Lorena Bobbitt vs. Cornell University: You Put a Knife in Our Backs, We'll Put a Knife Somewhere Else on Your Body

 

Happy Halloween! About as Happy as You Can Reasonably Be in 2026...

 

The Schizophrenic Ides of March

 

Chef Tova vs. Myron Gaines from Fresh & Fit: Happy Men's Mental Health Awareness Month!

 

Antonia DiAngelo, Grumpy Grandma from "Emilio & Marigold"

 

Old school Garrison's Library fans will remember me submitting "Emilio & Marigold" to Hollow Hills and getting it published in "Raining Cats & Dogs" in 2020. Hollow Hills have since closed their doors for good. Now Emilio & Marigold will be part of an anthology of fantasy novelettes called Lysergic Fairytales, which I'll do myself.

Rachel Oates vs. Alpha Male Podcaster

 

Pull a Knife

VERSE 1

Respect for authority, agree with the majority

Keep the peace, you should only be seen

And never heard, not a single word

Will come from your lips or they’ll rap the tips

Of your fingers with a ruler, you little grammar-schooler

Some rap the knuckles, either way your knees buckle

Stand up to injustice? Do that, you’ll get busted

Assume the position, it’s your life’s ambition

 

DIALOGUE

That all sounds well and good, but I’d rather…

 

CHORUS

Pull a knife! Take their wallet!

Accountability is what I’ll call it!

Pull a gun! Steal their purse!

I don’t care if it makes things worse!

 

VERSE 2

Words have failed, now your life has derailed

Now it’s punches and kicks, stones and sticks

Violence is the language of pain and anguish

Because the rules don’t apply to the suits and ties

The rules mean nothing when the shotgun’s pumping

Shells in the heads of the poor and underfed

It’s kill or be killed, I’ll die on this hill

It’s either you or them, who’d be better off dead?

 

DIALOGUE

I’d love to sing kumbaya with my killers, but I’d rather…

 

CHORUS

Pull a knife! Take their wallets!

Accountability is what I’ll call it!

Pull a gun! Steal their purse!

I don’t care if it makes things worse!

 

BRIDGE

Are they scared of the city? They made things shitty

Flooding the streets with guns and heat

Flooding the veins with heroin, cocaine

Cutting the funding, now the cops go hunting

Expect obedience? That shit’s so devious

Has the opposite effect of what it all meant

What’s the use? You got nothing left to lose

Nothing’s more dangerous than a bullet up their anus!

 

CHORUS

Pull a knife! Take their wallet!

Accountability is what I’ll call it!

Pull a gun! Steal their purse!

I don’t care if it makes things worse!

Do it like Robin Hood! Do it like Luigi!

Scrape their remains off the sidewalk with a squeegee!

They created a monster! Created a killer!

They debate all they want, but it’s background filler!

Pull a knife!

Pull a gun!

Pull a bazooka!

It’s the end of the world, let’s have some fun!

The Screamers

OPENING LINE

I don’t want to get over it

I want you to change your behavior

VERSE 1

Life would be great if it wasn’t for the people

What jerks will you meet? Let’s spin the wheel

It’s not America’s game show, but Russian Roulette

A bullet to the dome is what you’re bound to get

The screamers, the shooters, and everyone between

Barely an inconvenience on the TV news screen

The boogeyman they choose was never at fault

For bringing the economy to a grinding halt

CHORUS

Whenever I want to get on with my life

Always somebody there to bring down the knife

Just when I have the world all figured out

Here come the zealots ready to shoot and shout

The screamers!

The screamers!

Killing all the dreamers!

The screamers!

VERSE 2

Logic doesn’t work on the ones who need it most

They got the muscles of a Chad, brains of burned toast

You can lead a zombie to the doors of a college class

But you can’t make him pull his head out of his ass

CHORUS

Whenever I want to get on with my life

Always somebody there to bring down the knife

Just when I have the world all figured out

Here come the zealots ready to shoot and shout

The screamers!

The screamers!

Killing all the dreamers!

The screamers!

VERSE 3

When someone is too young to be a self-advocate

Their brains are molded by good old sacrament

They grow up to buy their own rifles and ammo

And they shoot up the world while wearing camo

These are the people we share a space with

Yet they call the disenfranchised a democratic myth

CHORUS

Whenever I want to get on with my life

Always somebody there to bring down the knife

Just when I have the world all figured out

Here come the zealots ready to shoot and shout

The screamers!

The screamers!

Killing all the dreamers!

The screamers!

Give Me the Weapon

So…have any of you watched a movie or TV show where an attacker is threatening people with a weapon and someone pleads with him to hand it over?

“Give me the gun. Don’t do this.”

“It’s okay, just give me the knife. Please.”

“Give me the crowbar before you do something you’ll regret.”

It makes for some intense drama, no doubt…unless of course the weapon isn’t a basic one and has a complex name.

“Give me Excalibur. Please.”

“Give me the Dork Slayer before you hurt somebody.”

“Give me the Shadow Edge before something bad happens. I’m begging you.”

And just like that you’ve gone from dramatic tension to the audience busting up with laughter.

Parasocial

VERSE 1
The beacon of light I’ve been waiting for
A platonic friendship or something more?
One-sided romance from across the screen
Like I don’t know what parasocial means
We never talk, but I can still have dreams
About making this more than it seems
The real world doesn’t even compare
The real world doesn’t fucking care

CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?

