The Anti-Garrison: He's Like the Antichrist, But For Me, Garrison

 

Every bully and abuser I've ever had is a brainwashed cult member. The Anti-Garrison is their god.

Chef Nash, Giant Antagonist from "Emilio & Marigold"

 

Blanka from Street Fighter II vs. Laura Ingraham from Fox News: A Masterclass in Malicious Compliance

 

Glenn Jacobs, formerly known as Kane in WWE, currently known as the scourge of Knox County

 

Zune Koga's Cursed Monster Form

 

Eden Hodges, Evil Witch from "Beauty and the Barbarian"

 

Diana Romanova, Succubus Bounty Head from "Down"

 

Allex Broker a.k.a. White Snake

 

An edge lord with no hope, no love, and no coping mechanisms except for gang fights.

Elijah Canterbury a.k.a. Dogmeat

 

A teenaged runaway who can escape a volatile home, but not the dangers of gang life.

St. Anger for President!

 

Black Tar Kiss, Chapter 3

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Black Tar Kiss, Chapter 2

“Hey yo, Scar Tissue, I’ve got a question for you, buddy. What exactly does Me Encanta Femicidio mean?”

 

“I love killing women.”

 

“I know, but what does that sentence mean?”

 

This was pretty much a normal conversation that someone could have with White Snake. Normal by his standards, not normal by decent human being standards. Most people have at least some of their marbles rolling around in their heads. He doesn’t have a goddamn thing in there, not even a pebble. He laughed at his own joke while Scar Tissue gave a satisfied little smirk. Me? I was probably staring holes through our beloved gang leader, but ain’t nobody called me out on it.

 

The three of us got out of the car and surveyed the situation before us. Battleground Park used to be this beautiful forest full of life and greenness. Squirrels running around with nuts in their mouths, sometimes bulging their cheeks out. Birds chirping away and singing better than most auto-tuned pop stars could ever dream of. Hell, you might see a deer pitter-pattering up to a creek to get himself a little somethin’-somethin’ to cool his throat and quench his thirst. Nature photographers would never long for employment in a place like that. But like I said, it USED to be this way.

 

Instead of oak trees that looked like nature’s hard-ons, it was just dirt, grass, some picnic tables with vulgar nonsense spraypainted on them, and some port-a-potties that smelled like they were bursting at the seams with dead bodies, which was probably why they called it Battleground Park, ‘cause that’s where all the corpses typically were.

 

And speaking of people who hadn’t seen a shower since the Nixon Administration, there they were in numbers that grossly outmatched the three of us: Me Encanta Femicidio. Not one Latino among them, or at least anyone with half an appreciation of the culture. Just a bunch of out-of-shape white dudes with whole-ass forests under their chins, like what Battleground Park used to be. Heavy metal T-shirts with the sleeves cut off so that the rest of us could get a good whiff of their goopy armpits. Black jorts, blue jorts, tan cargos, anything at all as long as we could see their tarantula-like legs, even though there were only two of them on their bodies. There they were hooting and hollering like idiots, pouring beers down their throats, sucking down cigars that somehow stank worse than they did, and bending a little cheerleader chick over one of the picnic tables before pulling her skirt up and spanking her red with their meaty paws. SPANK, SPANK! “Naughty girl!” SPANK, SPANK, SPANK! “Bad, bad girl!”

 

The more I listened to that baby girl cry her guts out hoping some invisible dude in the sky would hear her, the more I wondered why White Snake and Scar Tissue were just standing in front of the corvette with their arms folded. Discussing strategy, maybe? Yeah, I was kind of curious about the strategy myself. My fists and jaw were clamping down tight as I watched those hayseeds spank that cheerleader. If I ever needed a blood test done, I now know where my arm vein is, to hell with the tourniquet. Maybe I could have used some dental work, too, if I clenched my teeth any longer than I did.

 

I stomped up to the trunk and popped the sucker open, hoping for some weapons. Some CD’s, some T-shirts and jeans, some candy bars, an old vinyl record of Dark Side of the Moon, but not a weapon in sight, although I’ve thought about shoving candy down Me Encanta Femicidio’s throats and triggering a mass diabetic coma. I shook my head in disbelief and slammed the trunk down. “White Snake! We got a situation over here!”

