned to more nervousness and head-tucking sadness from the congregation. “But our story didn’t end there. It only began with the emergence of our leonine god Mageta. Nobody knows where this god came from. Nobody knows why he saved us. But just like the dwarves before us, he deserves respect in our people’s history. Mageta slaughtered those who dared imprison and oppress us. His warm fur coat provided a place for sickly elves to rest. His fuzzy paws, though worn with combat, gave us hugs that would last us for generations. 

That was five hundred years ago and ever since then we’ve given him thanks with our worship and our progressive ways. With this small reprieve he gave us, we as elves temporarily broke our cycles of abuse inflicted on us by the humans. We continue to break cycles and be better versions of ourselves than generations before…because Mageta is no longer here with us. After he was savagely hunted down by those he fought against, he forged his own meadow kingdom in the afterlife. He is waiting for us. He wants to give us comfort and love once again. But first…we must carry on his legacy in this world.”

Llewellyn proudly waved her arm around the church decorations. “You see these lion statues? Do you see these stained glass windows of elven legends past and present? Do you see these paintings of us being victorious in battle? Do you see tapestries and rugs designed with the faces of animals we love today? It is our creativity that makes us feel alive in a world that wants us dead. It is our therapy, much like the animals that live in our village themselves. Ever created a sculpture of a whale and had a nightjar sit on your shoulder the entire time? Windham has. Ever painted a picture of your wife with flowers in her hair while a kitten sits on your lap? Ever chiseled a granite weapon while a dog rubs his head against the blunt end? Progressivism, cycle breaking, creativity, animal care, these things are all what we live for. They make life bearable. They make it worth living. That is why we must take good care of each other for the time we have left. Nagata!”

The congregation, Llewellyn included, did the first-to-palm prayer to end the sermon. This moment of clarity was broken when Bijou stood up and shrieked, “Get your hands out of my underwear! Get your bastardly hands off of me!” She had everyone’s shocked attention, but Llewellyn held her ground.

“Bijou! Who are you talking to?! Who did this to you?!”

Bijou went silent as her paranoid eyes darted around to see everyone staring at her with paranoid eyes of their own. “…Nobody…there’s nobody here…”

“Listen to me, my friend,” said Llewellyn in a firm, yet gentle tone. “Dr. Echo’s door is open to you anytime you need someone to talk to. Things haven’t been the same since your sister Juliet left you to join the Atwood Queendom. Her betrayal is unforgivable. She’s the Mother Ruth archetype we hear about so much. I know you two used to play with dolls together. You told stories to each other. You had so much creative energy inside you. Let us help you get your passion for life back. Please…seek help. It doesn’t even have to be a therapy session with Vera. It could be a backgammon game with her. Or a chess game with me. Maybe we can tell stories together. Let us help you in whatever way we can.”

“Help? You want to help ME?!” Bijou screamed, making everyone jump backwards in fear. “I don’t need your damn help, Llewellyn. In fact, I downright despise you. If I had a knife in my hand, I would slash you from asshole to appetite. You’re the reason why my sister is gone. You’re the reason why my mother abandoned us. And you’re the reason why this village is turning to shit. You stand up there all high and mighty and yet you haven’t done a single thing to restore the peace. Your empty words don’t work on me. My words…” She pointed to her own head. “Come from here. They’re the only ones I can trust from now on. Everyone else is a backstabber.” Bijou gave Llewellyn double middle fingers as she stomped out of the church. She even pushed over a granite statue of Mageta on her way out.

The rest of the congregation stared at their Queen with disbelief in their eyes, as though their symbol of strength had let them down. They exited the church the same way they came in: imitating the Death Valley March, a traumatic condition where marching blindly into combat was the only way to the afterlife. 

I failed them. I failed them all. Damn it, Windham. Where are you? Where are you, Lars? I need someone to lean on. Yet, everyone I love has turned away from me. These were the thoughts that circled Llewellyn’s head as she tucked her chin and turned her back to the audience so that she wouldn’t have to watch them walk away from her. Bijou is delirious. But some of what she said was right… Vera approached Llewellyn for another shoulder rub, but this time was turned away as the Queen trudged out of sight. If my parents were alive, they wouldn’t let this be. The shameful trek back to her throne room ended with a plop on her comfortable bed, face down like a drunk in an alleyway. I have no right to sleep in a comfortable bed when others are suffering. Windham, please come home. Lars, we need to talk. Can anyone help me?!

McLean Wolf V Can't Fight

Sorry, ladies, gentlemen, and non-binaries: the road to hell is closed for repairs. So what do we do with all of these good intentions? We make a D&D character who has the best of them, but belly-flops at the thought of executing them. And thus we have a level one human mage created in the late 1990’s named McLean Wolf V. His name was so badass that there had to be five generations of those motherfuckers. Unfortunately, McLean was so bad at fighting that it was amazing there was one generation at all. Never mind abortion rights, because killing off the first generation would have been sufficient birth control for a fifth-generation character that turned out to be a drive-by abortion in the end. You see…how do I put this as delicately as McLean’s fragile bones? The man couldn’t fight worth a shit.

And it turns out, that’s how the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons rules designed mages to begin with. They start out with four hit points. Four! You know what that means? It means there isn’t a constitution modifier in hell that will keep him from dying from a fucking paper cut. Mages can’t wear heavy armor and they can’t use heavy weapons. McLean of course had neither of those things. He had a wizard’s robe, a knife, and a bola sling. That’s. About. It. You’d think with all of my experience playing Final Fantasy games I would have figured out a long time ago that wizard-type characters were going to be piss-poor fighters who couldn’t be self-sufficient if they tried. Tellah from Final Fantasy IV can throw all the lightning bolts he wants, but if an imp so much as pokes him with his short sword, he’s on the ground sucking his thumb like a bitch. In the very first Final Fantasy game, white mages and black mages are the first party members that monsters go after, because they’re more fragile than Lego sets. Ever wonder why bullies pick on smaller kids? Because if they picked on hulking body builders, the police would need the bullies’ dental records to identify them afterwards.

So…I’ve got McLean Wolf V ready to go for a campaign. What he lacks in fighting prowess, he makes up for in magic…provided that he studies his spells every fucking night like he’s cramming for the SAT’s. And once he exhausts his spells, he has to study them again…and again…for hours upon hours…Well, guess what, McLean? Your enemies aren’t going to give you hours and hours to prepare for them. If a barroom brawler wants to pound you into coffee grounds, he’s not going to wait for you to study your fireball spells. He’s going to beat the shit out of you weather you’re ready or not. Schoolyard bullies don’t wait for their victims to complete karate training. Terrorists don’t wait for their victims to learn how to use firearms. Nobody’s going to wait for McLean to get his nose out of his books. In fact, forget the footman’s mace, you could just take his Stephen King-sized doorstop and beat him to death with it. It would only take one hit and he’d go from lying on the ground to lying IN the ground.

And because McLean couldn’t do a damn thing on his own, my brother invited his friends Nathan and Chris to come play with us. They could wield all the battleaxes and long swords they wanted to. I, on the other hand, had to throw fireballs, lightning bolts, and magic missiles like they were substitutes for a gatling gun. And if you ever needed an indication of how forgetful of a memoirist I am (which is a lot like being a mage who can’t fight), I don’t even remember what quest we were doing or why we banded together. All I knew was that midway through the game, I wanted to tear up my character sheet and never see McLean Wolf V ever again. James, my DM brother, wasn’t having any of that nonsense. He said that if I did that, he would make my eighth level paladin Charles Goodhorn die of natural causes…even though he was only twenty-five years old. He’s not even old enough to use his bastard sword as a walking cane and already my brother wants to hold him hostage so that I’ll keep playing as a mage made of glass. I guess he was trying to motivate me to try new things since I was so accustomed to playing warrior characters. Either that or it was the 1990’s and we were constantly at each other’s throats due to the inevitability of problematic brotherhoods.

Well…the campaign continued and Chris, Nathan, and I found ourselves in the middle of a cleared forest getting our shit pushed in by orcs and goblins. Chris and Nathan’s warrior characters slashed and hacked their way through the frontlines while I was in the background preparing for a spell. This was my chance to save their lives and prove myself as a wizard. The orcs and goblins became too much to handle due to their swelling forces. Even with the heaviest equipment, Chris and Nathan couldn’t fight them all without getting swarmed. So…McLean conjured a massive fireball and rolled it onto the battlefield like a bowling ball on a snowy mountain instead of a proper bowling alley. The analogy was appropriate since the fireball indeed got bigger and bigger as it rolled along. The screams of goblins and orcs burning alive was like a Baroque symphony of beautiful music. Then came the magic missiles to take out the stragglers. And the lighting bolts to make the battlefield crispier than a bucket of KFC, though not as tasty, but probably greasy considering the monsters we were dealing with. And just like that, the battle was over and I was the hero of the day. My opinion of fragile mages hasn’t changed, but I had more fun playing them as I got older. Truth is, they’re better in groups than on their own, not unlike D&D itself. Tellah lived as long as he did because the dark knight turned paladin named Cecil protected him. Black mages are always accompanied by hulking fighters turned knights and thieves turned ninjas.