VERSE 2
I don’t have a knife or pepper spray
Yet you back the fuck up anyway
I would too, so I can’t blame you
Don’t know if I have a loose screw
Don’t know if I’m a creepy terrorist
No confidence and less arrogance
Where else am I supposed to go?
Got nothing here but wires and crows

CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?

VERSE 3
I hate riding in cars in long traffic lines
I hate flying on planes for a long ass time
I hate riding on buses with dog logos
I hate riding on trains, it’s never solo
I don’t have the patience to see this through
Yet I yearn to be even closer to you
Back to the keyboard for another comment
In hopes we still have friendship in common

CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?

FINAL VERSE
Growing older
Growing colder
You’ve moved on
Still I wait so long

Stalking Is Not the Answer

I haven’t watched WWE since November of 2018, when they put on that horrible episode of Monday Night Raw where Drake Maverick peed on Bobby Roode’s robe. But I still like to stay in the loop via podcasts and You Tube channels. I sincerely hope Sonya Deville’s story gets the appropriate amount of coverage outside of the wrestling bubble. A few weeks ago, a disgusting bastard by the name of Phillip Thomas attempted to kidnap Sonya in her Lutz, Florida home. For years he had sent her creepy messages on social media that were of the lovey-dovey variety mixed with suicidal threats and mentions of wanting to murder her family. So what does he do to satisfy his romantic urges? In addition to sending the freaky messages, he showed up to her house one night carrying a knife, pepper spray, duct tape, zip ties, and god knows what else. He planned on kidnapping Sonya Deville, but she got the hell out of there and the police promptly arrested Phillip Thomas with a judge denying him bail.

Now…there are many ways in which you can show your appreciation for your favorite celebrities. Stalking and attempting to kidnap them is not one of them! Forgetting the fact that Sonya Deville is openly lesbian and therefore isn’t interested in men anyways, Phillip Thomas had no fucking chance with her by virtue of his creepy online behavior. He has even less of a chance with her now that he attempted to kidnap her. Haven’t you learned anything from being sickened while watching 365 Days? That Stockholm Syndrome fantasy shit doesn’t work! When Phillip Thomas showed up at Sonya Deville’s home with weapons and bondage equipment, she didn’t have stars in her eyes and a smile on her face. She was fucking terrified, as well she should be!

Having romantic feelings for a celebrity is nothing new to the world. It’s a relationship that could never work due to the imbalance of power, but we like to have fantasies anyways, because these fantasies make our hearts flutter and they give us extra pep in our step. We form parasocial relationships with the celebrities we love. Maybe the celebrity gives us roses. Maybe they squeeze our shoulders. Maybe they let us cradle our heads in their laps while they stroke our hair. But once the fantasy wears off, you begin to realize the impossibility of the fantasy and it depresses the shit out of you. You invested so much time and energy into this fantasy that when the rug gets pulled out from underneath, you’ve got nothing left but sadness. If you feel like your celebrity crushes are interfering with your wellbeing, talk to somebody. Anybody. See a counselor. Confide in family and friends.

This phenomenon was especially true for me when I studied at Western Washington University from 2007 to 2009. I was a socially awkward dweeb who had very little in the way of human interaction. So what did I do? I formed a parasocial relationship with Tarja Turunen, the former lead singer of Nightwish. Her lovely raven hair, her milky white skin, her cherry red lips, and that singing voice of an angel, oh my god, she was so beautiful to me. My heart had the singing voice of an angel every time I laid eyes on her. But when I cycled through my head all the loving ways we could interact, I quickly realized that I was still alone at WWU despite having a strong imagination. I had nothing but my fantasies. Fantasies are great, but they’re not tangible and don’t amount to anything in real life. But did I threaten to kidnap Tarja Turunen? Did I threaten to kill her husband Marcelo Cabuli? Did I show up to her home in Finland with duct tape and a hunting knife? Fuck no! That would be horrifying! If you claim to love someone as much as you do, you don’t show your love by threatening to slash them if they don’t have sex with you. That’s not love. That’s violence. In a real relationship, that’s domestic abuse and it would be grounds for not only divorce, but prison time.

Sonya Deville is a beautiful woman. She’s a brilliant character on WWE television. She’s got mixed-martial arts skills for days that will remind the audience of Wonder Woman. You want to know what she isn’t? Yours to kidnap and have sex with! You as a fan are not owed anything! You’re not owed sex and romance! If you want those things, you have to earn them by being sweet and empathetic and even then if the woman says no, you ought to listen. Sonya Deville is not going to say yes to someone who sends her disgusting messages on Twitter threatening to hurt her if she doesn’t give into him. I thought this point was made clear when pretty much every news outlet on the planet dissected Incel culture with a scalpel. We’re supposed to be past this shit. But people like Phillip Thomas didn’t get the message. Apparently, neither did the other Twitter trolls who sent Sonya Deville messages like, “I’m going to finish what Phillip started” and “My knife is bigger than Phillip’s.” How romantic! What a bunch of charming motherfuckers! Breakfast, meet floor!

