The Battle About Nothing

Gonzo Kramer fingered a jovial TV tune on his bass guitar, hoping for an audience of some kind in this tiny New York apartment. But alas, all the attention was on his three whiny friends in the kitchen, Jerry Stonefield, George Katana, and Elaine Berretta. No matter how ordinary the topic was, there remained no shortage of comedic observations or general complaints about it. The more they bitched, the harder Kramer’s bass playing became. It had nothing to do with being heard, but everything to do with wanting to slap his friends instead of a bass guitar.

The wavy-haired Jerry Stonefield held a jug of milk in his hands and asked, “Why is it called two-percent milk?! It’s a hundred-percent full when you buy it. It should be called a hundred-percent milk! And why is it so funny when Oval Teen dissolves in it? And why is it called Oval Teen? The jar is round. The teenagers who drink it become round. It should be called Round Teen!”

This earned a corny laugh from anybody not named Gonzo Kramer, who slapped his bass guitar with even more aggression. He could have played bagpipes, a kazoo, and crash cymbals and still wouldn’t have drawn a crowd.

All the attention now was on the horseshoe-haired, stumpy George Katana, who said, “I drank a whole jar of Oval Teen on TV once. I didn’t even put milk in it, I just ate the powder. I had powder all over my face and there were no napkins around. Whoever was responsible for shooting that footage cost me a relationship!”

“You should’ve just eaten soup, George,” said Elaine, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Soup is not a meal unless you crumble some crackers in it.”

“It’s the Bubble Boy’s fault anyways,” said George.

“No, it’s Newman’s fault,” said Jerry. “Everything is Newman’s fault! He’s not a mystery wrapped in a riddle! He’s a mystery wrapped in a Twinkie! There’s LESS to Newman than meets the eye!”

The kitchen drivel blended together and became more obnoxious for Kramer to listen to than any instrument he could have been playing. It didn’t matter how hard he banged his instrument, because it was his own head that needed banging against a brick wall if this conversation was allowed to continue. And then…he got an idea.

“I like Newman, but I don’t know if he’s sponge-worthy!” confessed Elaine before Kramer got up and smashed his bass guitar over her head, crushing her skull and splattering her brains all over the counter. The guitar wasn’t in any better shape since the neck broke off and the thick strings coiled up.

Jerry and George backed up against the fridge shaking in horror. Jerry yelled, “Kramer, what the hell are you doing?! You killed her!”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship with her,” confessed Kramer with an evil grin on his face.

George whimpered and stuttered, “Have you ever killed somebody before?”

Throwing the neck of the bass guitar on the ground, Kramer held out his bloodied hands and said, “What do you think, Junior? Have these hands been soaking in Ivory liquid?” He then wiped the blood all over George’s flannel shirt and Dockers pants. “Wait a minute…cotton Dockers! One hundred percent! If they’re not Dockers, they’re just pants!” In one fluid motion, Kramer ripped George’s pants off and left him trembling in his boxers and socks.

With Jerry unable to help him due to cowering in the corner, George begged, “Please don’t hurt me, Kramer!”

“Shut up, you whiny bitch!” yelled Kramer. “Fifty years ago, we would have had you upside down with a fucking fork up your ass! In fact, now that I’ve got you here…” He grabbed George by the ear and allowed the victim’s glasses to fall on the floor. George could scream all he wanted, but his trembling legs weren’t backing him up in his begging for freedom. Kramer dragged George to the open apartment window and bent him over the sill.

As George whimpered and squealed, Kramer let out a few yodels to taunt him before ripping off his victim’s underwear. “Aww, what’s the matter, you big baby?!”

“Kramer…I think it moved…”

“Get a life, you faggot!” yelled Kramer before smacking George on the ass. He spanked him a few more times until George’s naked butt was blistered and bleeding. “Hey, George! Are you sponge worthy?! Can your boys swim?!”

“For God’s sake, Kramer, let him go!” cried Jerry, huddling in the corner despite his small moment of bravery.

