No Country For Old Farts

Dr. Wily finally had Mega Man right where he wanted him. The mad scientist had to admit his foe had serious mechanical balls for scaling his skull tower to the tippy-top. All the metal dragons that breathed fire on him. All the construction helmet gizmos that frustrated the hell out of him with their cheap tactics.

And yes, all of Dr. Wily’s maverick hunters had another shot at their blue-suited rival, whether it was Elec Man zapping him into next week, Bomb Man blasting everything to pieces, or Guts Man throwing hunks of metal at Mega Man with the ease of snowballs. Even after all of that, Mega Man was rocking and rolling with his arm cannon charged up and aimed directly at Dr. Wily’s massive robotic horse.

The mad scientist’s poofy white hair and lab coat blew backwards in the breeze created by his fired missiles. Mega Man blasted nearly all of them out of the sky except for one that exploded right up his “iron diaper wearing ass”. Dr. Wily pulled a few levers and had the horse breathe more flames onto Mega Man. And then more missiles were fired. And then electrical bolts shot out of the horse’s eyes.

Mega Man’s wires and pieces were jutting out of his wrecked body, especially his now crippled legs which wouldn’t take him to safety anymore. He laid there in a pile of metal and mechanical shit waiting to be squashed by the robotic horse’s hooves. Dr. Wily’s eyes beamed with deranged excitement. He smiled the creepiest pedophile smile he could. He rubbed his hands together as he prepped to deal the final blow to his lifelong rival. And then…

“Wily…Wily…WILY!”

That final cadence awakened him right as he was ready to stomp on the last remaining pieces of Mega Man’s battered body. Only he didn’t achieve victory. The only violent mess he caused was in his bed, puke covering his moustache, beard, and what passed for clean white sheets in this hellhole of an elderly prison. Dr. Wily gazed around with puffy red eyes and knew full well he had woken up into another nightmare. He was no longer the vile, cunning mad scientist that the world had grown to fear. His robotic warriors had since been blasted into scrap metal…and he had since been committed to a retirement home to live out the rest of his miserable existence, complete with a thin body and a sensitive stomach.

Dr. Wily’s stomach was the only sensitive part about living in this white-walled shithole. The overweight nurse with a pugnacious mug, crossed arms, and thinning blond hair could be described with any word but sensitive. Nurse Cassie North stood over his bed with a disgusted scowl on her face and fists balled so tightly they could snap anybody’s neck. The broken down mad scientist could do nothing in her presence but cower under the puke-laden blankets.

Cassie ripped off the sheets and revealed a trembling eighty year old in striped red pajamas underneath. She leaned in and growled, “What did I tell you about making my job harder than it has to be?” No response, just more shaking from Dr. Wily. She continued, “You think I enjoy cleaning up your disgusting puke? You think that makes me happy? I could be at home right now with my kids. I could just leave your ass here to die and feed you nothing at all. Is that what you want?” Still no response. She grabbed his arm with skin-purpling tightness and rolled up his sleeve, holding a hypodermic needle with the other hand.

“No! Leave me alone! You can’t do this to me!” quivered Dr. Wily as he squirmed in a vain attempt to get away.

“HOLD STILL, GODDAMN IT!” He did. “Your days of being a terrorist douche bag are over, old man. This ain’t no country for old farts. I don’t have time for your precious little pipe dreams. You’re not a doctor. You’re a broken down piece of amphibian shit! Now stay still while I jab this motherfucker in your arm. Don’t make me force it in you this time.”

Cassie and Dr. Wily had different ideas of what constituted force. He screamed for a bit once the needle was jabbed in his arm, but then relaxed in his messy bed drooling and teary-eyed.

“There we go. Nice and comfy. Maybe this time you’ll have dreams about making my life a little easier here at this dump of a nursing home. God, I can’t wait to retire. You little piece of shit.” Cassie stomped out of the room and left Dr. Wily to drain his eyes and saliva glands even further, numb state and all.

This was how things were going to end for Dr. Wily. He was a broken shell of his former self. He went from creating the most threatening robotic warriors the world had ever seen to wallowing in his own biological sludge. Never again would he have a shot at defeating Mega Man and achieving world domination. Never again would he be feared as the iron-fisted badass he once was. If he would have led a clean life free of violence and terror, would he still end up in this crappy nursing home? Would he still be subjected to the same white walls, the same boring schedule, the same dementia, and the same sloppy food that reminded him too much of what he was laying in currently?