Back at Summer Slam, Sonya Deville was written off of WWE television when she lost a No Disqualification Loser Leaves Town match to longtime rival Mandy Rose. She didn’t actually lose her job. It’s just a storyline excuse for her to sort things out legally and emotionally before getting back in the ring. She’ll be back one day. I’d like to think she’ll be back stronger than ever, but that’s not how psychological trauma works. That shit eats away at you like a cancer. There are triggers that will set you off. There are nightmares. There are moments where you’ll lose focus of what you’re doing, which isn’t an ideal scenario in a profession where you slam people on their backs for a living. Thanks a lot, Phillip Thomas. You traumatized Sonya Deville for life, all because you wanted a romance that never could have happened, lesbian status or not. That’s not love. That’s psychosis. Get some fucking help!

Being a celebrity of any kind, whether you’re an attractive woman or otherwise, will open up the floodgates for stalking and harassment. This shit has been going on long before the internet was a thing. So what should you do if you find yourself in this situation? Do you hire security guards? Do you buy a weapon? Do you move to another home? Do you stay off of social media? Do you get a restraining order? There’s no one-size-fits-all solution to this problem. Sometimes it’s multiple things at once, which is something the celebrity in question will consider as anxiety floods their minds with all the possibilities of scenarios. Hell, you don’t have to be a celebrity to experience stalking. The reason for stalking doesn’t even have to be romantic or sexual. There are some sick pieces of shit out there and the sooner they’re locked up, the better off we’ll all be. If you find yourself obsessing over someone, don’t become the next Phillip Thomas. Get help. Reach out to someone you trust. That’s my public service announcement for the day. Stalking is not the answer. It never is.

Murder Is Beautiful

VERSE 1
It’s amazing the disputes I can settle with a knife
Could have no more problems for the rest of my life
A blade across your wrists, a blade across your throat
Tie bricks around your ankles, throw you off of a boat
Some of you motherfuckers call it a crime of passion
From a guy who followed all the heavy metal fashions
From a guy who was shit on all throughout school
Nah, I just like bathing in bloody swimming pools

CHORUS 1
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is so sublime!
It’s so worth doing time!
Murder is beautiful!

VERSE 2
It’s astounding the problems I can solve with a gun
One bullet to the dome and it’s all said and done
Or maybe I can blast off your itty bitty dicky
Shoot you in the ass, bleed you like a stuck piggy
Some of you clowns call me a little loony toon
While digging your own graves with a big ass spoon
Maybe I just need a glass of water and some pills
Nah, I’d rather rack up some more of those kills

CHORUS 2
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is so precious!
The fun is so endless!
Murder is beautiful!

VERSE 3
I’ve never been a gangster or a mafia don
I’m just a guy whose sanity is all long gone
Had enough of toxic bitches ripping at my stitches
Opening wounds that should’ve stayed hidden
A baseball bat or a stun gun full of juice
Don’t worry about your legs having no use
You won’t need them where your ass is going
Bombs away! Feel the high winds blowing

CHORUS 3
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is sweet sunshine!
Your ass is forever mine!
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is pretty as fuck!
Murder is a work of art!
Slash your asses apart!
Murder is pretty as fuck!

I Apologize

VERSE 1

Assassins live by a code of silence

Leave no trace of forensic science

Leave behind a trail of violence

Escape the sounds of police sirens

Weapon of choice isn’t a knife or gun

Motive isn’t the thrill of the hunt

Vicarious visions the camera caught

All I did was sit back and watch

CHORUS

I apologize for not being your savior

I apologize for being your traitor

All I had to do was speak my mind

But another innocent got left behind

VERSE 2

You’re all grown up and standing tall

You just can’t wait for your next brawl

Lashing out at everyone in sight

Someone’s going to the hospital tonight

It’s too late to recapture innocence

It’s too late to close the distance

It’s too late to give you your love

You fought like a hawk, slew all the doves

CHORUS

I apologize for not being your savior

I apologize for being your traitor

All I had to do was speak my mind

But another innocent got left behind

VERSE 3

If I could, I’d hug you tightly forever

Tell you it’s okay and never say never

Tell you I’m sorry for shutting my mouth

I’m sorry for taking the easy way out

You won’t forgive me for my deadly sins

You threw my apology in the garbage bin

I can’t blame you for even a short second

Silence is an assassin’s favorite weapon

EXTENDED CHORUS

I apologize for not being your savior

I apologize for being your traitor

All I had to do was speak my mind

But another innocent got left behind

I apologize for leaving you for dead

I apologize for the trauma in your head

I apologize for the monster you’ve become

The pain is now yours to sooth and numb

FINAL LINE

I’m sorry…

Fire and Fury

Ronis Wakizashi chewed his breakfast steak and savored every juicy bite before the heavenly meal slid down his throat. It had been a while since he’d eaten at The Buffalo Brunch. Catching his latest criminal called for a celebration: tender sirloin steak, fluffy scrambled eggs, butter-drenched English muffins, and crispy hash browns. Ronis ate his meal without regard for the contents tangling into his scraggly beard or splattering on his bulletproof vest and blue jeans. He even managed to get a bite of scrambled egg on his cowboy hat, which took some serious talent.

His beautiful breakfast was interrupted at the sounds of heavy breathing from across the restaurant. Among all the patrons, the female navy sailor with the jittery hands and splashing coffee cup got his attention. Her breathing patterns included some slight squeaks. Ronis stared at her for a while then shook his head in annoyance before digging right back into his breakfast.