“You want me to let him go?! Okay! I just hope he doesn’t need radical reconstructive surgery afterwards!” Kramer shoved George out the window and it was only seconds after that the sound of crunching metal and glass echoed across the street. It was even more musical to Kramer’s ears than his bass guitar playing, but it was not nearly as boner-inducing as Jerry’s pleas for forgiveness in the corner of the kitchen.

Kramer slowly stalked towards his final victim and stood over him like a giant over a sea of frightened villagers.

“Please, Kramer, don’t kill me! I won’t tell anybody about this! I won’t even do it in my standup comedy!”

Kramer knelt beside Jerry and placed a hand on his vibrating, tear-stained arm. “And here I thought you liked edgy comedy. This is far more compelling than arguing about two-percent milk and whether or not soup is a meal. Aren’t you always complaining about how everything is too politically correct these days? Well, you’re being a snowflake right now!”

“Kramer, you murdered them!” Jerry wiped his leaky eyes with his other sleeve.

“Your audience was dead long before I smashed that bass guitar over Elaine’s head! Who gives a shit about two-percent milk?! Who gives two fucks about Oval Teen?! In fact…” Kramer pulled out a jar of Oval Teen from the cabinet and scooped up a handful. “This should help with your little crying problem.” He threw the powder in Jerry’s face and caused him to blubber some more.

Trying to talk over Jerry’s screams of pain, Kramer said, “You know why they should call it Round Teen?! Because your crappy comedy is like a circle! It just goes on and on and on! It never changes! It’s the same shit over and over again and I’m sick and tired of it! Do something edgy! Change it up a little bit!” He grabbed handful of Jerry’s hair and said, “Don’t make me come back here again!” Kramer then slammed the back of Jerry’s head against the cabinet. “Maybe that’ll scramble your brains enough!”

Months after the incident, Kramer never returned. Jerry’s brains did get scrambled. This was the wakeup call he never asked for. Quite frankly, nobody else asked for it either. Kramer sat in his jail cell watching TV one night when he saw Jerry debut new material on a late night talk show. He sported a shaved head and an older look (probably because of the beatings and trauma respectively), but he was definitely ready to charm the audience.

“Oh, people. They’re so important to you,” said Jerry. “You’ve got to be on your phone all the time because the people in your life are important. Really? They don’t seem that important with the way you swipe right by them like a gay French king.” The audience laughed as Jerry made exaggerated swiping motions with his finger. “Who pleases me today? Who shall I favor? Who shall I delete?”

“Okay, maybe I fucked him up a little too hard,” said Kramer to nobody in particular. “Can you go back to talking about Oval Teen?”

A prison guard knocked on his cell bars and said, “Gonzo Kramer? It’s time for your last meal.” And what did he get for a last meal? Soup with crackers crumbled in the broth.

“Soup is not a meal, damn it!” yelled Kramer. “Jerryyyyyyyyyyy!!”

Clockwork Orange Milk Over My Cereal

***BEFORE I BEGIN***

I know it’s been a while since you’ve last heard from me. And by a while, I mean only a few days, which doesn’t seem like much to the laymen in my life, but to me it’s an eternity. I’ve been busy lately. I currently divide my time between editing the shit out of Emilio and the Scratching Post (which I now want to rename to Emilio & Marigold) and taking naps in the middle of the day for no reason. The editing process has been just a tad overwhelming at times, even more so now that I’ve got a bunch of macro edits staring me in the face. But the good news is, I’ve learned how to create biographies for my characters. So now their actions have a purpose. Now my short story can be…a character-driven fairytale! Woo-hoo! Wish me luck! I’m going to need it! And now for a more lighthearted topic! We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.

***CLOCKWORK ORANGE MILK OVER MY CEREAL***

“Alcohol: because no great story ever started with a glass of milk.”

(Cue the picture of Alex De Large from A Clockwork Orange drinking Moloko Velochek.)

The other night, I was eating a bowl of Life cereal and the milk reminded me of that opening scene from A Clockwork Orange. And that got me thinking: what if I actually poured Moloko Velochek over my cereal and ate it? No, I have no idea where this thought will take me. It’s nothing more than a good idea.