A loud bang interrupted his glazed-over thoughts and widened his droopy eyes. “Could it be?” he asked nobody in particular. “Are they here?...No…nobody’s coming for me. Why would they? Just kill me already…Just let me die peacefully…”

“That’s not an option, Master Wily,” said a tough feminine voice. This voice wasn’t as husky or brutal as Cassie North’s was. It at least had some tenderness to it. Was it another nasty-tempered nurse? Was it someone finally coming to put him out of his misery? No. Dr. Wily opened his eyes and saw the voice came from his own creation, Stardust Woman. There she stood; six feet of metallic beauty, complete with an arm cannon, star-shaped armor, and the most lovely red eyes a robot could possibly have.

Standing next to Stardust Woman was another creation of Dr. Wily: Slaughter Man. Judging from his navy blue Viking armor, massive spiked hammer, and bulky body, it must have been him who created the loud thrashing noise. The walls were definitely cracked and shattered enough. Why weren’t the other patients screaming in horror? Were they so out of it that they couldn’t feel fear anymore, just like Dr. Wily himself?

Slaughter Man held his hammer high in the air and proudly declared, “We’re here to break you out of here, Master! We still have a chance at defeating that squirmy little bastard Mega Man!”

“…I’m sorry…” wheezed Dr. Wily. “I can’t make it anymore. I don’t want to fight Mega Man again. I’m aching all over. I’m tired as hell. Can you just do me a favor and smash me over the head with your hammer? I don’t want to live anymore.”

Stardust Woman scowled at Dr. Wily and folded her arms, just like Cassie did earlier, but with more concern in her posture and voice. “What happened to you, Master? This isn’t the Dr. Wily who built us with his own genius. You’re going to give up just like that? We’re practically gifting you an exit from this place. You can at least live out the rest of your days in your laboratory. Anything is better than this dump.”

“…You’re…you’re not even real…neither are you, Slaughter Man…I’m dreaming again…If Cassie catches me dreaming again…she’ll beat me…”

Slaughter Man pointed his hammer at his broken master and shouted, “Who gives a shit what that fat whore thinks?! Give me five minutes alone with her and I’ll smash her body all over the goddamn floor! You’re worth a hundred of her, Master Wily!”

“…No, I’m not…I’m worthless…I’m going to die anyways…I could never beat Mega Man before…and I can’t do it now…Please…just leave me here to die…Don’t drag this out any further than it has to be dragged out…”

As Slaughter Man growled and seethed in the background, Stardust Woman sauntered over to Dr. Wily and held his frail, bony hand in hers. Not even that would restart the old man’s heart, but hopefully her words would. “Let me tell you something about Cassie North and the rest of these sycophantic nurses and orderlies. They’re tough when it comes to dealing with fragile old people, but once they come face to face with a couple of your creations, all the courage is gone. Cassie North will sing a different tune once she sees what we’ve got for her.”

Just when Dr. Wily formed the tiniest smile, when the smallest glimmer of hope shined in his damp eyes, a meaty hand grabbed Stardust Woman by the skull and slammed it against Slaughter Man’s oversized head, dizzying both robots. Cassie put both of them in headlocks and held them there while she berated Dr. Wily some more.

“What did I tell you about your silly fantasies, old man? They don’t mean shit here. Your robots are just glorified tin cans. And you? You’re mediocre at best and a shit stain at worst. You terrorized the planet and failed. I’ll be damned if you fuck with my vacation!” She slammed Stardust Woman and Slaughter Man’s heads together again…and again…and again…each time drawing scratchy shrieks from their now former master. Once they were dizzy enough, Cassie heaved Slaughter Man’s hammer like it was nothing and smashed his heavy chest in with repeated blows. Stardust Woman fired off lasers from her cannon, but was obviously too disoriented to aim correctly. Cassie jerked her cannon arm behind her back and fired lasers up her ass, dismantling her with a war scream.

Dr. Wily cried one more time as he watched the last of his creations get easily wrecked by an ordinary woman. Maybe there was some truth in her painful rhetoric. Maybe he was deserving of the insults. Maybe dying was the only answer after all. Cassie seemed to agree as she breathed heavily and marched over to the foot of the bed after discarding the robots’ bodies like the junk they ended up being.

“I am tired of your horseshit, Doctor, and I use that title loosely. You need to know when to give up. You need to conform just like every other sad sap in this nursing home. If not, I could just kill you and write you off as natural causes. I’m sure the head doctor wouldn’t mind, the REAL doctor, by the way. Face it, Wily: you can’t win. You never could. Your imagination is shit, just like whatever’s in your pajama pants.”

Dr. Wily gazed his sore eyeballs at the needle in Cassie’s belt. Surely, that would be enough to put him down and end this madness once and for all. He had nothing left to lose. His soul was gone. His robots were trash. His mind was deteriorating with images of Cassie North mocking him with her angry tone. It was his time to go and let Mega Man escape with yet another victory.