The sailor’s breathing deepened as tears flowed from her eyes ever so lightly. Ronis slammed his fork down on his plate and gave her another annoyed look, but she was too pumped on nervous adrenaline to notice. Even the waitress had to ask the sailor five or six times whether she wanted a refill on her coffee before she snapped out of her trance and said yes.

Ronis watched as the waitress poured coffee into the sailor’s mug. The navy soldier finally snapped when a splash of coffee burned her fingers. She shot up and let out a lengthy blood-curdling scream while shaking the burn out of her hand. The waitress apologized relentlessly and scanned the restaurant for other patrons staring at her, to which she gave them an awkward smile.

The sailor pulled a knife from her belt and wrapped one arm around the waitress’s throat. When the hostess screamed, the navy soldier snapped, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch! If I hear so much as a pin drop in this fucking place, I’ll carve your ass up from ear to ear!”

The waitress’s wailing was reduced to childish whimpering and a stream of heavy tears. Everybody stared at the knife-wielder, including Ronis, who kept a steady grip on his shotgun underneath the table. The Sheriff even had the nerve to keep eating his breakfast, gnashing a piece of English muffin with those smelly teeth of his.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing, old man?!” screamed the sailor. “Breakfast is over! Now you all are going to listen to me before I slash this bitch’s throat!”

“I don’t think so, you stupid whore,” said Ronis with a scarily calm demeanor. He stood right up and pointed his shotgun at the sailor, who proceeded to press her blade tightly against the sobbing waitress’s throat. “Put the knife down, navy chick. You’re not going to win this fight. I’m the one with the shotgun and all you have is a little tinker toy. Are you ready to give up or do I have to splatter your brains all over the table?”

“You want to shoot me?” the sailor stammered. “You want to kill my ass? Go ahead! Anything’s better than living with this shit inside my brain! You’d be doing me a favor!”

“Alright, I get it,” said Ronis halfheartedly. “You’re a soldier who saw a whole bunch of nasty stuff overseas and now you can’t get it out of your mind. Hell, if I went through half of what you guys go through every day, I’d be messed up in the head too. Put you’ve got to put the knife down. Carving up that sweet thing isn’t going to give you relief.”

“No, it won’t,” admitted the sailor in a somewhat calmer voice. “But it’ll make people listen. You know why people like to show up at political rallies with cardboard signs? Because they want to be heard. And now I want to be heard too. If I didn’t have this knife in my hands, you’d be sitting there finishing your goddamn breakfast.”

“You got my attention, princess,” said Ronis. “Now tell me what you want. I ain’t got all day. You’re right: I do want to eat my breakfast, so make it quick.”

“Please!” begged the waitress through horrified tears. “Don’t make her angry! Just give her what she wants so that we can all go home!”

“Shut the fuck up, you skinny bitch, this ain’t any of your goddamn business!” Ronis shouted. He returned his attention to the traumatized sailor and said, “Now, you have the floor. Say something and say it fast. Otherwise, my trigger finger’s going to get really itchy. Are we clear?” No response. “Do you want a microphone and a stage or what? Talk, damn it!”

“You want me to talk?” asked the sailor. “Fine, let’s talk. After all, if I don’t say anything, I’ll just be another statistic on a government chart. I’ll just be another homeless bum on the streets who can’t find a goddamn job. Yeah, you think you know what I’m going through? Of course you don’t. You can sleep easy at night without having to worry if you’re going to die in your dreams. You don’t have to think about exploding land mines or gunfire blowing out your eardrums or your supervisor not giving a shit either way! I don’t want to fight this war any longer. I want to know what true comfort really is.”

“And you think you’re going to get true comfort by slashing a waitress’s throat?” asked Ronis. “There are only two kinds of comfort that will get you: sleeping easy in a six-by-nine cell or sleeping easy in a coffin. In the end, it doesn’t matter if your message is right or wrong. What matters is that you’re putting people in danger with your reckless behavior.”

The sailor’s facial features softened to a contemplative expression, generating silence between her, the captive, and Sheriff Wakizashi. It was a calming silence for all parties involved, but it was really just complacency when the sailor shouted, “Reckless behavior my ass! You haven’t seen shit yet!”

The soldier raised her dagger and forced a shriek out of the waitress as it came down with a quickness. The waitress bowed down on the floor with her ears covered after Ronis pulled the trigger, knocking the sailor to the ground and freeing the server from captivity. The waitress still screamed bloody murder while the other patrons watched in wide-eyed shock and horror.

Ronis, without a hint of remorse, trudged over to the waitress and the sailor’s body with his cowboy boots clicking against the brick floor. He fished several five dollar bills out of his jeans pocket and dropped them on the waitress, who looked up at him with puppy dog eyes and more hysterical sobbing. The Sheriff said, “There’s your tip for putting up with all of this bullshit. I’m proud of you.” No response. “What are you waiting for?”

The waitress scooped up her “gratuity” and ran out of the restaurant in a big blubbering hurry, which was amazing since she wore high heeled shoes the entire time. Ronis looked coldly at the sailor’s prone body and said, “You can stop acting now. That was just a beanbag shot.” The sailor slowly regained consciousness after acquiring a huge purple bump on her forehead. She tenderly touched the bruise and winced in pain after the slightest poke.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” asked Ronis.