My obsession with drug-laced milk didn’t end there. Last night I ate hot wings at the Tracyton Pub with my brother James, his friend Blake, and their mutual friend Jeffrey. I ordered fifteen breaded wings of the spiciest flavor the pub had: Death Wish. My mouth was on fire, my nose was dripping like a waterfall, and the next day my asshole was leaking lava. Milk is the only thing that will calm down a fiery mouth, so I drank two glasses of it at the pub and multiple glasses when I got home. I couldn’t help but hear the Clockwork Orange opening theme playing in my head as I downed the milk. That quickly changed when James drove me and Blake home at a bajillion miles per hour while playing “Rollin’” by Limp Bizkit at maximum volume. For the record, James hates Limp Bizkit.

Luckily, I didn’t go out for a night of “ultra-violence with my droogs”, fast driving aside. I also didn’t get brainwashed into becoming a pacifist, which would suck if I still watched WWE on a regular basis. The thought of becoming violently ill at Ricochet’s aerial offence or Braun Strowman’s powerhouse slams would be depressing as fuck. While it is hard to feel sorry for violent criminals, it’s even harder to feel good about brainwashing the fuck out of them to where they can’t even defend themselves. And while we’re at it, was it really necessary to play Alex’s favorite music during the torture process? Imagine if that happened to me. Not only could I not watch pro-wrestling, but I also couldn’t listen to heavy metal anymore. What a big bag of suck life would be.

I don’t really have any philosophical thoughts beyond all of this. I didn’t even anticipate how short this topic would be. So I’ll just call it a night and post this sucker on my social media accounts. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like throwing up, keep listening to…nah, don’t do that.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Say when! We’re outlaws wanted dead or alive under the cover of a blood red sky. Bring a knife to a gunfight and we still win. Pale horse is coming. Retribution for sin. Skin that smoke wagon. I said throw down, boy. You going to do something or just stand there and bleed? If you want to die, say when. If you want to play for blood, just say when. Say when! Domination to anything that’s in our way. Life mowers are coming and stocking the graves. It’s futile to run and there’s nowhere to hide. So get down on your knees and pray for your life. Should I hate him? He reminds me of me. Now I know I hate him. So now it’s time to bleed. If you want to die, say when. If you want to play for blood, just say when. This is how the war is won. Cultivate the blood that we feed on. Sanguis! Credat apaella non ego. Eventus stoltorum magister. In pace requiescat. I want your blood. I want your soul. Do you want to play for blood? I’m your huckleberry. Sanguis! Credat apaella non ego. Eventus stoltorum magister. In pace requiescat. Just say when!”

-Hellyeah singing “Say When”-

The Land of Milk and Medication

VERSE 1

Take me by the hand to dreamland

Tell me a story of fantastic glory

Everything is ours for twelve hours

The recesses of my mind are all mine

Give me a reason to greet the season

Give me a tale I can write without fail

I do it for a living, it’s all I am giving

Buy from the hovel of paperback novels

CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

VERSE 2

Milk and honey for my cinnamon bunny

Milk and Xanax for my creative annex

Milk and cereal for the morning ethereal

Milk and fudge to give my face a smudge

Every day is Christmas, night is Halloween

Thanksgiving is somewhere in between

No Valentines for the girl I shall pine

No firecrackers from patriotic attackers

CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

BRIDGE

When the sun is kissing, something is missing

Is anybody watching? Is anybody listening?

Where will I get today’s creative fuel?

Must keep the mind sharp, it’s my only tool

EXTENDED CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

A world of wonder and musical thunder

Realm of magic born from something tragic

Imagination is my favorite medication

Milk and pills still give me the chills

Silent Warrior, Chapter 4

Scott’s two classes before lunch (art and English) went by in a blurry haze. Every word coming out of the teachers’ mouths sounded like gibberish. Every assignment they handed out was met with indifference. The extroverted students who spoke up in class on a regular basis might as well have been speaking Chinese. The only thing missing from Scott’s zombie demeanor was the desire to feast on brains; that dwindled away once Tom Simpson was no longer within sight. It wouldn’t be fair to feast on the brains of neutral students from other classes.