Teamwork is the name of the game. But the D&D party that wins together serves prison sentences together. It wouldn’t be a James Haines-Temons D&D campaign if it didn’t involve incarceration of some kind. At this point, we should change the name of the game from D&D to Shawshank Redemption. While none of our characters had rock hammers to dig us out or posters of Raquel Welch to cover up our schemes, McLean was allowed to keep his books. Prison libraries are a thing, not unlike The Shawshank Redemption. But why in the hell would you allow a wizard capable of throwing avalanche fireballs to have access to books? That’s his source of power! You wouldn’t give Chris and Nathan their weapons and armor, so don’t give McLean Wolf his books! Nothing made sense in the 1990’s, but this should have been glaringly obvious. I guess we’ll never know if McLean torched the whole fucking prison, because that’s where the campaign ended for the day. We never did continue it. Bummer.

I’m not against the idea of wizards in my fantasy settings. They’re aesthetically pleasing, after all, and that’s why I enjoy fantasy so much. I could have a necromancer with skulls everywhere and poison mist surrounding him. I could have a pyromancer with fiery staves and spiky red hair that resembled his flames. I could have a sorceress who wore fancy black dresses into battle and could turn the skirts of them into circular blades while she twirls in a dance. The possibilities are as endless as my imagination. But as far as playing videogames and tabletop RPG’s goes, maybe it’s best if my wizards were accompanied by other characters. Every party has a role that needs to be filled. As much as I love the idea of an all-barbarian squad, who’s going to heal them when there’s no cleric and they get their shit pushed in after being exhausted from rage? What about an all-thief party? Who’s going to protect them without a wizard’s magic spells if they get caught? Like life itself, there’s something for everybody in this world. Nobody can do everything, but everybody can do something. A wizard can’t carry the load by himself. Otherwise, he wouldn’t need a chiropractor at this point, but an embalmer.

Lars Stonewall

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THE BASICS

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Name: Lars Stonewall

Nicknames: King, Big Man, Fire-Breathing Giant

Gender: Cisgender Male

Age: 50

Birth Date: 450 PM

Birth Place: Wargun City

Currently Living In:  Honey Valley

Species: Human

Ethnicity / Race: White

Citizenship: Wargun City and Honey Valley

Religion / Beliefs: Left-Wing Atheist

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FAMILY

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Father: Hagar Stonewall

Age: Dead

Relationship: Respect

Mother: Bernadette Stonewall

Age: Dead

Relationship: Nurturing

Spouse: Gwendolyn Stonewall

Age: 40

Relationship: Separated

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PHYSICAL FEATURES:

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Height: 7’0”

Weight: 350 lbs.

Frame / Build: Gigantic and Muscular

Hair length: Long

Hair color: Black

Eye shape: Large

Eye color: Brown

Complexion: Grizzled

Face size (broad, narrow, etc.): Sinewy

Voice type: Deep

Foot size: 24 Men’s

Tattoo(s): Sun On His Back

Scar(s): Gashes across his chest and legs

Other notable accessories: Heavy spiked metal armor and a crown

Any other identifying mark(s): Beard

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SOCIO / ECONOMIC / POLITICAL

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Political Affiliation: Leftwing

Economic Class: Rich

Social Class (nobility, artisan, merchant, commoner, etc.): King

Occupation: King

Income: Business Taxes

Residence: Honey Valley

Transportation: Castle Tank

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INTERESTS

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Favorite Food(s): Turkey Legs

Favorite Sport(s): Jousting

Favorite Book(s): Historical Fiction

Favorite Show(s): TV hasn’t been invented yet

Favorite Music: War Drums

Favorite Color(s): Gold and Gray

Clothing Style / Preferences: Armor

Hobbies: Chess, Blacksmithing, and Weightlifting

Role Model(s): His parents and Llewellyn Xavier

Likes: Good Food in Large Portions

Dislikes: Alcohol

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PERSONALITY

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Good Qualities / Trait(s): Kind, Loyal, and Charismatic

Vices / Negative Trait(s): Workaholic, Easy Anger, and Perfectionism

Strengths: Leadership and Combat Skills

Weaknesses: Self-Sacrifice and Overconfidence

Habits / Idiosyncrasies / Quirks: Cracking Bones

Phobia / Fears: Heights, Failure, and Looking Weak

Loves: Respect and Loyalty

Hates: Bigotry and Dictatorships

Select one personality type below that best describes your character:

PROTECTORS

[X] Overseer (ESTJ) – Thrives on facts and details. Has a clear set of standards and beliefs. They are hardworking, responsible, and self-confident. They rely on experiences rather than speculation, and make decisions based on these. Very good at enforcing laws and rules. Loyal and hard-working. Like to be in charge. Very organized, tends to be a stickler for the rules.

Define your character’s personality based on the following aspects:

a. Physically (outward interaction with his environment, personal strengths): Commands respect through his size and voice

b. Psychologically (intellect, mental stability, morality): Wise and Composed

c. Spiritually (his faith, convictions): Doesn’t follow religion

d. Emotionally (willpower, under stressful situations, expressiveness): Strong and hardened

e. Socially (how others view him, how he interacts with people): Respected by his people, hated by dictators

Others things to know:

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HISTORY

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1. Describe the character’s childhood. He was groomed to be a leader by his royal parents and he excelled in the physical aspects. The mental and emotional aspects were learned through his parents refusing to spoil him and making him work for everything he had. He learned to push through his tiredness and gets his work ethic through that.

2. Name the good incidents that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped his personality? He played football as a kid and enjoyed every minute of it. He was so good that he eventually became captain of his team. This was part of his grooming to become a leader.

3. Name bad experiences that have happened in the character’s life. How has this shaped his personality? He was bullied a lot for his size and whenever he chased his attackers, he would gas out and they would get away unscathed. This is why he’s easily angered and has workaholic tendencies when it comes to physical exercise.

4. What is the character doing when first introduced? What are his goals at this point? He’s buying the services of Shadow Asylum so that they can help him defeat the Atwood Queendom and free her slaves. The reason he has a soldier shortage is because they’re randomly disappearing just like the elves in Windham and Llewellyn’s village.

4a. Do these goals change at any point in the story? He prioritizes defeating Shelly Atwood over striking a trade deal with Llewellyn even though both are equally important. The goals remain the same throughout the story.

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STORY DEVELOPMENT:

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CHARACTER ARCHETYPE: (Put an X on all applicable boxes)

[] Addict (Conspicuous Consumer, Glutton, Workaholic–see also Gambler)

[] Advocate (Attorney, Defender, Legislator, Lobbyist, Environmentalist)

[] Alchemist (Wizard, Magician, Scientist, Inventor–see also Visionary)

[] Angel (Fairy Godmother/Godfather)

[] Antagonist (Opposing View, not necessarily the Evil Bad — see also Villain)

[] Anti-Hero

[] Artist (Artisan, Craftsperson, Sculptor, Weaver)

[X] Athlete (Olympian)

[] Avenger (Avenging Angel, Savior, Messiah)

[] Beggar (Homeless person/ Indigent)

[] Bully (Coward)

[] Catalyst

[] Child (Orphan, Wounded, Magical/Innocent, Nature, Divine, Puer/Puella Eternis, or Eternal Boy/Girl)

[] Clown (Court Jester, Fool, Dummling)

[] Companion (Friend, Sidekick, Right Arm, Consort)

[] Damsel (Princess)

[] Destroyer (Attila, Mad Scientist, Serial Killer, Spoiler)

[] Detective (Spy, Double Agent, Sleuth, Snoop, Sherlock Holmes, Private Investigator, Profiler–see also Warrior/Crime Fighter)

[] Dilettante (Amateur)

[] Don Juan (Casanova, Gigolo, Seducer, Sex Addict)

[] Engineer (Architect, Builder, Schemer)

[] Exorcist (Shaman)

[] Father (Patriarch, Progenitor)

[] Femme Fatale (Black Widow, Flirt, Siren, Circe, Seductress, Enchantress)

[] Gambler

[] God (Adonis, see also Hero)

[] Gossip (see also Networker)

[] Guide (Guru, Sage, Crone, Wise Woman, Spiritual Master, Evangelist, Preacher)

[] Healer (Wounded Healer, Intuitive Healer, Caregiver, Nurse, Therapist, Analyst, Counselor)

[] Hedonist (Bon Vivant, Chef, Gourmet, Gourmand, Sybarite–see also Mystic)

[] Hermit (see also Wise old Man)

[X] Hero/Heroine (see also Knight, Warrior)

[] Judge (Critic, Examiner, Mediator, Arbitrator)

[X] King (Emperor, Ruler, Leader, Chief — see also Politician)

[X] Knight in Shining Armor

[X] Liberator

[] Lover

[] Martyr

[] Mediator (Ambassador, Diplomat, Go-Between)

[] Mentor (Master, Counselor, Tutor)

[] Messiah (Redeemer, Savior)

[] Midas/Miser

[] Monk/Nun (Celibate)

[] Mother (Matriarch, Mother Nature)

[] Mystic (Renunciate, Anchorite, Hermit)

[] Networker (Messenger, Herald, Courier, Journalist, Communicator)

[] Pioneer (Explorer, Settler, Pilgrim, Innovator)

[] Poet

[X] Politician (see also King)

[] Priest (Priestess, Minister, Rabbi, Evangelist)

[] Prince

[] Prostitute

[] Queen (Empress)

[] Rebel (Anarchist, Revolutionary, Political Protester, Nonconformist, Pirate)

[X] Rescuer

[] Saboteur

[] Samaritan

[] Scribe (Copyist, Secretary, Accountant–see also Journalist)

[] Seeker (Wanderer, Vagabond, Nomad)

[] Servant (Indentured Servant)

[] Shape-shifter (Spell-caster–see also Trickster)

[] Slave

[] Spectre (Ghost / Apparition with Unresolved issues)

[] Storyteller (Minstrel, Narrator)

[] Student / Scholar (Disciple, Devotee, Follower, Apprentice)

[] Teacher (Instructor, see also Mentor)

[] Thief (Swindler, Con Artist, Pickpocket, Burglar, Robin Hood)

[] Threshold Guardian

[] Trickster (Puck, Provocateur)

[] Turncoat

[] Vampire

[] Victim

[] Villain / Shadow (Big Bad of the story; see also Antagonist)

[] Virgin (see also Celibate)

[] Visionary (Dreamer, Prophet, Seer–see also Guide, Alchemist)

[X] Warrior (Soldier, Crime Fighter, Amazon, Mercenary, Soldier of Fortune, Gunslinger, Samurai)

[] Wise old Man (see also Hermit)

1. What are the motivations for the character’s actions? Not only his duties as a king, but also his love for his wife, who was kidnapped by Shelly’s forces a long time ago as part of the slave-trading business.