“Julie Clay. Seaman Julie Clay,” she said in a dizzied hush.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sheriff Ronis Wakizashi. I should be taking you to jail right now to serve a long ass sentence. But I’m not going to.” He knelt beside her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “That tough guy talk was just to see how far you’d really go. Intimidation has always worked for me in the past. It didn’t work with you, so I had to shoot you with that beanbag. Sorry about that. You really did have something to say and you weren’t going down without getting your voice out there. I admire that. You really are the dictionary definition of a soldier, Miss Clay.”

“What happens now?” asked Julie. “Do I need to turn around and put my hands behind my back?”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Clay. The handcuffs are a precautionary measure and I never leave home without them. The beanbag gun was optional. I don’t like shooting people when I don’t have to. My father was shot during a traffic stop, not by a crook, but by another cop. I’ve had to live with that shit for a long, long time. I wouldn’t know what comfort was if it came up and bit me on the ass. So I joined the force hoping I could make a difference with just this beanbag gun. But you, it’s not too late for you to make a difference. Hell, you’ve done a lot already with your military career. But before we can turn the clock back, you have to come with me.”

Julie’s breathing got progressively heavier as she held her hands up together and whispered, “Get me out of here. I don’t care where we go from here, just get me the hell out of this place.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t care where we’re going, because I’m not taking you to jail. Jail is for people who have nothing but evil and negativity in their hearts. You’ve got something more than that. I’m taking you to the hospital to be treated. You can’t walk around town with this kind of violent force. I know you don’t mean to do it. I know you don’t want to do it. So come on, let’s get you out of here,” said Ronis before hooking the handcuffs around Julie’s wrists and gently pulling her up.

As the two of them walked slowly toward the exit with Ronis’s arms draped over Julie’s shoulders, she asked, “Why are you doing all of this for me? I almost killed someone and you’re giving me an easy way out.”

“There’s nothing easy about any of this, Miss Clay,” said Ronis in a gentle voice. “But just because your road to recovery is a long one, doesn’t mean that the US Department of Justice has to be an oxymoron.”

Demon Axe, Chapter 6

Paperwork: the biggest reason why Detective Shawn Henry had kinks in his neck and back the size of potatoes. He sat at his desk with his head slouched over and his shoulders sagging. The dark circles under his eyes made him look like he was in a brutal boxing match; in this case, he went all twelve rounds with Mr. Sandman. The other cops at the station had gone home for the evening to their spouses and children. Shawn scribbled a pen across a mountain of paper while on autopilot. As he let out a cyclone of a yawn, the lights above him dimmed out and all he could rely on was his desk lamp.

So many dead bodies left behind by Roger Zee in the past few days, so many papers to fill out. Shawn put the pen down for a moment and let out another grizzly yawn before standing up and stretching his limbs out. He briefly held onto his tailbone and shifted his legs around to get some blood pumping back into them. It was during this moment of intense relief that he eyeballed a picture of his wife and daughter sitting in a golden frame on his desk. Seeing their sunlit faces brought a small grin to his own. “Don’t worry, papa’s going to be home soon,” Shawn said to the two members of the Henry Clan.

“I wouldn’t count on that if I were you,” said a raspy voice before a dagger was thrown into the picture, shattering the glass and knocking the frame to the floor. Shawn turned around with his fists clenched at his sides and a venomous stare saturating the shadowed frame of Roger Zee. With the other cops gone for the day, this was a strictly private conversation between the long arm of the law and the machete that wanted to chop it off. Roger showed off his razor sharp pearly whites in a sadistic grin underneath the glow of a fiery torch he held in one hand.

Shawn made a quick grab for the gun at his side, but Roger threw another knife and shattered the weapon as easily as the picture frame’s glass cover. Detective Henry let out a sharp hiss as a gash opened where his gun used to be. He pressed some of the paperwork against the wound and the bleeding was slowly stopping.

“Is there another magic trick you’d like to try?” asked Roger with sarcastic politeness. “Perhaps a shotgun? A knife? Your own shoes? Please, go ahead and keep delaying the inevitable. I love screwing around when there’s an important business matter to be discussed. It really throws a nice twist on the whole thing.”

In a wolf’s growl accompanied by heavy breathing, Shawn said, “The only business you have in my precinct is in a holding cell waiting for a fucking trial! You’re in no condition to be negotiating with me, you bloodthirsty freak! If I have to die fighting for what I believe in, then so be it! Kill me now and get it over with!”

Roger chuckled while slowly advancing toward his “business partner”. He waved the flaming torch around like he was getting ready to perform a pyromantic ritual. “Die for what you believe in? And what exactly do you believe in, Detective? Oppressing races? Claiming land as your own? Destroying longstanding traditions? By pursuing this case against me, you’re doing all of those things. And somehow, your media circus has labeled me the zealot.”

“So that’s what this is about?” asked Shawn. “You’re mad because somebody built an outdoor arena over your so-called sacred land? You would kill hundreds of people over something stupid like that?”

“This is more than a battle over some silly heavy metal venue,” explained Roger, waving the torch dangerously close to nearby desks. “This is about respect. This is about principles, honor, and tradition, something your human race knows nothing about. You allow those people to play obnoxious and offensive music after our land is long forgotten about. You’re spitting on the graves of those who came before you. Then again, your kind isn’t really a stranger to taking things that don’t belong to them. History tells that story over and over again.”