 

He barely turned his head to look at me, forgetting that eye contact was supposed to be a thing. “What kind of a situation?”

 

“Well, I was just checking out this here trunk and, uh…no weapons. No guns, no knives, no brass knucks, not even a little sewing needle. How the hell are we supposed to fight that many douche-canoes if we ain’t packing heat?”

 

“Ah, don’t you fret, little Doggie Meat. I got all the heat you could ever want right here. Come on over. Get a piece.” He pulled something out of a little tin and started chewing on it. He sprinkled some in Scar Tissue’s hands and he was munching like no tomorrow, smacking his lips, too.

 

I strolled up there to see what it was. “Chewing tobacco? This is your secret weapon? We’re gonna get our asses handed to us! Besides, aren’t you worried about jaw cancer?”

 

“Cancer?” White Snake blew some air out of his nose. “Feminism is the only cancer you’ve got to worry about.” Classy. “This ain’t chewing tobacco. We just need the cops to think it’s chewing tobacco. Ever wonder why we call ourselves Black Tar Kiss?”

 

“Because the initials are BTK and you’re an edge-lord?” Scar Tissue chuckled at my joke and then quickly shut up once White Snake gave him a little glare.

 

White Snake turned his attention back to me. “Well, that’s certainly one explanation. Of course, the other one would be, this here black tar ain’t just any old chew. It’s Black Pills.”

 

“I’m sorry, Black Pills?”

 

“Yeah, man, Black Pills. They ain’t just an analogy from a stupid movie written by transgender-sexuals. These suckers are real. I told y’all that we’re the ugliest sons of bitches to walk the earth. Now these Black Pills are gonna prove my point. Chicks ain’t gonna resist us now, because…well…they ain’t got a say in the matter!” My stomach bubbled listening to that. “Come on, Dogmeat, have some.”

 

“Nah, man, I’m good.”

 

“Dude…you said it yourself. We ain’t packing heat in the trunk. No guns, no knives, nothin’ like that. You want to beat these guys or what? Why should they get all the cheerleader chicks? Three of us and god knows how many of them. These Black Pills will even the odds in our favor. Or you can get your ass stomped into the ground, that’s always an option, if not by those chuds, then by me. What’s it gonna be, kid?”

 

I stood there furrowing my brows at White Snake. He probably could have kicked my ass on any given day, but I had a mind of at least trying to kick his, even if I would have gotten ambulanced away.

 

I can’t freakin’ believe I’m saying this, but…Scar Tissue was the voice of reason. “Come on, essa, have some! You think I’m gonna let these putos run around here speakin’ my language? They don’t know a damn word. They’re just tryin’ to be cool. Yeah, they cool, alright. They’re so cool we should call them…Los Kulos!”

 

I did know what Los Kulos meant and that put a smile on my face. “Okay, let me have some.” Who knew positive reinforcement could be so convincing? Scar Tissue gave me a pinch of chew and I started chomping up and down on it. “Tastes like beef jerky!”

 

“I know, right? Now let’s settle this beef, essa! Viva la Raza!” Scar Tissue rapidly drummed his palms on the hood of the car to get psyched up. Even when he was fooling around, he looked like a goddamn rock star pounding those drums. Again, why was he hanging out with us instead of opening for Mudvayne?

 

Any euphoria I had watching Scar Tissue be a little bit like his old self was blown away by the shrill sound of White Snake whistling at the rival gang. He got all their attentions. The cheerleader got her bright red ass out of dodge, running and sobbing like she was a victim of domestic violence at the hands of a creepy uncle. She lost one of her white sneakers, but there were more pressing matters, obviously.

 

“Greetings, ladies and Germans! Just kidding, none of you have any balls tonight! I got one question for your chronically online Reddit chuds! This place used to be a forest, so I figured I’d ask a little philosophical question. Would y’all rather be stuck in the woods with a man…or a ssssssssssssssnake?!”