2. What are the character’s goals / ambition / dreams? He wants to overthrow evil empires and gain the trust of the disenfranchised. He also wants to have children of his own, which he never got to do with his wife before she was abducted.

3. What external conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? Overthrowing Shelly Atwood and freeing her slaves.

3a. What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? Her forces are more powerful than his. Plus, she has the trust of her people due to her soft-power authority.

4. What inner conflicts would you wish for the character to overcome? Move on from his traumas and become a better leader by proxy.

4a. What are the obstacles in the character’s path that might make this difficult? He’s easily riled up and gets himself into trouble on the battlefield. He can only make rational decisions when he’s planning things out beforehand, hence his reputation as a good leader.

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AUTHOR’S NOTES / MISCELLANY

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Character theme song: “Between You and Nowhere” by Hellyeah

Celebrity / IRL lookalike: Kevin Nash

To Be a Magetan

What does it mean to be a follower of the Magetan faith? One definition that won’t ring true among the elven covenant is, “Going to snuggle town with a dead cat.” Though dead our lord and savior may be, Mageta was certainly no ordinary cat. A domesticated beast wouldn’t have saved an entire race of people from the greedy clutches of humankind. Only a lion of blessed might could come from the Promised Land itself and annihilate racist tormentors with such ease. A Deus Ex Machina conclusion to a centuries-long story of oppression would seem ridiculous on the surface, but the key word in that old phrase is Deus. Mageta wasn’t a mere lap cat. He was a lion god.

And with this lion god’s protection, the elven race was able to rebuild their once dead society from its crumbling foundation. They made sure never to repeat the evils of their human captors. Instead of lusting for corporate gold, Magetan society became moneyless, trading services for products and fulfilling each other’s needs. They do not engage in hateful politics; this is a religion of love. Even a simple gesture such as holding hands, which would be frowned upon in far-right human society, is encouraged among followers of Mageta. Respect for the animal kingdom is a must for these zealots, whether it’s conforming to a vegetarian diet or taking in wayward pets and giving them the best years of their lives.

Why do the elves practice their religion this way aside from not wanting to repeat the bitterness of human slave masters? They don’t see it as blind zeal, but rather gratitude for a historical figure who paved the way for their culture to flourish. They have carved monuments and statues of him. They gather in church to send him their prayers every week. They encourage creativity among each other whether it’s drawing, sculpting, writing poetry, or constructing prose. Most of the Magetan lore is an anthology of creative writing exercises, all of which didn’t need the approval of human society in order to feel valid.

But sometimes contact with the outside world is necessary to sustain their own culture. Selling fruits and vegetables in the streets of Morgan Town, selling art to elitist galleries, and attending technology boarding schools are just some of the ways elves reach out to their hostile communities. Elves are still met with prejudice and shunning in these societies, whether it’s being called a slur such as “lizard” (due to their light green skin) or “cucumber penis” (due to their vegetarian diets). The beatings ramped up so much that the elves once again had to learn how to fight.

By the time they had enough, Mageta was already slain in battle, hunted for his meat and pelt. Some elves were recaptured into slavery, not just by Mageta’s killers, but also by one of their own: Mother Ruth. She had a specific role to protect Mageta’s literal children, but was secretly earning money to sell them into servitude. The term Mother Ruth had become a slur of its own for elves who turned their backs on their own kind. Because of elven betrayal and human prejudice, Magetan society began to suffer once again. But every day they look towards their savior for the strength to carry on.

Because their lion deity was powerful himself, the elves’ combat training regimen sought to mimic such strength on the battlefield. Exercises for elven soldiers were often so difficult that it wasn’t uncommon to pass out by the end of the session. Running, weight lifting, leapfrogging, and weapons training were all mixed into one session after the other. Soldiers willingly gave up their comfortable love so that they could protect their people, which meant they were mentally tormented by their instructors as well as physically. This would seem hypocritical of a race determined not to repeat their human tormentors’ mistakes, but there was no other choice.

Those who followed Magetan progressiveness and protected each other from the evils of the world were rewarded in death by having a place in the Promised Land, a cloudscape of comfort that they weren’t afforded in the living realm. Laying down in any part of the Promised Land was akin to a soft, fluffy bed that one wouldn’t mind sharing with a dog or a cat. If an elven follower was lucky, they could easily schedule a cuddle session with Mageta himself. He may have been a violent god when dealing with bigots, but only when it was warranted. The remainder of the time, he was as gentle as his booming baritone voice.

The prospect of the Promised Land sounded so appealing to the elves that for some of the more suicidal ones, it was more appealing than the living world. There was plenty for an elf to be suicidal about: trauma, war, unwanted sex, bullying, and a lifetime of negative messages from those who never cared. Whenever the mental and physical stresses of real world combat became too much for an elf, they would descend into a trance-like state known as the Death Valley March. They become so uncaring and unaware of the violence around them that they march blindly into a suicidal scenario.

Not everyone can snap out of this trance, but those who do are tasked with attending therapy sessions with a Magetan shaman. The couch will be as comfy as a Promised Land cloud, the music will be as pleasing to the ears as a tingly massage, and the therapist will be so sweet and empathetic that a traumatized elf can tell them anything they need to without fear of the details leaving the cozy cottage. Talk therapy is the method of choice for these healers. Only in extreme cases will they use herbal remedies and brain salves, but these are not replacements for a much-needed conversation about mental health.

Can Magetan values succeed in such a disgusting world where racist humans control the majority of land? Every day it seems like a definitive no. Every day the elves wonder what the point of all of this is, especially with a mysterious blight covering their once fresh crops. Every day they pray to Mageta and wonder why his answers won’t help them escape a sex dungeon or a slave auction. Every day they wonder if they’ll be the next ones to take the Death Valley March.

And yet, the religion is still alive in the year 500 AM. That’s because it is not a religion, but a spiritual bond. It is nationalism. It is family. It is protection. The world may be a cold place, but somewhere in life is a warm leonine embrace. The elves may have to search far and wide to find it, but when they do, it is pure magic. Magic may be gone from the elven culture, but it is not forgotten and never will be. Trauma can suppress creativity and lore, but it can’t kill it forever.

Charles Goodhorn Is On Your Team, Idiots

Are you looking for adventure? Are you looking for magic? Are you looking for a magical adventure with dragon-slaying and princess-rescuing? Well, put away the Kindle and its charging cord, because you won’t get that from Charles Goodhorn’s brief encounter with gun-wielding bugbears. Who is Charles Goodhorn, you ask? He’s a noble paladin. A righteous warrior. A slayer of everything evil. With every D&D campaign he was a part of, he made it to the eighth level of his profession. He was so close to getting his own warhorse and followers. He could have been the stuff of legends…but not this time. Not even close to this time.

Somewhere in the mid to late-90’s, my brother James hosted an Advanced Dungeons & Dragons with his friends Adam and his own brother whose name I can’t remember, both of whom played bugbears. What the fuck was a bugbear? Well, I didn’t start using the internet on a frequent basis until 2000, so it wasn’t like I could Google it right away. I always thought they were just humanoid bears. Damn, did I turn out to be wrong. James, Adam, and Adam’s nameless brother were in the middle of a session when from out of nowhere, James asked if I wanted to play to. Hell yes, I wanted to play! I got my eighth-level paladin ready for some action, complete with a magical bastard sword and the swagger of a true warrior.

Charles Goodhorn, the paladin in question, entered the game…and the first thing the two bugbears do is point their guns at me. Whatever swagger Charles had going into this campaign was completely gone when I, the player, couldn’t figure out how to deal with this situation. I froze up. I scrambled for answers and couldn’t find any. I couldn’t understand why two player characters would want to point guns at me for seemingly no reason. And so, Charles Goodhorn disappeared in a puff of smoke. Adam’s brother wanted to take Charles’s magical bastard sword, but that disappeared too. And then I retreated to my room not knowing why the hell everything happened the way it did.