With one hand waving in confusion, Shawn said, “Well, what are you waiting for? You’ve got the machete. You’ve got the torch. What am I going to do: run away? Perform sick kung fu moves on you? Seriously, why are you making me wait for my own demise?!”

Roger laughed evilly and spun around with the flame, causing Shawn to almost fall on his desk in anticipation of being burned. The elf said, “You? No, this isn’t about you, Detective. You’re merely a cog in the machine. I want the whole damn machine. Listen carefully, my friend. What I’m about to propose to you will be the difference between a free country and a dystopian hellhole.”

Roger leaned his face close to Shawn’s and ejected foul breath as he said, “I want access to all of your police resources. I want your computers, your weapons, your military equipment, and even a few of your fellow cops’ cooperation. In return, your family and friends, each and every one of them, will live happily in my new world while everyone else burns down.”

Shawn tensed his muscles and shoved Roger back a few steps before asking, “What have you done with them? Where’s my family?! They better be alive or I’m putting your head on a fucking spear, bitch!”

Roger slapped his opponent across the face and knocked him to the floor, leaving him fading in and out of blackness. A burning red impression was left on the cop’s face and his eyes felt like they were going to burst out of his head. “Believe it or not, that slap I just gave you is the least of your worries. Your family is being kept in a safe place of my choosing. You can have them back as soon as you give me everything I want whenever I want it.”

The elf kneeled next to Shawn and stroked his thinning brown hair in the most sarcastic gesture of gentleness imaginable. “And when you get them back, be sure to give them all the psychological counseling you can afford with a cop’s salary….because some thoughts were never meant to be forgotten. They don’t just fly away like little birdies. They don’t soar through the clouds with heavenly angels. The kind of memories I gave them…are forever!”

With the last of his fading strength, Shawn reached his hand up and wrapped his beefy fingers around Roger’s throat, though any indication of the elf’s pain was once again masked by sarcastic gestures. The elf flicked the cop’s hand off of him like an annoying fly and said, “I expected much more strength from a guy who just learned that his family…well, there’s really no nice way to say this…actually, I don’t really have to say anything. The trauma speaks for itself!”

“When I regain consciousness…” said Shawn with a throaty voice. “I’m going to torture the shit out of you…I’ll make water boarding feel like a sponge bath….I’ll make electrocution feel like a back rub…and if you think heavy metal music is offensive to you now…wait until you hear it on full blast…twenty-four hours a day…seven days a week…until you go bat shit crazy! Then again…you’re already a nut job! Take your rightwing splooge and go to hell!” That last sentence was punctuated with bloody spit in Roger’s face.

The zealot smiled as he wiped the red saliva off of his face with his two forefingers. “I’m going to be the bigger man and let that go. After all, it’s what tyrants like you expect from your people: peacefulness in the face of military force. You can get that kind of cooperation from a lot of people. But from me, you’ll only get violence, hatred, and your own personal hell! I’ll give you some time to think about our little deal. Take as much time as you’d like. It’s not like your family is depending on you.”

Roger stood up and looked around at the police station with amazement on his flame-lit face. “Of course, if you’d rather I burn your police resources to the ground with you at the forefront, then I’d hate to waste this lovely torch. Pyromancy was once an ancient form of magic with sagely wisdom behind every flickering flame. Now you and your moronic race have made a mockery of our mysticism by inventing flamethrowers and drone bombs. You’ve used our own powers against us and expect us to be peaceful about it. Like I said earlier, you have some time to think about our deal. Go home. Get some sleep. Then again, your traumatized wife and daughter have a better chance of dreaming of unicorns and rainbows than you do. Toodles!”

The nationalist blew out the torch and little more could be heard than light footsteps pattering out the back exit of the precinct. It didn’t matter if there was a glowing light or not, because Shawn’s vision was already darker than the inside of a coffin. Tears welled up in his stinging eyes and aggravated the burn on his cheek from Roger’s slap. In Shawn’s mind, it mattered not if the building was full of cops or not: he was screwed.

In a way, he was glad no more human lives had to be sacrificed during Roger’s stealthy path to Detective Henry. It was only a modicum of relief for the now numb-minded cop. He still felt like screaming. He still wanted to murder and torture Roger Zee in the worst way. He was helpless to do either, so he blacked out into a dream that was definitely not about unicorns and rainbows.

Ninja

The rain poured down on the helpless African diamond miners like the tears of those sent to heaven by Andrew Bradley’s bullets and grenades. A whole line of skinny workers were on their knees with their arms bound behind their backs and their heads down in shame. Some of them were so skinny that their bones were visible. Some of them didn’t have arms or hands. Some of them were as young as seven years old. All of them shivered at both the sensation of cold rain and the fear of the mercenary for hire standing behind them with an AK-47 in hand.

“Alright, you little wankers, listen up!” said Andrew Bradley in his tone-deaf English accent. “I came here for one reason and one reason only: the Ninja Ruby is here in this exact diamond mine. I’d better get some answers as to where the hell it is or else all of you are getting bullets! Not excuses, not questions, but bullets! Bullets in your head! Bullets in your back! Bullets up your arse!”