 

On a normal day, that would be the cheesiest thing to ever come out of White Snake’s mouth. But considering that a forked tongue was actually what came out of it, we all had the right to be a little worried. Them meatheads on the other side of the battlefield started dripping from their pits and foreheads something fierce, even though we weren’t packing any heat. After all, why would we need heat…when White Snake started to transform…into a big-ass white snake?! His skin turned all scaly and stuff. He grew some fangs that would give any dentist PTSD. He grew this long-ass body that would give snake-haters instant schizophrenia. His fingers shot out these pointy-ass claws that looked more frightening than his ugly-ass fangs. And wouldn’t you know it, this guy was freakin’ huge! He must have gained a whole foot just to look like this big ol’ monster snake with his tail coiled around him.

 

Scar Tissue, bless his soul, he didn’t do any favors in the racing hearts department. He too gained about a whole foot. His whole body turned into this big ol’ river of blood with these slimy, gross, scaly tentacles shooting out of every which way. He grew some razor-sharp claws too, but I would hazard a guess that the little fanged mouths on the end of his tentacles were even more heart attack-inducing. At this point, I’d be surprised if that was the only river of blood I saw that night. I swear to god, my incel homies were transforming into their namesakes right in front of me.

 

…Which made me wonder what the hell I looked like, being that my name was Dogmeat and all. I grew some field of hair all over my legs and arms. I had a Gandalf beard that looked like it hadn’t been cut since the date that story took place. My nose and mouth shot out a few inches and I was afraid to bite my own tongue and draw some serious blood. I had to take a quick peek in one of the side mirrors to see what I looked like. Well, it started out as a quick peek. It ended up lasting a hell of a lot longer than that. I looked into the mirror and saw an absolute goddamn monster from the depths of hell. Werewolf body, clown face with pale white and all, and even a blood-red wolf nose to complete the motif.

 

If my momma saw this side of me, she’d go right back to the needles and cocaine. If my dad saw me like this, he’d go from screaming to crying his eyes out in short order, probably muttering something about disappointing him and him not recognizing his own son anymore. I didn’t recognize me anymore. The Black Pill philosophy was true all along. I WAS the ugliest freak walking the earth. No girl would be caught dead with her hand in mine…unless of course she actually was dead. Forget make-out sessions, because that’s one of the ways in which she could die. My bloodshot eyes bulged like I was ready for battle, but I was just waiting forever for some salty discharge to drop. Manly men didn’t do that mess, but I didn’t want to be a manly man anymore. I wanted to cry. I wanted to be a baby suckling my momma’s tits. I wanted my dad to be proud of the boy he raised. How could anybody be proud of me outside of my gang circle?

 

There was a whole-ass battle going on over yonder, but I stared into the mirror waiting to cry my eyes out. The tears never came. There was some screaming and smashing noises going on in the background, but I didn’t watch what was going on. I assumed my guys were winning. How could they lose when they looked like that? Sure, they wouldn’t lose their virginities, but at least they wouldn’t lose a gang fight against a bunch of mediocre nobodies. What was this all for?! Why were we doing this to each other?! The answer smacked me right in the temple.

 

Nah, man, I’m serious! One of them chuds tossed a brick at me and opened up a gash real’ bad. My eyes weren’t leaking, but that wound sure was. I took another look in the mirror after I picked my head up…and I was bleeding like a goddamn fire hydrant. Them chuds started laughing their wobbly asses off…so I laughed along with them. And the more I laughed, the more cartoonishly insane I sounded. I rubbed the blood all over my face and laughed like a damn lunatic. I didn’t have to worry about no consequences, because who would put a straightjacket on my hideous body?

 

I got this sick serial killer smile on my face as I turned to look at the weirdoes who did this to me. They weren’t shaking like an electric massager they wished they could have used on that cheerleader, but they were damn close. I showed all my bloody teeth at them, I gave them this big ol’ murder grin, and I laughed like I was a shoe-in for a 51/50 order. Those porkers started sweatin’ like the pigs they were. They started shaking in their little Nikes. And then they got some serious goddamn exercise by running in the other direction. I ran after them and made some booga-booga noises just for extra effect. These pukes had never ran a marathon a day in their lives, until they met Dogmeat. I let them go after a while. And once they were out of sight, I gazed up at the moon and howled. “AWOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

After that little war cry, I took a look back on the battlefield where the remnants of Me Encanta Femicidio were trying their damnedest to fight the good fight. Punches, kicks, even the occasional headbutt. White Snake snatched up one of them with his tail and asked another one of his philosophical questions. “Would your rather tell your feelings to a woman…or a TREE?!” Once White Snake was within range of one of the last remaining oaks, he slammed that kid against the tree and he went down clutching his spine and screaming in pain. Not gonna lie, that looked pretty badass.