The undead hunger would have to be concentrated on Scott’s lunch, which consisted of dry chicken nuggets, limp French fries, and a carton of milk that smelled like fruit salad. Even if the food wasn’t bland and boring, he still had mental images of worms and maggots juxtaposed on his meal. It would have been nice if his mind could conjure up the gummy worms he ate as a kid instead of corpse-eating critters.

Scott pushed his meal to the opposite side of his faraway table, where he was isolated from the rest of the school folk with his head tucked in his arms. He wondered if this would be a good place to release his biblical flood of tears. Though isolated, he was still visible from miles away. Surely a deafening sob would overpower the cacophony of student babble easily. They always did. It was funny how nobody was around to witness his achievements, but his peers and superiors would always be there for his downfall.

He tried to suppress a singular tear, but the splash on the table was as obvious to him as a cannonball in a swimming pool. He quickly wiped it up with the waist of his T-shirt while whispering, “No, no, no, no, no!” He couldn’t let his secret heartbreak get out. He couldn’t crumble into human ruins in the middle of lunchtime. Just one tear…it was only one tear.

Before another surge of salty fluids could rush out of his eyeballs, Scott felt a gentle tissue wipe away the remains of his sorrow. Through puffy red eyes, he saw the silky hand belonged to a freshman girl with dual brunette pigtails, a cutesy-wutesy face, and overall shorts with Birkenstock sandals. She smiled dimly and said, “You look like you could use some company.”

Scott shrugged his shoulders, snorted mucous up his nostrils, and said, “Sure, why not?” The little lady took a seat next to him and tucked her chin against her chest. Scott wondered if this girl was just as shy and awkward as he was. “It must have taken a lot of courage to come over here.” He couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth like rollercoaster vomit. He mentally kicked himself and quietly said, “D’oh!”

“Actually, it did,” said the girl, and Scott’s anxiety was replaced with warm tingling through is nerves. He felt as though he dodged the world’s biggest bullet with that one, in a high school where everybody shot from the hip, no less. “I don’t normally talk to cute guys, but uh…uh-oh…” Scott’s face turned bright pink upon hearing he was cute. “What I’m trying to say is…uh…”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to worry about me,” said Scott while patting the girl on the back. “I’m actually pretty terrified myself. If you’ve ever had Mr. Simpson for a teacher before, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He took a swig of mediocre milk to sooth his scratchy throat.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m his daughter,” said the girl, to which Scott spit his milk all over the table and coughed. “You really should be more careful with spilling things on the table.” The girl took a few napkins out of her pocket and wiped the table down before they could get in trouble with teachers passing by.

“Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to hang out together,” said Scott nervously with his hands in a defensive position. “I’m already in the doghouse with your father. He gave me half an hour of detention after school today, which I’m obviously not going to show up for but…where are you going?”

After throwing the napkins in the trash, the girl stood up and tried to walk out of sight. She spun around after being called out by Scott and said, “Just so you know, I only came up to you because I thought you needed a friend. My dad has that affect on people. That’s why my mom divorced him when I was nine. But if you don’t want to hang out, that’s fine too…”

The girl’s walking speed increased and her fists clenched tightly. Scott shot up out of his seat, threw his disgusting feast in the garbage, stacked his tray, and followed after her into the hallway. The girl furiously spun the combination wheel on her locker before Scott placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “Wait! Look, I’m sorry. I really am.” The tension in her shoulder eased to cotton softness. “I’ve just been having a shitty year, that’s all. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Can we talk for a while?”

The freshman interlaced her fingers into Scott’s and said, “Of course we can talk. We can talk about anything we want. How about if we introduce ourselves before we feel like blowing each other off again. I’m Adrienne. Adrienne Simpson. And you are?”

“Scott George. Nice to meet you, Adrienne. Can I ask you a question? How do you know all about me and Mr. Simpson?”

“Because that’s all you ever talked about in English class, silly.”