With his muscular and hairy body, black tank top, camouflage pants, and eye patch over his right eye, Andrew was a specimen of intimidation. The worst part about that? He could back it up. When he wasn’t getting answers from the bound up miners, he took the butt of his rifle and smashed it in the back of a random worker’s head. The worker screamed in pain as he laid on the ground with his wound bleeding like crazy.

“Consider that your final warning, you little twerps! If I don’t hear an answer soon, I’m going to start shooting!” screamed Andrew as he fired his automatic rifle in the sky and laughed his ass off.

And then a shuriken flew past the scene and lopped off the tip of the AK-47. Another one flew past and exploded the ammo card. One more flew by and was centimeters away from taking off Andrew’s trigger finger if he didn’t drop his weapon in time.

One of the workers smiled up at Andrew and said, “You want to know where the Ninja Ruby is? You can find it on that cave. There’s just one problem: you won’t make it out alive!”

“Is that a threat? Huh? Is that a threat?!” Andrew roared when he pulled out a bowie knife and held it to the smiling worker’s throat. “You’d better wipe that god-awful grin off your face or else you’ll get a Columbian necktie! We’ll see if you’ll be smiling after that!”

A blowgun dart whizzed by and struck Andrew in his thick leg. He hopped away from the “smart-assed” worker and grimaced in pain. With one swift jerk, he pulled the dart from his leg and allowed it to bleed minimally. He stared down the cave with gritted yellow teeth and a death grip on his knife’s handle. “That’s it! You want to screw around with me! I’ll slash your fucking head off and drink your nigger blood!”

Andrew marched into the cave and lit up his club-like flashlight. No matter where he shined it, he couldn’t find even the slightest clue as to where the perpetrator might be. “Alright, you little pansy!” shouted the mercenary. “I’ve had just about enough of your smart-assed trickery! If you won’t come out of here with your hands raised to the sky, I’ll blast this goddamn cave back to the Stone Age! I’ve got enough dynamite in my truck to shake the entire earth to its core!”

“That won’t be necessary, my friend.” Andrew turned around and saw that the source of the deep-voiced dialogue came from a man dressed in multi-colored robes with a demon’s mask over his face and a katana in his hand. “My name is DJ Rouge. You wanted to know where the Ninja’s Ruby was. Here it is. Come and take it.” DJ removed his eye patch and revealed a beautiful red gem in his socket.

Andrew looked at the ruby with O-mouthed awe as it shined brightly enough to illuminate the whole cave. DJ pulled the gem out of his eye socket and threw it out of the entrance to the cave, darkening the atmosphere yet again except for Andrew’s flashlight. “What are you waiting for? Go fetch, you hideous dog!” said DJ.

“You cheeky little bastard!” yelled Andrew as he charged up to DJ while swinging wildly with his bowie knife and flashlight. Every blow he threw scraped dust off the cave walls and ground, sometimes even taking whole stones. But never once did Andrew hit his target, who was moving with acrobatic quickness and calm stealth.

“You can’t play defense forever, you little swine!” yelled Andrew. He was right. DJ slashed the mercenary’s flashlight in half with his blade and darkened the room once more. The only light remaining was at the entrance, which was still somewhat dim due to this cold weather. “Where are you?! Where are you, you little bastard?!” bellowed Andrew.

With darkness as his ally, DJ threw knees and elbows to Andrew’s ribs, stomach, and face. Each blow shook the brute’s body and made a resounding thud. But even with a few crunches here and there, Andrew boldly said, “Is that all you’ve got?!” DJ then threw a sweep kick and knocked the British warrior on his ass.

Instead of growling in pain, Andrew did so in frustration and got up immediately to throw random punches and kicks in the dark. Not one of them found its target and instead all he got were DJ’s kicks to his thick legs, almost buckling his knees. “Where are you, you little creep?!” yelled Andrew Bradley.

The mercenary threw another uppercut, but this time hit the ceiling with such force that a rock came down and bonked DJ Rouge on the head, prompting him to let out a small “Ow!” That one mistake was enough for Andrew to grab DJ around his throat and pin him against the wall with brutal force.

The mercenary squeezed with such force that he could feel DJ’s throat becoming thinner and his neck bones popping. “You hear that, you little shit?! That’s the sound of your own undoing! Are you ready to tap out?! Are you ready to give up?! Huh?! Huh?! HUH?!”

DJ was on the verge of passing out or having his neck snapped when the sound of a loud explosion boomed across the mine fields. Andrew’s grip weakened as he started to worry. “Oh no!” he yelled out before releasing the chokehold and running out of the mine. He could hear DJ coughing violently with bloodily, but the music to Andrew’s ears was ruined when he saw his truck bursting into flames.

“No! No, no, no!” yelled Andrew. He dropped to his knees and cried pathetically, though the African workers would have no sympathy for him. They stood around the explosion with their arms folded and their expressions angry.

“What was that you said about having enough explosions to shake the earth?” said one of the workers in a mocking tone.

“Oh, go to hell, you little jerk-offs!” cried Andrew. “All I wanted was a little ruby for my bosses! It wasn’t personal! It was just business!”

“Ruby? You mean this?” said the worker as he pulled out the brightly shining stone. “Go ahead. Take it. It’s yours.” Except he didn’t just hand it over. He threw the gem right into Andrew’s good eye and caused him to scream pathetically some more. His eye was squished like an olive and all he could do was roll around like a wounded animal.