 

“Scar Tissue, look out!” That’d be me warning him about some sneaky prick wielding a bass guitar. The kid had designs of smashing it over Scar Tissue’s head, but thanks to my warning, he turned around and snatched that thing out of the chud’s hands. That dude knew he was screwed, yet he could just stand there and tremble while Scar Tissue…played a tune? Was he actually playing the bass intro to “Disciple” by The Warning? Did he really kneel down like he was channeling that Alejandra chick? Was this guy seriously having a little fun on the battlefield? Well, he did until White Snake condescendingly cleared his throat. Scar Tissue sighed before smashing that bass right over the kid’s head. He plopped over on the ground, his cheeks bouncing on the grass. He was out cold as White Snake’s ugly heart.

 

And wouldn’t you know it, that battlefield was littered with big dudes groaning and moaning in pain. They weren’t dead by a longshot, but they probably wished they were, judging from how they writhed around clutching their wounds. The torture was still going on long after the fight was over and the three of us were standing tall. And just like that, the effects of the Black Pills wore off and we shrank down to our human selves. I had no idea the effects were temporary. I had no idea any of this was happening tonight. I got a little jolt of energy from that fight, even though I didn’t throw a single punch or kick. I was grinning from ear to ear. Scar Tissue and White Snake were high-fiving the hell out of each other. Scar Tissue went on a fire-spewing Espanol rant like only he could and literally not anyone from Me Encanta Femicidio, those absolute men of culture.

 

Scar Tissue bounced around excited, whooped, cheered, cursed in Spanish…and then there was White Snake, staring at me like I just made a yo momma joke about him. Scar Tissue realized what the hell was going on and went silent in no time at all. I had to ask White Snake. “What’s up?”

 

“What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up. See all these bitches groaning in agony? They’re all over the place. They’re crawling around our feet like a bunch of bums. And now look at your feet. Ain’t nobody crawling around you. What the hell were you doing this whole time?”

 

I let out a nervous laugh. “White Snake, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. These morons got scared in their boots and ran for the hills the minute they saw me. You’re right! We’re ugly as hell! Ain’t nobody gonna dispute that!”

 

“You hear that, boss man? He scared them off!”

 

“Shut up, Scar Tissue.” Poor dude went quiet again. White Snake started marching up to me like he had another battle on his mind. I backed up little by little as he got closer. “Dogmeat, there ain’t nothing I hate more than a liar. I expect that mess out of a feminazi on X, but not you, bud. You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you? You ain’t down with us no more? Spit it out!”

 

“I swear, dude, it ain’t like that! I’m down for life!” I backed up a little faster this time, but I took one step too many and completely forgot that there was a hill right behind me. I made like Limp Bizkit and kept rollin’, rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ rollin’. Thank god there weren’t any hard rocks in the way, but them sharp twigs poking in my skin weren’t much fun. I could have done without the dizziness swirling around my head like toilet water, probably the same water that them port-a-potties used. I could have puked up a bigger mess than what Scar Tissue’s body turned into when he chewed them Black Pills.

 

I hit the bottom of that grassy hill and the world spun like a damn carousel. I thought I was gonna float off into outer space. I thought the ground was the ceiling for a minute there. Took a while to get my bearings straight. When I did, I crawled on my scraped-up hands and knees, little stabs of pain along the way. And then I see a pair of leather high heeled ankle boots…accompanied by the flipping open of a police badge and a woman’s voice, probably a woman who didn’t take too kindly to the Black Pilled folk.

 

“Detective Jeri Lodge, Bull Rope PD. You and I are going to have a little chat, my boy.”