Scott’s face grew tomato red upon realizing what the hell he’d been doing all this time. All of that zombie groaning. All of that muttering. Not paying attention to his own fucking actions. Had other students been aware of his grumbling the whole time and not just Adrienne? Why didn’t the teachers say anything? Maybe they did say something but Scott was too numb to realize it. The Novocain feeling in his brain wore off and the white hot pain of embarrassment and humiliation washed over him, leaving him so weak at the knees that Adrienne had to support him by the hips.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much if I were you,” giggled Adrienne while standing Scott upright. “That class is full of all sorts of weirdoes. You were probably just blending in, no offense by the way. I know this because I’m a weirdo too. And I’m proud of it!”

Scott’s short-term memory came splashing back to him once more. Of course that class was full of nerds and geeks, because it was about graphic novels. Jocks and cool kids didn’t read classics like Watchmen and Fun Home. Well, they probably did, but only to snicker at Fun Home with homophobic slurs passing their lips every so often.

“You know what, Adrienne?” said Scott with a small grin. “You’re right. I’m proud of being a weirdo too. Goddamn, it feels good to say that. If I had said that anywhere else, I would have gotten my ass kicked for it.”

Adrienne patted Scott’s warm cheek and said, “See? This world isn’t such a bad place. You just have to find the right people, that’s all. Or in your case, let the right people find you. Tell you what, Scott, how about instead of riding that god awful bus, the two of us walk home together. Like I said, we can talk about anything you want.”

“Uh….well….um…”

“Come on, it’ll be fun! Just you and me! Nobody else! We can even hold hands if you want!” said Adrienne while smiling cutely at the fidgeting Scott.

The senior took a huge breath to settle his nerves and finally had the courage to say, “You know what? Fuck it. I don’t have anybody else around here watching my back. You and me against the world. Why not? What could go wrong?”

“What could go right is that you don’t have to cry your eyes out in front of everybody and you’ll actually have a reason to smile again. Come on, smile for me!” Scott’s attempt at doing so made him look like a psychotic serial killer, to which Adrienne giggled, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Not a bad start. See you soon!”

With the buzzer sounding off once again, Adrienne waved happily at Scott and walked away to her next class. Though she had an adorable figure from behind, it was actually Adrienne’s bare feet in sandals that Scott couldn’t take his eyes off of. He felt himself going into zombie mode again, but this time with a slightly less frightening smile on his face. He shook his head awake before he could embarrass himself further by getting a public hard-on. Lord knows there wasn’t any recovering from that.

Next stop for Scott George was math class, which he was surprisingly alert for. He blew through the algebraic equations like an accountant on crack, seemingly forgetting all about Mr. Simpson’s detention notice from earlier in the day, if only for a little while. Adrienne was the only ally Scott had in this war against a hellish educational system. He couldn’t rely on his own mother, the other teachers, or the other students for a soft shoulder to lean on. He still had no idea what Adrienne saw in him that others didn’t, but with the speed at which he finished his math assignments, he was desperate enough not to question it.

Minnie-Moo

Most people went to places like Bellingham Forest to get away from their daily routines. For druid sorcerer Derrick Mango, the forest WAS his daily routine. He had his own log cabin in the darkest part of the woods where nobody could disturb his introverted microcosm. If they did, those people were met with scorn and violence. Derrick valued his privacy more than anything else in this world. One bright May morning, his privacy would be violated in the most savage way.

The sun shone brightly through the cracks of each individual log that made up Derrick Mango’s cabin. Not one single beam of light was enough to stir him from his slumber, which he could be found wearing little more than bearskin boots, wolf skin pants, and a rabbit skin blanket while sleeping on a bed stuffed with bird feathers. He snore was as quiet and friendly as a lethargic puppy’s.

If a mere sunbeam wasn’t going to wake him up, the loud thud against his cabin wall would. Derrick’s eyes snapped to life as he gazed into the crack that formed as a result of a pole axe strike. At first he was frightened, but then his brows furrowed into anger and he dismissed that first shot by saying, “Goddamn kids!” He threw the blanket off and stood up to confront the invader of his privacy.

And then there was another pole axe strike. And another. And another. Each smashing attack blew a gust of tree bark against the hermit’s body. Now was the perfect time for him to be scared. These weren’t just some damn kids. Whoever was defiling his cabin wanted him dead. But why?