And then the gem was ripped from Andrew’s good eye and a blade was held to his throat. DJ’s familiar voice said, “These people you held captive. They were never meant to be slaves for your corporate banks. I came here to free them. They’re not just ‘cheeky bastards’. They’re hard workers who deserve much better than the treatment you gave them today.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want! Just don’t hurt me! I’ll never come by here again!” pleaded Andrew.

“Anything I want, huh? Alright then. Tell me who you work for and I might let you go.”

The next morning at Babylon Bank, the chubby, white-haired CEO received a package in his office. He smiled at it with his saggy jowls and opened it up like it was a Christmas present. It was delivered by Andrew Bradley, so he was expecting a brightly shining Ninja Ruby. Instead all he got was pieces of Andrew’s hair and his heart. A bloody, sloppy heart that would have been cold even without the dry ice. The CEO screamed in a tone-deaf voice that would have woken up the dead, including Andrew Bradley.

"Cody's Army" by Jim Case

The reason I purchased this book to begin with was because the author (real name Stephen Mertz) critiqued one of my short stories and I wanted to thank him for his sensitive and honest service. And I thought, “Well, buying a white-knuckle military thriller, that should let him know I care!” It was worth every penny. Cody’s Army follows the story of John Cody and his three brothers-in-arms as they storm their way through the Arab desert in search of hostages taken from an airline flight to Tel Aviv. John Cody is a Vietnam war veteran who can beat the living piss out of anybody if given an Uzi machinegun, a garrote wire, a knife, grenades, or just his bare knuckles. Richard Caine is an explosives expert who can blow pretty much anything or anybody so high up in the air that they can personally say hello to their deity (feel free to take that any way you want). Rufe Murphy is a helicopter pilot who also happens to be a gigantic monster of a black guy who can snap the necks of smaller men with his thumb and forefinger. Hawkeye Hawkins, well, he’s just a badass Texan with a hair-trigger temper and a switchblade for a tongue. Okay, I may have stolen that last line from a Five Finger Death Punch song, but you get the idea. Individually, these four Vietnam vets are rough, tough motherfuckers who can kill at a moment’s notice. Together? Oh, you’d better bring every last soldier you’ve got and even then it may never be enough. They’re not just toe-to-toe brawlers, they’re intelligent tacticians who can work their way around any opposition. If you’re looking for a fast-paced action thriller, pick up a copy of Cody’s Army. By now you’re probably asking yourself why a peace-loving liberal like me is promoting a military-style novel. I already told you the first reason, because I want to support the guy who critiqued my work and made me a better writer. The other reason is because I know the difference between fantasy and reality. In Cody’s Army, the action is high-octane, brutal, and as dazzling to read as the Rambo movies are to watch. In real life, it would still be brutal, but there would be a lot of PTSD and vomiting in reaction to such horrible violence. Relax and enjoy the thrill ride from a safe distance. Buy Cody’s Army!

　

***JOKES OF THE DAY***

Q: What’s it called when a female soldier is getting emotional?
A: War-mones.

Q: What does a soldier get after he has sex?
A: War-gasms.

"Red Blood, White Knuckles, Blue Heart" by Garrison Kelly

All of this reading of quick novels had to lead somewhere. For me, it lead to me publishing my first book on Lulu.com under the penname Garrison Kelly. It’s an anthology of my best work called “Red Blood, White Knuckles, Blue Heart”. You’re probably wondering why I chose to publish under a penname instead of Garrison Haines-Temons. It has nothing to do with my need for privacy, though that would be nice. To be honest, the name Kelly is harder to butcher than Haines-Temons. Throughout school, I’ve been called “Hynes-Tea-Moans”, “Hainees-Tee-muns”, and a bunch of other weird names that are obviously a product of linguistic ignorance. I used to embrace the idea of having a page in my books that told people how to pronounce my name, but I opted not to since Kelly is a more attractive last name anyways. But if you still want to know how my last name is pronounced, here it is. Haines rhymes with “chains” and Temons rhymes with “Simmons”. I know it seems weird that the E in Temons would be pronounced like a short I, but trust me, that’s how it’s said. Temons is a very old Gaelic name. It looks strange, but it’s pronounced only one way. Same thing goes for the name McLeod. It’s not pronounced “Mick-Lee-Uhd”. It’s pronounced “Mick-Loud”. I chose the name Garrison Kelly because it’s easy to say and we don’t have to have a debate over how it’s said. You’re probably wondering why I chose to talk about my last name instead of the actual anthology I’ve published. The answer is simple: if you want to know what to expect from my book, go to the link provided and read either the description or the back cover. I’ll warn you right now that none of these stories, letters, and poems are intended for the squeamish. I don’t do TV-G stuff except for on very rare occasions. This is not one of those occasions. There’s a reason why there’s a TV-MA logo on the American flag book cover. And yes, that is my older brother with the knife in his mouth. I took that photo of James back in 2006 and thought he would make a great Waldo Spiegel, one of the characters in the book. You’re probably wanting the link right about now. Okay, here it is. Happy reading!

　
http://www.lulu.com/shop/garrison-kelly/red-blood-white-knuckles-blue-heart/paperback/product-20672921.html