Even though this session lasted about as long as virgin sex (which I would know nothing about), there is a lot to unpack now that I’m an adult storyteller with a somewhat developed frontal cortex. First of all, let’s ask why. Why would two player characters want to point weapons at another player character, especially when Charles did nothing to provoke them? Aren’t all player characters supposed to be on the same side? Even with differing alignments, surely they could find a way to work together. Maybe that’s what I should have had Charles say: “I’m on your team, idiots!”

Was he, though? Would a Detect Evil check inform him of the bugbears’ intentions? Should characters just willingly trust each other due to their circumstances? Do they have to get along all the time? If not, then why would they not get along? Did these bugbears come with their own emotional baggage? Were they screwed over so many times that pointing guns at strangers is reasonable? 

Or maybe…just maybe, a Google search many decades later would reveal to me that bugbears generally conform to the Chaotic Evil alignment, which meant there was no structure or recourse to what they were doing as long as it meant killing all the good guys. If I had used the Detect Evil skill that all paladins are entitled to, then I probably would have figured this out. But I froze up not knowing what to do, because I thought all player characters had to get along all the time.

But let’s say that Charles knew ahead of time that the bugbears were evil. Surely, he could just cut them down with his bastard sword the minute they got too close. But maybe it wasn’t such a hot idea to say, “I’m on your team, idiots!” Could declaring allegiance to Chaotic Evil bugbears turn Charles into an Oath Breaker, or a warrior who lost all of his paladin powers by virtue of deviating from Lawful Goodness?

But let’s say my Google search turned out to be a bunch of horseshit. Let’s say the bugbears weren’t Chaotic Evil, but they were just distrusting of strangers who suddenly waltzed in on their action. Well…Charles is hardly the only stranger to cross their paths, I’m sure. The streets of every city the bugbears were a part of were most likely packed with strangers. Do the bugbears point their guns at pedestrians crossing the street? How about the bartenders who serve them beer? Or the blacksmiths who forge their weapons? Maybe they should solve their own trust issues before they get thrown in prison for randomly pointing guns at people they don’t know.

If the bugbears weren’t actually Chaotic Evil, why would they want to distrust a paladin, who is notorious for conforming to Lawful Good behavior? If you can’t trust a zealot paladin, who can you trust? A True Neutral thief? A Chaotic Neutral barbarian? How about a Lawful Evil politician? You know, someone who hides behind red tape and charisma while committing the most devious acts imaginable, such as slashing funding for poor people and giving tax breaks to kajillionaires.

But let’s say the bugbears don’t have deep-seated trust issues nor are they Chaotic Evil. Why then would they point guns at a random paladin? Perhaps it had more to do with the setting than anything else. I never did ask James where this campaign took place. If the bugbears were in a monster-infested dungeon, maybe they thought the paladin was yet another monster. Sounds reasonable, right? Well, at that point, it sounds more like a prophecy for Dick Cheney shooting hunters in the face. Apparently, Dick Cheney wasn’t an outlier. There really were hunters in the news who shot distant people because they thought the person was a deer. Charles Goodhorn didn’t have antlers…or tentacles…or vampire fangs…or bat wings…he was just a human knight with good intentions. And yet, he could have been shot in the face because of hair-trigger paranoia.

Hair-trigger paranoia is actually a common theme in movies and books. In the beginning of The Hateful Eight, Marquis Warren asks for a ride from John Ruth’s horse carriage. Because John Ruth is a bounty hunter with a pricy criminal in tow, he points his guns at Marquis and demands to see his hands. John has no idea if Marquis is a criminal, but he won’t take any chances due to the gravity of his situation. Maybe the bugbears had similar gravity in their situations and would rather vet people than let them have access to whatever riches or artifacts they have. That would have been a fair justification for paranoia, but I didn’t know that at the time, because I always assumed player characters were part of a team.

There’s a lesson to be learned in the campaign that lasted about as long as Daniel Bryan vs. Sheamus at WWE Wrestlemania in 2012. Read the room. Make sure you see all the nuances of the situation before making wild assumptions. Charles had no idea why bugbears would want to point rifles at him, but it wouldn’t have hurt to find out. It wasn’t like he could just run up to them and cut them down, which may or may not have made him an Oath Breaker. They had guns, which meant they were in control. The one who has the bullets has all the power, in case you learned nothing from every bank robbery movie ever. Instead of calling them idiots for not seeing his side, Charles could interrogate them a little bit. Why are they pointing guns at him? Who are they? What are their intentions with him? What will it take to convince them to put their weapons down?

While illnesses like cancer and schizophrenia seem to happen randomly, human behavior happens for a reason. Is anybody really acting randomly? Do bugbears just shoot their guns off for no reason? Or do they have psychological issues which force them to do so? Do they have prejudices? Do they have untreated illnesses? Do they have past experiences with people who screwed them over? Do they value protection a little too much in dungeon-crawling scenarios? Would they shoot an innocent prisoner if they thought he was a monster? If so, what would prompt them to act hastily? Psychology can’t be boiled down to one or two actions or thoughts. There’s a whole universe going on in people’s heads. What kind of universe goes on in the bugbears’ heads?

I’ll tell you what kind of universe goes on in Charles Goodhorn’s head: the same as mine: confusion, anxiety, awkwardness, and shyness. I exhibit these traits in Charles because those were the only behaviors I knew as a pre-teen growing up in Chehalis, Washington. Getting inside other people’s heads and expanding character psychologies was an alien concept to me back then. I just wanted to slash some shit up. I wanted to kill the evil sorcerers and collect enough loot to support my Lawful Good churches. I wanted to slay dragons and rescue princesses. I wanted to leave behind a legacy of epic proportions. But if I did any of things as a Gary-Stu, then the legendary status loses all of its specialty.

If I prided myself so heavily on my creativity back then, why wouldn’t I want to expand my storytelling skills and see beyond the black and white? Because in order to do that, I’d have to actually take an interest in the literature middle school and high school gave me to analyze. School books are notorious for being boring, with the exceptions coming few and far between. Even in college, the reading material bored me to tears. I jokingly called Tom King’s book “Green Grass, Running Diarrhea”. I might as well have brought a blanket and pillow with me very time I stepped into Medieval Literature class. Going to school killed any love for reading I had, because the books sucked. It wasn’t until after I left school in 2009 that I started to find books that I liked and became a born-again bookworm.

These Dungeons & Dragons memoirs aren’t just fun to write; they’re learning experiences for my past self, whether it’s something to expand upon or never do again as a writer. Hopefully, young writers won’t make the same mistakes that I did, but if they do, it probably has something to do with the school system failing them. In my case, instead of turning to literary crap, I turned on the TV and watched edge lord shows like The Shield, WWE Raw, Mind of Mencia, and anything else that had offensive stereotypes that I never questioned. I took a lot of work to undo those edge lord tendencies. But if I hadn’t undone them, I wouldn’t be here to teach you these D&D-inspired lessons to begin with. Forget Cancel Culture, because my career wouldn’t have started anyways. Can’t take away a career that never was. Learn and continue to learn, my friends. That’s all I can teach you.

Drunk as a Skunk

This would have been a perfect time for Sheriff Walt Magnus to begin again…if it wasn’t for the smell of alcohol radiating off of his body like nuclear energy. The burps exploding from his fanged mouth also included splashes of green spittle, a color that already looked horrifying on his scaly orcish flesh. The crotch of his blue jeans resembled a swimming pool, provided his bits and pieces were swimming in sewage. His red flannel shirt was glazed over with sweat, so much so that he had to air out his leather vest just to beat the desert heat. His snakeskin boots danced around on the sandy ground as he shimmied drunkenly from side to side. No doubt the Silver Star on his cowboy hat looked less and less believable with every near trip.

Passersby gazed upon their once beloved Sheriff with crinkle-faced disgust. Elven traders backed away as quickly as they could, probably hoping Walt’s drunken sweat didn’t get on their produce. Human families shielded their children, covering their ears with every passing burp. Even the shirtless, flabby-bellied, shit-breathed ogres held their nose in disgust as they waddled away from Walt. Despite his mind echoing with drunken harmonies, he could make out the various curses that his citizens said under their breath. Walt’s heart would have sunken if his emotions weren’t already numb. Instead, a vomit spill on the wooden steps of the Red Dragon Saloon would have to suffice. Now the citizens got the hell out of there in a big fucking hurry.

“I got this…I fucking got this shit…I can do this…just one measly arrest is all it takes…eh, who am I kidding?” With nobody around to listen to his monologue, Walt collapsed through the swinging doors of the saloon and face-planted on the floor, almost shattering his wide nose and a few fangs in the process. Almost. Drunken stupor be damned, he could still hear the squeaks of a rag cleaning off glass mugs. “Thank god you’re here, Murphy. You ain’t going to believe this, but…I need another drink…”

Walt grabbed the edge of a nearby piano and yanked himself to his feet, but not without dancing around some more. It suddenly dawned on him why the saloon was so quiet. Human corpses decorated the establishment, some bent over chairs, some sprawled out across the tables and the bar, all of them with blood pouring from their wounds like the tap itself. Walt could also smell elven blood, which was a daisy garden compared to the ogres lying about. Once his vision cleared up, he saw no sign of Murphy the Bartender behind the counter.

The one wiping the glass mugs (and shattering a few of them with her thick fingers) was a rotund anthropomorphic rhino dressed in a green leather apron. She gazed into Walt’s watery eyes and pointed her blood-soaked horn at him. “I ain’t Murphy, asshole. He couldn’t make it to work today. He’s taking a permanent vacation in the bowels of hell with the rest of these fat-shaming losers. It’s like they ain’t never seen a big woman before. Even these god-forsaken ogres couldn’t keep their flabby gums shut.”