Derrick looked around for a place to retreat, but all four walls were being pounded on while the sounds of animal grunting could be heard from outside. Soon the cracks in the wall turned into full-sized holes and the druid could see what was after him: demonic cows. He wiped his eyes just to make sure his vision wasn’t impeded from the sawdust, which it wasn‘t. There really was an army of cows with pole axes trying to break the walls down.

Chunks of the ceiling were falling down upon the forest warrior, which would have meant the end for him, but was actually his salvation. In one swift movement, he dashed towards the nearly demolished wall, leapt through the nearest ceiling hole, and scaled a tree that happened to be right next the cabin. Derrick climbed with such speed and grace that he made it to the top like the super athlete he was. It was a good thing he was so up high since his cabin collapsed after a few more blows from the demon cows.

“What do you freaks want from me?!” yelled Derrick from his treetop nest.

The cow warriors surrounded the thick tree and the leader of the pack finally gave him the answers he needed. “We know she’s here. She’s the one the Bellingham villagers refer to as Minnie-Moo. Such a disgustingly cute name for a disgusting creature.” The sound of a gentle meow caught everyone’s attention and there was the fluffy black and white cat Minnie-Moo curled up in the tree with Derrick. “That would be her! Throw her down here and I’ll spare your life!”

Minnie cried and pleased with Derrick not to surrender, the latter of the two already getting sick of all the bullshit surrounding his invasion of privacy. All he wanted was to be left alone and he had his chance right then and there as he glared at the frightened fluff ball. But instead, the loner needed more answers. “What did this little feline do to you and your clan of circus freaks?”

“She drank from the pool of our most sacred milk. We use that pool for holy rituals and Minnie violated those terms when she nearly lapped it all up. Gluttony is one of the worst sins this world has to offer and she shall be punished for it. Throw her down right this instant! No more questions!” shouted the leader.

Except Derrick couldn’t throw her down even if he wanted to; Minnie was already leaping from treetop to treetop. Some of the bovine warriors charged after her while others stayed behind and started rocking Derrick’s tree back and forth in an attempt to bring him down hard.

The normally nimble hermit tried to stand up and walk across the branch, but the trembling force of each shake caused him to lose his balance and land on his balls. Derrick Mango let out a shrill of pain while desperately clutching his last means of having children. He would have spilled off to the side and be at the mercy of these ridiculous, but fierce fighters.

Emphasis on would. Minnie was dashing across the treetops in circles and flew right into Derrick’s face with her claws stretched out. The agony of having cat blades in his cheeks caused the druid to temporarily ignore his ball pain and spring to a standing position in an attempt to shake off the rogue cat.

The previous shaking from the cow clerics loosened the tree so much that when Derrick danced around, it fell over and he and Minnie rolled down the hill together at a faster speed than the heavy cows could keep up with on their stubby legs. The screaming in pain and the firestorm of curse words would have been more audible if they weren’t vibrating off of Minnie’s stomach. The blasphemous animal dug deeper into Derrick’s face as a means of holding on tightly for this bumpy ride.

The crash and burn would eventually happen at the bottom of the hill, where they landed hard in a rapid river that began carrying them away underneath the water. Only at the threat of drowning would Minnie let go of Derrick’s face and doggie-paddle toward the surface.

The bloody wounds in the pissed off druid’s visage and his already aching testicles only pissed him off even further. Just when the bovines had reached the bottom of the hill looking for their prey, Derrick pulled Minnie underneath the water. Little did they know the bovines lost their trail and they were ready to give up.

Except Derrick wasn’t pulling Minnie underneath for her safety. He did it because he wanted to scream obscenities at her for putting him in this position in the first place. The bubbles in his lungs muffled most of what he was saying, but it was basically along the lines of this whole mess being Minnie’s fault because she led these “freaks” to his hideout and almost got the both of them killed.

He could have gone on forever ranting and raving while not caring if he or Minnie drowned. But luckily, they didn’t have to worry about being underwater indefinitely since the river dropped them off at a shallow part where Derrick could be on his knees and Minnie could swim to the surface. Both survivors of the bovine rebellion coughed, hacked, and wheezed until every last drop of water was out of their noses and throats.