“If it’s my time to go…and I can’t take my creations with me…I’ll find something else to take to the grave…” Wily snorted and sniffed.

“And what would that be?”

“…Your dead ass!” Using his last bit of elderly strength, Dr. Wily pulled the needle from Cassie’s belt and stabbed her in the throat with it, pressing down on the plunger afterwards. Cassie sang a different tune, alright. Her eyes bulged with the horror of her own mortality. Her mouth bled buckets. Her husky grizzly bear voice was nonexistent. Her thick legs could no longer hold her even thicker body.

Once she dropped to the linoleum ground, Dr. Wily’s mind went from empty to insane as he looked into her dying eyes. This wasn’t dementia overriding his “mediocre” creativity. This was a full on stream of rage. He got out of bed and kneeled beside her, pulling the needle out with savage force. He stabbed her in the throat again. And in the eyes. And in the face. He stabbed her over and over again until she was unrecognizable. No longer was he the silly scientist who always lost. He finally did something with his life worth commending: ridding the world of someone who was more villainous than he was.

He kept stabbing and stabbing as other orderlies rushed to save their fallen friend. They pulled him off of her and he just went limp with a smile on his face. Slaughter Man and Stardust Woman were never there to begin with, hence why the white walls were still whole. As Dr. Wily was no doubt being dragged to his death, it didn’t bother him that his work was incomplete. There were more orderlies and nurses here that deserved a brutal stabbing. All Dr. Wily could do was send a message to everybody here: the real villains weren’t the mad scientists and kooky robots. They were the humans who pretended to be more than pond scum. Dr. Wily was okay with that.

Robotic Junkyard

***ROBOTIC JUNKYARD***

Just like with the Necrocosm, the Robotic Junkyard will be another opportunity for creative fuel, whether you’re a writer yourself or an artist of another genre. Really, this blog entry is just an excuse to give you updates on my life, but as long as I’m flapping my gums, I might as well give you a prompt suggestion. You could write a whole novel or short story around it. You could paint a picture of it. You could completely ignore it. No matter what you choose, I’m keeping the buffet table of creative food for thought open all night. You can come back for seconds, thirds, and maybe even the dessert version of food for thought.

The idea of a robotic junkyard isn’t new, but it’s also something I’ve only seen one time and I’d like to see it more often. In other words, it’s highly underrated for all of the potential it could have. I think it was Mega Man 7 for the Super Nintendo that had a boss enemy called Junk Man. His stage was the robotic junkyard and the gimmick was basically throwing mechanical parts at Mega Man until he was junk himself. Morph Moth from Mega Man X2 might have also had a robotic junkyard for a stage, but I’m not one-hundred percent sure.

Either way, getting mechanical robot parts thrown at you doesn’t feel very good, or so I’m told. Imagine getting clocked upside the head by a flying hubcap. Maybe a flying saw blade would be worse. Maybe a broken down machine will come to life and beat your ass into nuts and bolts. And this is just the overhead level. Once you get underground, then the metal parts will really start to fly. I could have just as easily said, “The shit really starts to hit the fan,” because that would be just as accurate.

I experimented with these ideas back in 2011 when I wrote a novelette called “Thunder Ballz”. Yes, you read that correctly. I have nothing to gain by lying to you about that. It was a hybrid of Dragon Ball Z and Mega Man X written by a member of Generation Y. I just used X, Y, and Z in the same sentence. High five! Anyways, this novelette read more like a game of Mega Man X with the number of different places the characters went to and how they defeated their chief enemies in short order. One of the places was a robotic junkyard and the boss battle ended when the upper level of junk came crashing down on the villain. Ouch! That’s a lot of goddamn metal! More metal than the Pain in the Grass concert I’m going to later this month!

Obviously, Thunder Ballz never went anywhere even when all eleven chapters were written. But really, how could you expect it to when the whole objective of the story was to find lizard testicles. Again, I’m not profiting in any way by telling you this. In fact, I’m making my younger self sound like a total toolbox. Hehe! What this means is that the robotic junkyard idea is still up for grabs if I want to recycle it into another story. Heh, I said “recycle” in a conversation about junkyards.

If I was hosting a D&D campaign with a metallic scrapheap as the villain’s main base of operations, there are a few questions I need to answer for myself before starting the game. One, who in their right mind would want to live in a dingy place like a junkyard, and two, why are robotic limbs in the same universe as a fantasy role-playing game? While living in a pigsty isn’t always ideal to us semi-civilized humans, it would be for a tribe of orcs, ogres, or goblins. To answer the second question, if Magic: the Gathering can get away with using futuristic technology, so can D&D. They are, after all, distant cousins of one another since they were invented by Wizards of the Coast.