“Yeah, I know how that is…” Walt burped before staggering and dragging his feet towards the bar, almost falling off of his stool as he parked his ass down. He could have sworn the deer heads on the wall were glaring judgmentally at him as well. Even the corpses looked like they wanted to drag Walt to hell with them, provided the rhino woman was right about their ultimate fates. “Can I at least have a beer?”

The rhino woman laid her palms across the bar after tossing the glass mug aside. “You sure about that, honey? Do you really need another bottle right now? Shouldn’t you be out cuffing people or some shit?”

Walt dropped his forehead onto the bar. “Yeah, like anyone gives a shit anymore. It’s always do this, do that, all without an ounce of thanks. You have any idea how many punks I’ve put in the pokey?” He lifted his head and tried to use his bladed fingers to count, but immediately lost track and chuckled. “I’m all burned out and nobody gives a rat’s ass. They whine and complain to me all day and now they’re fucking surprised that I’m piss drunk.”

“I certainly hope you’re not trying to pull a fast one on me, Sheriff. I might have to gore your ass too if you pull that negotiator 101 shit right now. Yeah, you’re one ugly motherfucker alright, but you’ve got that little narrow ass that the voters like. Me? I couldn’t sell a glass of water to a guy dying of thirst. They see my big ass and my big nose and automatically want to deduct a hundred IQ points. Ain’t nobody voting for me anytime soon.”

Walt burped again, spilling bile down his already messed up shirt and vest.

“Ain’t nobody voting for you either if you keep that shit up. Seriously, go take a bath or something. There are horse stalls across the street that smell better than you.”

Walt almost leaned back too far for his comfort. “You know what? You’re right. Maybe I don’t need a beer today. But…there’s no way in hell I’m going out there in that heat…not like this. You won’t mind if a sleep here for a few hours, would ya, miss?” He took the rhino’s hand and kissed it in a vain attempt to sweeten the deal.

She smiled. “I don’t see why not. Everyone else around here is taking a nap, I guess you could too. Maybe I’ll play something on the piano, like a lullaby or some shit. Or I could just stick my horn right through your fucking chest, either one would be fine.”

Walt lurched forward and a vial of amber liquid fell out of his sleeve. His eyes widened as his façade was exposed to the now growling rhino. She picked it up and shattered it between her fingers, confirming that it was indeed alcoholic perfume.

The Sheriff chuckled hoarsely. “Dina Octavia Lord…you’ve got this entire town scared shitless of you...Nobody’s got balls big enough to confront your big ass…But I will. Come with me, babe. You’re under arrest for mass murder!”

Dina roared a windstorm in Walt’s face, assaulting his nostrils with bad dentistry and knocking him on his back. “Oh, shit!” he said as he put his blown off hat back on and scrambled to his feet, bolting out of the saloon.

The thunderous sound of massive rhino legs charging behind him caused Walt to hold onto his hat and pick up speed. Everybody else scattered like cockroaches, screaming and crying while their arms flailed in the air. As Dina’s feet clomped and shook the ground, Walt’s heart thudded even louder and his mind cluster-fucked itself worse than if he actually was drunk. The footsteps pounded his eardrums like they were actual percussion instruments. “Just a few more steps…a few more!”

Once he could feel the tip of Dina’s horn piercing his ass crack, Walt dove through one of the horse stalls and covered up in the hay. The wooden walls exploded like dynamite once Dina crashed through them. Walt was certain he was going to be flattened like a pancake and crushed like peanut brittle. But then…horse whines belted through the stables and were accompanied by hooves smashing and kicking out of intense fear. Dina bellowed out of both anger and pain, her face and ribs covered in horseshoe marks, broken bones, and blood.

Walt covered up and cowered some more as the horses stormed out of their stalls, leaving a trail of shit and piss behind them, not to mention Dina’s thick blood. Speaking of Dina, she lied on the ground clutching her broken body and coughing up blood. Her horn even broke off to where it was a jagged mess rather than a clean blade.

Sheriff Magnus slowly stood up and pulled out his six shooter, aiming it at the wounded and battered Dina, who just suffered through a kung fu assault from a house full of frightened horses. “You see that, Miss Lord? That’s what happens when you try to use fear to control your enemies. When the people get scared, they do scary shit. In the case of the horses…well, we knew how that story ended. I know you don’t like being called fat and ugly. To be honest, nobody does. But if the whole town followed your example and went on a mass murdering spree…I might have an actual reason to be drunk as a skunk instead of doing my duty.”

Kneeling down beside Dina, he said, “Now listen, lady: I ain’t got cuffs big enough for them wrists of yours. No, that ain’t a fat joke, that’s god’s honest truth. I guess I’ll just have to hold your ass at gunpoint as I take you to jail.” He stood back up and motioned for her to stand up with his gun barrel.

Spitting out chunky blood and broken teeth, Dina said, “There’s no way in hell I’m going to jail before these jokers and clowns do. I don’t see you arresting the dickheads who signed their own death warrant a long fucking time ago. They didn’t have to kiss my ass. They just had to keep their damn mouths shut. Is it too much to ask? I SAID IS IT TOO MUCH TO FUCKING ASK?!” Despite aggravating her rib injuries, Dina found a way to reach Walt’s ankle. She got what she probably hoped for this whole time: suicide by cop. Walt shot her in the chest multiple times, putting an end to her reign of terror for good.

Despite having an obvious victory under his belt, Walt frowned at his handiwork. His body shook in anger as onlookers clapped for him. He couldn’t help but think there was a little bit of truth to what Dina said during her final moments. Walt spun around and confronted his admirers. “What are you fuckers cheering at?! This is your damn fault!” The clapping died down and faces sagged in somber reflection. “Hell, none of you would give me the time of day when you thought I was drunk. You were ready to vote for the other guy once you had enough of my jolly green ass. Shallow bastards!”

Walt ripped the Silver Star out of his cowboy hat and tossed it aside before marching away, his middle finger waving proudly in the air like a patriotic banner. These people were freaks too, but maybe Dina was a little too freaky even for them. Then again, so was Walt Magnus, which was why he stamped away from these ingrates in the first place.

The Crazy Ones

The background bickering should have been an obvious harbinger of things to come for Tai. But all that clouded his imagination was Mother Nature’s most beautiful features. Rolling ocean waves washed away the harsh noise. The mountain breeze cooled him off. The desert sun baked him like a batch of fresh cookies. An angelic harpist plucked her strings while her gorgeous voice haunted his mind. Tai could have stayed in this meditative trance forever had it not been for two cellmates who didn’t have gorgeous voices of their own.

“You are such a goddamn idiot!” yelled Electra Shadowwolf, her barbed voice snapping Tai’s eyes open. Of all the muscles on her barbaric frame she could have used that day, she decided her index finger was the most powerful one as she pointed at her partner in crime.

Diesel Reznor swatted Electra’s hand away with his dragon claws and snapped, “This is your fault, you dumb bitch! I don’t know why you’re pointing that ugly ass finger at me! You should be pointing that shit at yourself!”

Tai held his exposed skull in his hand as the dragon man and the barbarian’s conversation degenerated into a cacophonic mess. He couldn’t even tell what they were saying anymore. “Could you two shut the hell up for a minute?” he calmly said to no response, just more shouting. The way their voices echoed off of brick prison walls gave Tai an explosive migraine. He wished someone would smash him over the head with a club and give him a permanent route to peace.

When the throaty voices began to give him schizophrenia, Tai sat up from his cross-legged position and slowly approached his arguing comrades. Despite having a creepy skeleton in an orange kung fu robe staring them down, Diesel and Electra’s attention spans remained on each other and the screaming continued to give aneurisms to anybody who listened.

“Shut!” belted Tai as he snap-kicked Diesel in the stomach and doubled him over. “Up!” He did the same to Electra, causing both of his cohorts to cough and wheeze. Tai didn’t wait for them to catch their breath. He grabbed Diesel by his purple scales and Electra by her brunette hair.

“You two dimwits had one job,” Tai silently seethed. “One…fucking…job. All you had to do was guard the front entrance and you couldn’t even do that correctly. That’s why we’re in here and as far as I’m concerned, it’s both of your faults.” He gave them both a gorgon death stare and whispered, “Shut your asses up and let me meditate. If I have to tell you one more time, I’ll kick you in the head so fucking hard you’ll forget how to wipe your own asses! Are we clear?”

Electra’s fearful expression showed that she understood loud and clear. Diesel, on the other hand, shoved Tai to the ground with one clawed hand as soon as he regained his breath.

“You’re just as much to blame as we are,” Diesel argued while Tai glared at his opponent, unafraid. “If you’re that good at kicking somebody’s head off, why didn’t you do it to the goddamn guards?” Diesel burped, his saggy belly wiggling over his black trousers. “You’re supposed to be some kind of ninja samurai badass, right? Well, all I saw back at the bank was a skinny little prick! And why the hell was I the one guarding the door? I should be the one smashing heads and taking names!”

“You know…it’s not too late to give it a try, you fat bastard. Go ahead. I’m lying on the ground. I’m practically begging you to show me what you’ve got!” said Tai, waving a hand over to Diesel to summon him over.