By the time Derrick was done coughing, his testicle pain flared up again and he was screaming while banging the shallow ground with his fists. Meanwhile, Minnie was curled up at the edge of the river like she wasn’t in danger of dying just now. Typical cat behavior: always ignoring humans in their time of need.

Derrick stood up in the raging river and pressed his thighs together while basically tiptoeing his way to where Minnie was laying. His balls were almost ruptured, his face was still bleeding, and he was in a “don’t fuck with me” mood. Hell, his rage alone would have gotten him a victory over that entire squadron of cow people. But the only cow-like creature he had his flaring eyes on at the moment was Minnie.

“You sick little bitch!” shouted Derrick Mango as he inched closer to the shivering cat. “You nearly got my ass killed. You led those demons to my cabin all because of some stupid milk fiasco. Well, it’s a good thing all that milk made you fat, because I want some chow and you’re the only living thing here with meat on your bones!”

Derrick raised his hands in the air monster-style before his ball pain acted up again and he tumbled over to the side of the wet cat. He cried and bitched and moaned while holding his poor aching groin. “Why, sweet god, why?! What did I do to deserve this! Why me?! Why not somebody else?! I didn’t do no harm to anyone!”

Minnie stood up from her sleeping position and licked the salty river off of Derrick’s nose, which was pretty much the only part of his face that wasn’t soaking in blood. The druid said, “Oh come on! Stop making it so hard to be pissed off!” Minnie purred and licked him some more. “I’m serious!” More purrs, more licks. “Don’t make me go all lovey-dovey for you!” Even more purrs, even more licks.

“Ah, who am I kidding. You saved my life just by clawing my fucking face. I guess that squares things between us. That, and you are kind of cute. Cuter than those stupid humans in the village.” Derrick proved his affections by scratching Minnie behind the ears.

“Minnie-Moo, are you alright?!” That cutesy voice belonged to a village girl no older than seven years. She was dressed up like a doll with her thick white dress and wool boots. As soon as she saw Minnie, the cat ran up to the girl and jumped into affectionate, loving arms. The girl looked down at the wounded Derrick and said, “Thank you for saving my kitty!”

“Oh, no problem. If you wanted to pay me back, you could bring me a healer. I’m kind of in a lot of pain right now,” said Derrick.

“Okay!” said the village girl as she turned around and skipped away with Minnie-Moo in her arms.

Derrick rolled over and slowly removed his hands from his aching balls before saying to himself, “Saved by the fucking humans….damn it! Oh well.”

A Good Night's Sleep

***A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP***

I talk about my sleeping habits a lot in these journals because I’m always in search of a reason why my low energy level is interfering with my creative projects. Sleep apnea will certainly suck the strength out of anybody. Being overweight does that all the time. But there are other contributing factors that all of us can pay attention to when it comes to our own lives.

My most recent solution was to wake up at 11:00 in the morning every day regardless of how tired I am. I was able to do it yesterday, but that was only because I actually had the energy to pull that off. I turns out I had a lot of extra time in my day and I used it to finish reading “Love Me Today, Kill Me Tomorrow” by Marie Krepps before writing a review for it and eventually going to my dental appointment. Today, on the other hand, was a much different story. My mom came in and raised the blinds to help me wake up at 11:00 again, but this time I was too zonked out to do it. And then I go back to all the times I woke up early in the day only to take a nap in the afternoon and go back to my usual sleeping cycle.

Yet another solution was to drink milk before going to bed. Milk has a narcotic effect on the human mind and puts said human to sleep in no time at all. Sometimes this has worked for me, sometimes it hasn’t. Maybe the failure rate has to do with me grabbing a midnight snack before going to bed. I’d love to give that habit up, but because I wake up late every day, I’m not around for breakfast. They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day for a reason: because it will determine your energy for the rest of the day and it will leave you full enough so that you’re not hungry before bedtime. I could easily combine the solutions of waking up at 11:00 and eating breakfast and I’d be on my way to perfect health.