So you have the dirtiest and most classless races of monsters living in this scrapheap. Now what? What could possibly drive a wandering group of adventurers into this suicide mission? If they’re looking for priceless artifacts, they’d have just as much luck as a hobo diving in a dumpster: none. If a bounty head is hiding out here, that would be a little more realistic. He has protection from the disgusting creatures and, let’s face it, nobody would ever think to look in a place like this because nobody would want to hold their nose for that long. My mother, bless her soul, doesn’t even like being around wild rats. Adventurers like being around smell places even less. When you think about wanderlust and magical battles, a robotic junkyard isn’t the first thing that comes to mind.

But what kind of clues would you, the DM slash author, have to leave behind for someone to even consider digging through a place like this? New shipments? Bills? Noises? Activity? Or maybe one of the protective villains gets unlucky and can’t shake the adventurers off his tail, so he unknowingly leads them into the junkyard. Then again, maybe finding this hellhole of metallic crap isn’t such a good thing after all. You’ve still got swinging motors and flying anvils to duck and dodge. Don’t worry about getting a concussion, because you won’t be alive long enough to experience it!

So how about it, my creative brothers and sisters? Do you have any heroes who are crazy and/or stupid enough to want to go on a suicide mission in a metal scrapheap? Actually, it’s not considered good form to have stupid people for main heroes, unless you’re filming Forrest Gump. If your heroes are going to poke around a dangerous and filthy place, they’d better have a damn good reason. A dead body, a live body with a criminal past, or even an accidentally placed valuable artifact (which would be rare) would tickle the senses of even the most conservative adventurers. If you must adventure in the junkyard, the least you could do is take a gas mask with you. Breathing through your mouth doesn’t actually do anything to sooth the bad smell; that’s just a myth.

***SLIPKNOT X MARILYN MANSON CONCERT***

If you’ve already heard me talk about this on Face Book, feel free to ignore this section and move onto the next. But it’s true, people: last night I went to see Slipknot and Marilyn Manson at the White River Amphitheater in Auburn and they tore the motherfucking house down. They were heavy, they were creative, they were scary as hell, and they were fun to watch. While Slipknot was playing “Killpop”, I sang along with them in the most aggressive and passionate voice I could muster up. Apparently, this was enough for a guy to fist-bump me and for a sexy lady in a dress and a cowgirl hat to kiss the back of my hand. In the foolishly-written words of Anastasia Steele from “Fifty Shades of Grey”, my face was the color of the Communist Manifesto after that kiss. All in all, it was a fun-filled, magical night. On Sunday August 21^st, I get to do this all again at the annual Pain in the Grass festival headlined by Disturbed.

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

Despite the energy I’ve spent over the past few days, I’m definitely competing in this week’s “Celestial” contest. I wouldn’t want to pass up an opportunity to write “Hardcore Hogan”, which goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

Garrison Kelly, Captured Earthling

Hardcore Hogan, Garrison’s Alter Ego

Kasabian, Alien Lord

Random Squid-Faced Alien Warriors

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Kasabian’s ship is flying through the celestial bodies.

SYNOPSIS: Garrison wakes up one day and finds himself in an alien ship’s prison cell. He has no idea what he’s doing there, but when he tries to shake the bars and complain, he gets electrocuted by the guards. Just when he is about to give in, he finds the Hall of Fame ring of his favorite professional wrestler Hardcore Hogan in the corner of the cell. When Garrison puts the ring on, he transforms into the muscular wrestler and puts a beating on the aliens after ripping the bars off the cell door. Kasabian serves as his final enemy and the only person who could possibly explain why Garrison/Hogan is on this ship to begin with.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Looks like I’ve got another Occupy Wrestling villain on my plate and his name is Dovald. He used to have a last name, but I can’t remember what it was and Marie and I both agreed that he shouldn’t have one. Lots of WWE wrestlers only have one name like Kane, Konnor, Viktor, and Kalisto just to name a few. Dovald’s gimmick is that of a dark paladin with thick metal armor and a big fucking flail. The worst part about him? He has a tag team partner named Garra who’s every bit as brutal and badass. Of course, when the time comes to draw Garra, he won’t look anything like Dovald. They may be twins in Occupy Wrestling, but they don’t have to be twins in my drawing gallery.

***POLITICAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“It’s not a war on drugs; it’s a war on personal freedom. Keep that in mind at all times. Thank you and have a nice day.”

-Bill Hicks-

***POST-SCRIPT***

Hey, that could be another reason why someone would want to go to a robotic junkyard: drugs! There could be a meth lab on the underground floor! A perfect place for filthy and freaky people to hide out!