“Speaking of idiots!” said Electra, her beefy arms crossed over her fur tunic. “If you morons keep this shit up long enough, the guards will throw us all on solitary! We need a plan! We need to talk to our fucking lawyers!”

“You really think some piss-ant public defender is going to get us out of here?” growled Diesel, his scaly nose inches away from Electra’s cavewoman visage. “We’re done for, Electra! This is the last hurrah! And besides, is it really that bad being in solitary confinement? I could use a vacation away from you two dorks!”

Tai nipped up and scowled at Diesel. “And how exactly are you going to benefit from being in a dark room all by yourself? You’d go crazy within the first five seconds. You’d have tears running down your disgusting face like a goddamn waterfall. At least I have my meditation to keep me at peace. You? You’ve got a whole lot of nothing going on in that thick skull of yours. Then again, thinking never really was your strong suit and if it was, we wouldn’t be in jail right now.”

“You little bitch!” snorted Diesel, throwing the first punch in this eventual battle. His heavy arm whooshed right past Tai’s ducking head. Diesel threw another punch and missed again. Then he attempted a kick to Tai’s ribs, but got his leg caught by the wily skeleton.

Tai wagged his finger at his opponent before laying backwards and cinching in a leg lock on Diesel’s thick calf. The dragon fell backwards and wailed in agony while Tai twisted and cranked on the leg. Diesel even tried tapping out, but Tai cinched tighter and tighter while Electra watched on apparently not knowing what to do or who to cheer for. A bone snapped and Diesel’s screams were even more obnoxious and annoying than when he was arguing with Electra, who stood in the corner with her hand over her mouth in shock.

Tai nipped up and gazed down at his writhing opponent, shaking his head in contempt. He then fixed his wicked stare upon Electra, who shook uncontrollably at what she’d witnessed. “You’ve got a problem?” asked Tai, who stepped on Diesel’s injury on his way to hunting down the barbarian woman before him. “I asked you a question, you ditzy piece of fuck. I said…is there a problem?!”

Electra’s breathing intensified and her eyes widened as she slowly dropped on her butt. “Guards! Help!” she cried out, prompting Tai to grab her by the throat and yank her back up to her feet. His skeletal fingers squeezed her trachea until blood leaked from behind her teeth. In one last desperate attempt at freedom, Electra threw a weak punch to the side of Tai’s temple, but he just smiled and shrugged it off.

“I love it when my favorite women scream for me. Maybe that’ll be something I can meditate on once this is all over.” Tai took a bite out of Electra’s face and chomped off her nose, causing blood and brains to spew out from the gaping hole. While she choked on her life juices, Tai grinned widely as he slowly masticated and swallowed Electra’s nose. “Delicious! It can’t be any worse than the food they serve here in prison, am I right?” No response, only chokes. “I said am I right?!” Too late. She plopped on the ground in a necromantic mess.

“Where are the goddamn guards?!” whined Diesel as he tried to crawl backwards to whatever safety he could muster.

“Funny you should mention that, Diesel. I’ve been asking the same question since you botched our bank robbery. I never did get the answer I was looking for. That’s okay. I don’t need one.” Tai stomped on Diesel’s broken leg repeatedly until it was completely detached from his body. Blood pooled out of the dragon’s wound and his screams became weaker and weaker. Tai smiled down upon his former friend and stomped on his sternum, rubbing his foot in the wound and exploding his massive, fat-covered dragon heart.

“What the hell’s going on in here?!” shouted one of the guards as they rushed in from behind their post. They stared with horror through the bars at the bloody scene: Tai smiling like a demon while Diesel and Electra laid on the ground mangled and obliterated.

The martial arts skeleton mockingly did backstrokes over the puddle of blood on the ground while asking, “Well, boys…are you going to take me to my special little room? Have I been a bad boy today?” Tai laughed like a savage as the guards unlocked the door in a big fucking hurry and yanked him by the arms to solitary confinement.

The darkness soothed Tai’s nerves and kept that hideous grin plastered to his bony face. “Ah…no more idiots screaming at each other. I can finally relax.” He did just that. He sat cross-legged on his bed. He dreamed of the mountain breezes. He bathed in the cool waters of the beach. He breathed in the cologne-like scents of the forest. Diesel and Electra argued about stupid shit. Again. And again. And again.

“No…no…NO! Stop it! Make them go away! Let me out of here!” shouted Tai as he clutched his skull in agony. He could scream all he wanted, but nobody would hear him except the darkness itself and the schizophrenic voices that haunted his mind. Electra and Diesel’s bellyaching grated against his ears. The vessels in his brain enlarged as if they were ready to pop at a moment’s notice.

Then the bank guards taunted him. Then the angel with the harp played the same annoying tune over and over again. If only somebody would smash Tai’s skull in and put a permanent end to his agony. But how does he look for a tool of suicide in such a dark place? Where were the walls? Where were the bars? Where was anybody? “HELP ME, I’M BEGGING YOU!” Nobody answered. Nobody cared.

Deviant Artists

A rainy night had fallen upon the Crystal Hill Art Gallery long after the last staff member locked up the building. Ironclad doors with heavy bolts sealed off the front and back entrances as well as the individual rooms where art was displayed. Discouraging thieves became even more of a requirement as the double paned windows were guarded with steel bars. If this wasn’t already a museum for art, it could easily double as a prison for the worst kinds of criminals.

Even the dark of night couldn’t suppress the shimmering beauty of the pearlescent marble statues. Curvy goddesses barely covered in silk tapestry. Armor-clad warriors carrying the heaviest weapons. Seductive mermaids with the sweetest grins. They all shined and reflected off of one another in the moonlight pouring through the stained glass windows. A dark paladin covered head to toe in spiky armor stood angrily across from a thickly muscled female orc warrior, who also looked ready to rip someone’s head off.

A bolt of lightning flashed in the night sky and as if on cue, the dark paladin and orc statues cracked and splintered, shedding large chunks and spraying specks of dust across the room. The cracks became deeper canyons until their marble coating was completely destroyed, revealing living versions of the warriors the art portrayed.

The dark paladin, Golo Quinn, dusted his hands and armor off while Junie Axel, the orc, kicked pieces of marble across the room like soccer balls. “Goddamn, am I glad to be out of that,” she said.

The two of them met in the center while Golo summoned a glowing orb with his palm and gazed around the room they successfully infiltrated. “Look at all of this crap…Look that this!” he growled. He shined the ball of light towards the goddesses and mermaids in particular. “Who in the hell wants to pay thousands of gold pieces just so they can have women in their rooms they’ll never be able to fuck?!”

“I bet if we found that Golden Dagger, we could carve better statues out of our own shit. Where the hell is it, anyways?” complained Junie as she dusted her leather armor off.

“Beats me. For all we know, the fuckers who built this place could have hidden it among one of the ‘masterpieces’. It could be in one of the mermaid’s bras for all I know. Or it could be up somebody’s ass. I guess we’ll never know until we start looking.”

Cracking her neck in both directions, Junie asked, “How do you want to do this? Should we sneak around like cat burglars or should we just wreck the shit out of everything?”

Golo shook his head. “It’s a little late for the cat burglar shit considering how we got here. I say we just smash everything to pieces. The art sucks anyways, so who’s really going to miss it? Plus, if we actually find the goddamn dagger, we could make our own pieces and sell them to the stupid curator for a cool payday. Come on, help me with this door.”

“My pleasure,” said Junie with a vomit-breathed smile. She effortlessly yanked one of the warrior statues off of its pedestal (while accidentally tearing its leg off) and started ramming it against the iron door. Though the dents in the door resembled meteor craters, the statue was just another worthless pile of dust afterwards. “Looks like it’s going to be harder than we thought. I wonder if any of these jerk-offs in armor are really that tough.”

“Only one way to find out.” Golo sent the ball of light floating overhead while he wrapped his arms around a mermaid and yanked it free, also with little effort. This time, he swung the statue like a baseball bat against the door, detaching its head, then its torso, then crumbling the flipper into powder. The door had even more massive dents, but it still wouldn’t budge. The dark paladin growled like a beast.

The two would-be thieves continued this process of ramming and smashing statues against the door until the entire room was caked in dust, causing Junie to sneeze a glob of yellow slime all over one of the goddess’s detached breasts. “Now that’s what I call a money shot!” she chuckled before burping loudly.

The iron door resembled a battered semi-circle rather than a symbol of security. All it took after every statue was desecrated was a spin kick from Golo’s metal boot. The twisted door crashed to the ground while Junie coughed and waved the smoky air out of their solitary confinement.

“Quit being a wuss and help me find the damn dagger,” said Golo while marching over the fallen door. He held out his palm and brought the ball of light back into his grasp, shining it over various paintings with nature scenes. Snow-covered mountains, enchanted forests with faeries, relaxing beaches with nude models, they all made Golo cringe and curl up in his suit of armor.

“If you spray some more dust in my face, I could sneeze again and create better paintings than these pieces of trash,” joked Junie while wiping her nose with her finger.

“Or you could jerk me off over a sheet of paper, either one sounds more profitable right now. Why would anybody think that painting trees is interesting?! They’re trees! They’re goddamn trees that don’t do a damn thing!” yelled Golo, who then punched one of the paintings and ripped it off the frame.