But then there’s something else I learned about recently. Did you know that staring at a computer screen has the same optical effect as flashing a light in your own eyes? Blue is a common color in computer screens and it’s the same one that makes your eyes tired when you’ve been sitting in front of the screen for a long time. Starting tonight, I’m going to try something new and you all are welcome to try this if you’re having trouble sleeping. Before going to bed, stay awake for at least another our while trying to avoid looking at computer or TV screens. If you need sleeping music like I do, but you use your computer for that, turn off the monitor and leave the speakers turned on. If you need an activity that trumps dinking around on your social media accounts, read a paperback novel or write in a paper journal. I would advise against listening to your MP3 player since that has a digital screen like TV’s and computers do.

November is a month of challenges. It’s a challenge for writers to produce something every single day, but for me personally, it’s also going to be a challenge to alter my sleeping habits so that I can wake up with enough energy to blow through my creative projects and hopefully lose some weight in the process. Wish me luck! You can also wish me goodnight if you want!

　

***POISON TONGUE TALES***

My plans to write “Born to Die” have not changed, although it’s getting a little difficult trying to plot this story from beginning to end. I’m going to try and stay disciplined so that I don’t have to choose another story to write in its place. The writing can be easily figured out. The editing, on the other hand, has taken a slightly different direction. As you all know, Marie Krepps is my beta reader and she’s been doing a stellar job of critiquing my work and getting it ready for the marketplace. Recently, she’s been sending me back her notes a rapid fire pace and I applaud her for that. Because I have a lot of stories to work on, I’m no longer going to randomly choose one story at a time to work on. I’m instead going to bulldoze these stories like I did with American Darkness not too long ago. By that, I mean edit the stories in alphabetical order and do three per day with no excuses. You hear that, Death Blade? You too are getting the bulldozing treatment no matter how scary you are! Have I told you all lately how awesome and wonderful Marie is? ^_^

　

***LUNACHO***

Do you all remember me talking about suspending Blood Brawl because I had writer’s block? It’s the whole reason why I’m trying to finish up Poison Tongue Tales. But what happens after Poison Tongue Tales? I’ll have both an editing and writing job to do. I plan getting Marie’s critiques on my most recent first draft novel “Watch You Burn”. For the writing itself, I’m going all in with LuNacho, the animal fantasy story about two kitties I used to have, Luna and Nacho. Unlike Blood Brawl, I planned out LuNacho the right way and I actually have the intention of following through with it. And this time, though the chapter count of 20 will stay the same, I will start shooting for 40,000 words or more, which means each chapter has to be at least 2,000 words long. Can I do it? You’re damn right I can! It means I’ll have to push myself beyond my comfort zone, but goddamn it, I can do it!

　

***READING***

Now that “January First” and “Love Me Today, Kill Me Tomorrow” are in my rearview mirror, I need two more books to read and review. My choice for a digital book was easy: “Box of Chocolates” by the ultra-lovely and tough-as-nails Marie Krepps. Since the book is in the neighborhood of fifty and sixty pages long, I could probably read it in one day and review it right away. For the paperback book, as in the one I will read in lieu of dinking around on the computer tonight, I’ve got “A Street Cat Named Bob” by James Bowen. I was browsing Barnes & Noble one day and since this book had a picture of a cute, cuddly kitty on it, I purchased it without hesitation. The kitty on the cover actually reminds me a little bit of Nacho. Aww!

　

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

In the past few days, I’ve drawn pictures of two different people with Brock in their names: Ryan Brock (barbarian from “Streetwalker”) and Brock Dempsey (monk from “Maggie’s Wisdom”). That’s a Brock of shit. (Audience boos and throws vegetables at me.) Okay, okay, bad pun, I get it. There won’t be anything funny about the next character I’m going to draw: Corey Darkside, yet another barbarian. Maybe my family is right about me: I AM obsessed with barbarians. Hehe!

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“What do I think of Seth Rollins? I think he’s a weasel and a thief. He didn’t earn that championship; he stole it from me. At Battleground, it’s over.”

-Brock Lesnar-

　

***POST-SCRIPT***

And now that makes THREE people with the name Brock.