“Allow me!” said Junie as she and her accomplice went around ripping up paintings and cursing at them. Shredded canvases lined the floor and raging attitudes had the burglars banging their fists against the wall. They were no closer to finding the Golden Dagger. “This is horse crap!”

“Yes, I know how badly these paintings suck.”

“No, Golo, this is actual horse crap! Where the hell is that dagger?!” Junie folded her arms in frustration and slammed her back against the wall. The ridged frame of the picture behind her sent shockwaves of pain through her spine. She roared and held her wound while Golo pointed and laughed at her.

“Why, you little!” Junie turned around and started punching the hell out of the painting, bruises the size of molehills forming on her knuckles with every strike. Ignoring the pain in her hand, she ripped the picture off the wall and revealed something that instantly calmed her anger. “Oh my lord.”

Golo’s laughter turned to confusion. “What?”

“I don’t believe this. I knew it! I knew it was hidden among one of these pieces of garbage!” Junie stuffed her non-aching arm into the hole and pulled out a source of brilliant light that rivaled Golo’s fluorescent sphere. A pearl handle poked out of a leather pouch that the orc held in her hands like a kid receiving a Christmas gift. After a while of trying to contain her giggly fits, she pulled the handle and revealed the source of her and Golo’s greed: the Golden Dagger. The one artifact that could create pieces of art out of stone despite the user’s underachieving skill level.

Junie dropped to her knees and gazed upon the dagger with neon eyes. “This is beautiful. This is a work of art on its own.” Even though Golo wore a horned helmet that covered his face, the orc could tell he was smiling too. “We’re going to be rich…we’re going to be bloody rich!”

Holding the dagger like she was about to murder somebody with it, she tested its powers on the wall next to the mini-vault. Instead all she ended up doing was ripping a few chunks of wood. Nothing artistic, nothing glorious. “What the hell’s going on here?! Is this stupid thing just as worthless as the rest of the crap in here?!” She tried stabbing the wall again and had the same result: a whole lot of nothing. “This thing sucks! We wasted our time in here!”

Junie threw the dagger to the floor only for the magical artifact to float in the air before it had the chance to crash. The wide-eyed, shaky thieves slowly backed away from the artifact while it danced and spun around, shooting golden dust every which way and rendering the ball of light redundant.

With a mind of its own, the dagger stabbed itself into the wall and carved a proper piece of art within seconds. It was detailed. It was lifelike. It was…a mosaic of Junie Axel crapping her pants, to which Golo Quinn laughed himself into soreness yet again. The orc stomped her foot and complained, “Really funny, smart ass! Really goddamn funny!”

Junie lunged for the Golden Dagger’s handle only to have it fly away and carve yet another masterpiece out of the wall: Golo doing a striptease with a saggy gut hanging low. The dark paladin threw his gauntlet to the ground and shouted, “What the hell is going on here?! Is this some kind of joke?! When did a shitty piece of art become such a smart ass?!”

The anger tapered off into shaky fear as the dagger pointed at both Junie and Golo. Was the maniacal artifact going to fling itself into one of them? Was this how they were going to die? At the blade of a dagger with a sense of humor? Not yet. The dagger found more empty wall space and carved out a message for the intruders: “Frauds”.

Golo gazed at the message with hatred while Junie’s body convulsed in the corner. The dark paladin threw down his other gauntlet and yelled, “Frauds?! We’re frauds?! We’re not the ones carving these ridiculous-looking statues and painting these faggy pictures! We’re not the ones who suck! I purposefully stayed away from art class so that I wouldn’t have to make these pieces of shit!”

The dagger carved out another message on the wall: “Lazy”.

“Why you!” belted Golo as he chased after the floating dagger with his footsteps quaking the ground beneath him. The chase led him around the entire gallery, his legs aching and his heart thumping like a war drum. He jumped in the air whenever the dagger soared too high, but his heavy armor caused his shoulders and legs to burn with pain afterwards. He hunched over for a quick breather and even ripped off his helmet, throwing it to the ground and cursing.

The Golden Dagger spun around in the air before finding another empty space to carve a message into. All the weapon could muster were the letters L-O-S-E before Golo found a second wind and lunged at the blade with the last of his rage. His hands gripped the pearl handle with such force that he almost broke it off as it struggled for freedom. “I got you now, you little prick! Hold still! Junie, get your big ass over here and help me!” The orc remained cowardly in her corner. “Now, damn it!”

The orc took her time in getting up while Golo wrestled with the struggling blade on the ground. Junie slowly tiptoed towards the scuffle and hunched over her cohort, not wanting to jump in too soon. And then the blade jerked upwards and brought the dark paladin to his feet. Now it was Golo’s turn to hold the weapon like a murderer. “Wha…what are you doing, buddy? Golo?” pleaded Junie.

With a complete loss of control over his hand, Golo brought the Golden Dagger down upon Junie in a series of rapid-fire stabs that decorated the walls and shredded paper in blood. The dark paladin screamed, “No!” as his friend was being mutilated, but he couldn’t even release his grip. The blade kept raining down upon the orc until she was nothing more than a pile of broken bones, shredded skin, and pooling blood. The knife flew freely from Golo’s grip while the dark paladin pounded the floor repeatedly, tears welling in his eyes.

“What the hell did you have to do that for?!” Golo screamed, wiping an angry tear from his eye with his finger. “She was my friend, damn it!” The dagger lowered itself down into Golo’s field of vision and illuminated it with its golden glow. Dancing and prancing in front of him, the dagger’s light showed him a vision of beauty created from the madness of violence. Junie wasn’t just a mere corpse. She was a sculpture of something more beautiful than her wicked soul could become. “A mermaid? Seriously?! You…you made a mermaid out of my friend?!”

The Golden Dagger carved out another message on the wall: “Profit”.

“I…I don’t understand…you want me to sell this to the curator?”

One final message was sent loud and clear to the boohooing knight. It wasn’t he message he wanted to see carved out. It was the message he needed to see: “True art!”

Comedic Obligations

***COMEDIC OBLIGATIONS***

When you’re a writer and you feel obligated to include certain elements in your story, you can often find yourself not knowing what the hell you’re doing. For example, there’re a lot of TV shows, movies, and books out there that have shoehorned romances, so you feel like in order to stand a chance of being above average, you too have to have a romance despite not having the necessary experience or interest. The same thing is true with comedy. Although George Carlin remains one of my strongest comedic influences, not even his material is capable of making me into a carbon copy of him, which he wouldn’t want anyways because of his strong individuality. I can be funny sometimes, but when I feel obligated to make a joke in my stories, the writing suffers badly and I have to go through yet another round of editing. Tonight I’m counting down the three cringiest examples of jokes or cleverness gone badly in my stories. Why three? Because that’s three cringes too many.

I should go ahead and say that all three major examples come from Poison Tongue Tales, the first drafts at least. You won’t find the jokes there now, thank god. Let’s begin with the major money line from Stone Cold, a short story within that tome about a barbarian (surprise, surprise, surprise) who wants revenge on a warthog sorcerer and a female dark paladin for killing his wife. The barbarian wins the battle, but not without feeling like his heart is going to explode and a vein in his brain is going to pop like a balloon. While the female dark paladin is laying on the ground on her way to the afterlife, the barbarian leans down and says to her in a sexy voice…”Maybe I’ll get some practice on you before I meet my wife in heaven.” Practice doing what, you say? Well, if you can’t figure that out, I’m not going to tell you. Either way, you should be appalled at that, which is why that line no longer occupies my story.

And then the other two examples come from the same story within PTT. That story is called Streetwalker and that title alone should already have you feeling anxiety bubble up in the pit of your stomach. The main villain, another barbarian (what a goddamn shock), wants to buy the services of a wizard prostitute to celebrate a major victory in battle. The prostitute turns him down, so instead of paying the full price, he tries to get it for free by attempting to rape her. Being that she’s a wizard and that she’s using her prostitution money to fund her magical education, the hooker throws every kind of elemental spell at the barbarian’s way. Fireballs, lightning bolts, poison bubbles, shadow spears, glacial spikes, you name it, she’s throwing it. She thinks she’s won the fight, but the spells have absolutely no effect on the barbarian. So what does the would-be rapist say? He says…”In order to cast the spells properly…you need the world’s biggest magic wand!” In the words of my beautiful beta reader Marie Krepps, “Why doesn’t he just shoot her already? I’d rather get raped than listen to another one of his bad jokes.” You and me both, Babe-a-Licious Mondo. You and me both.

That Emmy Award-winning zinger should have been the end of it for Streetwalker, but it wasn’t. Instead the audience was treated to yet another “clever” piece of writing. It wasn’t really a joke nor was it intended to be misogynistic. It was just my obligations creeping through yet again. So what happens in Streetwalker (SPOILER ALERT) is that the barbarian has his way with the prostitute and leaves her bloody and bruised in a dark alleyway. Yes, she managed to knock is money bag loose (his actual money bag, not his testicles, you fools!), but even with all of that gold at her disposal, she still feels guilty for “allowing herself” to be raped in the first place. As part of this self-imposed guilt trip, I, the narrator, describe her ordeal as…(gulp)…I’m not sure if I should say this, but I’m going to if it means proving my point…the prostitute’s rape was…”a permanent part of her resume”. I can hear the dry heaves coming from miles away. Absolutely barferrific. No call for that. It got so bad that when Marie was writing her critique notes, she said, “Let’s keep this between you and me.” I couldn’t agree more, but here it is out in the open.

I didn’t count down those three examples because I wanted a laugh track to magically appear in my room. I counted them down because I wanted to be free from my obligations of putting comedy and/or clever lines in my writing. Yes, comedy is nice every once and a while, but only when done by a true master. Whenever I get into a heated argument with someone, my brain shuts down, so I can’t quickly access a savage one-liner to defeat my opponent. Why should I expect the same thing from my characters? Because Hollywood told me to do it? Because they do it so well in the WWE (which I still don’t watch anymore)? Why can’t two people just have a passionate conversation full of vitriol and curse words? Why does everything have to be funny all the time?

Now that I think about it, the funnier a movie or book tries to be, the more it comes off as bathos to an otherwise emotional moment. Bathos is defined as a descent from emotional highs and it’s usually achieved through comedy. Marvel movies have been accused of doing this a lot, especially with anything featuring Iron Man and his actor Robert Downey, Jr. When you rob your audience of an emotional high, you’re stealing a major part of the movie-watching experience. I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I get hit in the feels, I don’t want my attacker to use kid gloves. That’s why I like books like The Perks of Being a Wallflower and The Savior’s Champion. Sure, they have witty dialogue peppered here and there, but it doesn’t diminish the dramatic action of their respective stories.

I have not yet mastered the balance between (good) comedy and punches to the feels. I’ve been an amateur/professional author since 2001 and I still can’t do it. Is this something I should work on or should I abandon it altogether? Is comedy really that important or should I emancipate myself from the chains of obligation? See? Even that last line sounded too over-the-top to be considered comedic gold. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like laughing at bad jokes, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Chapter seven of this ongoing rewrite is edging towards the horizon. Windham managed to free himself from the shackles and now he needs to not only escape Shelly’s castle, but beforehand has to draw blueprints from the inside and collect a handsome payday from Shadow Asylum. Can he keep his emotions in check long enough to not spoil his escape? Can he watch one of his own being sold to a paying aristocrat without snapping again? Whatever the case may be, I’m free from the chains of comedic obligations, so there won’t be any jokes about Nickelodeon Slime Cannons or some shit like that (some of Shelly’s sex slaves are teenagers).

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

If Fred Durst started his own airline company, would he call it Air Bizkit? It makes me worry about the cabbage and broccoli platters he’d serve to the coach passengers. At least they wouldn’t have to worry about the plane running out of fuel, although the weather would always be cloudy up there.

***POST-SCRIPT***

Okay, so I’m not completely emancipated.

My Child

VERSE 1

If I allowed you to be born in this world

Your hate for me would come full circle

I’d give you the genes, the mental disease

You would murder yourself to be set free

Ripping the stitches after life-saving surgery

Someone stole your soul, an act of burglary

A never-ending cycle of psychological torture

Another week to live is what the doctor orders

VERSE 2

If I allowed you to be born on this earth

You’d be considered a criminal by virtue of birth

Bullied by the worst kinds of scum in school

Fired by the bosses with their autocratic rule

Beaten by the cowards in the dingiest prison

Until darkness becomes your only true vision

I couldn’t put you through any of that shit

Another reason to never have my own kid

BRIDGE

My child, my son, my daughter, my young

Punished for the crime of not holding your tongue

Punished for the crime of not breaking down

Punished for wanting to drown out the sounds

Of the voices telling you you’re not good enough

That surviving this world is for the macho and tough

I can’t raise you in an environment such as this

Time to say goodnight with a forehead kiss

VERSE 3

My only children have fur on their bodies

My only children bark for a piece of salami

My only children meow for a can of tuna fish

My only children drink from a paw print dish

My only children don’t need to go to college

To pay off their debts by emptying their wallets

To answer to the police for doing nothing wrong

Just listen to this purr baby’s mechanical song

Shipping Meme

***SHIPPING MEME***

During the past few days, I’ve been having conversations with my friends Zero Urrea and Marie Krepps about how much fun it is to link two things together with the letter X (a practice commonly found in Japanese anime). Would you go to a concert that was featured as Korn X Starset? You’re damn right you would! Would you ever play a videogame that featured the team of Super Mario X M. Bison? Sure, why not? And of course, the X link is used to signify collaboration between two romantic partners. Cloud X Tifa, Mario X Peach, and Squall X Rinoa are all mainstream examples of this. You could also mix and match between genres and canons…and genders. Would you ever read an erotic fan fiction that featured Tifa Lockhart X Stephanie McMahon? You bet your sweet ass!

Which brings me to something authors might have to deal with if their work becomes famous enough: shipping. If you write a novel that’s highly enjoyable, your readers are definitely going to want to tinker with various combinations of characters as romantic couples, for better or worse. You know who’s not okay with this? Anne Rice, who went to great legal lengths to make sure her fans don’t do that to her books. Some people are okay with this, others are not. More important is how you feel about your own fans doing this to your books. Me personally? I think it’d be flattering no matter what the combinations ended up being.

Unfortunately, I only have one edited and published novel to my name and it’s not even a full length book, so I don’t have a wide roster of characters to work with. Then again, if I include minor characters, this meme could actually be lots of fun. So here’s how this works: I’m going to make a list of Occupy Wrestling characters, use a number generator to randomly pick two of them from that list, and discuss how they’d work as a couple. I won’t use the same character twice and I’ll only generate five different couples. Are you ready? I know I am!

1. Debra Winter, Human Valet
2. Desilu McCourt, Amazonian Knight
3. Dovald, Superhuman Knight
4. Garra, Superhuman Knight
5. Hall Markata, Undead Necromancer
6. Jason Finnegan, Human Wrestler
7. Keegan Day, Human CEO
8. Mitch McLeod, Human Wrestler
9. Monzo Bleeder, Orc Wrestler
10. Nina Jordan, Human Cop
11. Riley Warpthroat, Skeleton Knight
12. Rosie Rogers, Human Referee
13. Snake of Jehovah, Skeleton Monk
14. Stephanie McMillan, Human Wrestler
15. Teiji Roughhouse, Rat Wrestler

FIRST COUPLE: Riley X Keegan

THOUGHTS: Keegan’s blatant bigotry aside, these two would be perfect for each other. They’re both hell-bent on dominating the wrestling scene. They’re both sadistic. They can intimidate the hell out of anyone. And lastly (and this is the most important part), they both look like they were just brought to life by a necromancer. Maybe when these two are in the bedroom, Keegan can use the Day Family Gem as a ball gag for Riley. Keegan does control his minions with that magical MacGuffin, after all.

SECOND COUPLE: Snake of Jehovah X Dovald

THOUGHTS: Another pair of viciously monstrous villains? Sure, why not? Though considering the fact that all Snakes of Jehovah look the same covered up with monk robes and snake masks, Dovald could end up accidentally cheating with another minion. But if that were to happen, how exactly would they initiate the cheating? Snakes of Jehovah are skeletal minions, with no sexual orifices or genitalia, so the closest Dovald could get to achieving sexual pleasure is to take the snake mask off and go through the eye sockets.

THIRD COUPLE: Jason X Stephanie

THOUGHTS: At least we’re back into normal territory since they’re both humans. Plus, they actually have things in common that they could bond over. They’re wrestlers. They’re despicable heels. They’re both championship material. Ship them, damn it! There’s just one curiosity I have: if Jason is a three hundred pounder who suffers a heart attack in the first chapter, even if he lived through it, would he be healthy enough for sexual activity? Would he have to be on bottom while Stephanie was on top? Would he fall asleep halfway through and lose his erection? So many burning questions.

FOURTH COUPLE: Hall X Nina

THOUGHTS: Spoiler alert: Hall ends up using his necromantic powers to raise Nina from the dead as an ash-covered zombie. I’m more curious about what you, the readers, didn’t get to see when all that happened. You think Hall is into that kinky shit? Does he forgo apps like Tinder and Grinder and just settle for a trip to the cemetery? Well, he doesn’t have to anymore if he’s got Nina as his minion. While Nina isn’t the most attractive woman in my book, there’s something sexy about a woman in uniform.

FINAL COUPLE: Desilu X Debra

THOUGHTS: If it wasn’t for the fact that Desilu tried to snap Debra’s spine in two with a camel clutch, this could actually be somewhat normal. Debra is a bisexual who appreciates both masculine and feminine features in both genders. Desilu is a big fucking Amazonian who knows how to wrestle (not just in the ring). Hell, she could probably do a better job of protecting her than Mitch ever could. That, and Desilu is happy to train Debra in wrestling herself since that’s all Miss Winter really wants: to be self-reliant. Of course, if Debra is that desperate for wrestling lessons, she might have to take a serious beating at the hand of Keegan’s minions. Oh wait, that already happened.

Okay, I must admit that I had fun doing this. Maybe I can do it again when I publish another novel. Hell, even my unpublished first drafts could use some love and war. What if I took Mario Bryan from Watch You Burn and paired him up with Daniel Mercer from Demon Axe? Or as the Japanese would say, Mario X Daniel. They’re both mentally ill, so they could help each other through their toughest episodes. Mario is schizophrenic and Daniel has PTSD. The two illnesses are similar to each other, but schizophrenia is a psychotic disorder and PTSD is an anxious disorder. This could actually work! But that’s a story for another day. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you soon!

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Fifty Shades of Grey is to literature what candy corn is to vegetables.”

-Bill Maher-