 

She’s right. We did have a chat. And what better way to start a conversation than by dropping my face to the ground and cursing under my breath? Saved by the goddamn cops…lord, help me…

Monster at Your Door

VERSE 1

There’s a monster at your door, though she looks like an angel

Taking pictures of your house from more than one angle

She won’t be the only one who shows up this evening

They got shotguns for popping, baseball bats for beating

You reach for the gun locked inside your steel cabinet

You got a machete to turn their clothes into cabbage

You got a one-way ticket in case you need to dip

But for now, no movement, just zip your fucking lip

VERSE 2

You can cross the country and then cross the ocean

But the monster’s fanatics are known for their devotion

If she gives marching orders, they’ll march your ass down

If you’re in the biggest city or the tiniest of towns

It takes a marathon sprint to get the fuck away

Until your legs crumble like they’re paper mâché

Until your heart beats at a million per minute

Until your sanity is pushed beyond explosive limits

VERSE 3

Nobody in their right mind will think this is fair

If they do, they got no brain under their hair

Monsters have short fuses over absolutely nothing

The tiniest infraction is worth a lifetime of cussing

Throwing a fit and making big ass scenes

They got fuck-you money and the praise of the machine

But if the history of tyrants is anything to go by

Their empires will crumble as they crocodile cry

Succubus Creek

Battered mashed potatoes on a stick couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than plebian carnival food…which was why Wendel Pompeo munched on it while scrolling through his phone at the Carnival De Garrison. Not a single text from his date. Not an LOL. Not an LMAO. Not even a winking emoji. Lifelessness flashed across the smart phone screen. Wendel sighed. “What’s the fucking point?”

Despite not knowing what the “fucking point” was, he continued eyeballing his phone and snacking on fatty carnival food. He was smack bang in the middle of merry-go-rounds, rollercoasters, dart games, and the occasional freaky sideshow…and all he cared about was the blue light burning a hole in his own baby blues. As far as he was concerned, an actual flame could consume him and he wouldn’t give a damn either way. Maybe such a fitting death would finally warm up his icy heart. Maybe it would give him warmth that not even his ugly Christmas sweater could. But nope. More scrolling. More scrolling. More scrolling. And then…

“Step right up!” The sudden belting voice smacked Wendel across the eardrums and pulled him out of his self-loathing stupor. The voice belonged to a raven-haired lady in a top hat, one-piece bathing suit, and fishnets, using her cane to indicate a small creek going through a dark tent. “Step right up and sail down Succubus Creek! Take a load off! Relax!” She smiled and winked at Wendel. “Live a little!”

He gulped and looked down at his brown leather shoes. “Eh, why not? Can’t be any worse than being stood up.” He reached in his jean pockets and pulled out a five dollar bill from his wallet.

The lady pointed her cane at Wendel and said in a flirty voice, “I like you, but not enough to give you a discount. That’ll be TEN dollars, boy.”

“But…your sign says five dollars per person. I’m the only one here.”

“Do you honestly believe you’ll be all alone in that boat? It’s called Succubus Creek for a reason. If nobody was there, it’d be called Sad Single Guy with Shitty Brown Hair Creek.”

Wendel fluffed his own hair, rolled his eyes, and sighed. “I guess you got a point there.” He fished a second five dollar bill out of his wallet and put his total fare in the lady’s top hat after she held it out for collection. As sure as the December air made him feel colder than a dead body, he was guaranteed a seat in his own boat. The lady handed him some wooden paddles, blew him a kiss, and sent him on his way down the chilling creek.

And there he transitioned from the darkness of a star-filled night to the emptiness of a pitch-black tent that seemed to expand for miles. After a few strokes of his paddles, Wendel was covered in ghostly shadows, left to his own devices…his own wandering thoughts…his own isolation…He really was all alone in this world, as if the constant doom-scrolling before the ride wasn’t enough of an indication.

And then…a creepy orange light glowed from beneath the waters. Wendel’s heart started pumping as the light expanded to reveal the head of a demonic woman, singular ponytail, devil’s horns, brown scales, and all. Even creepier than the orange light was the amber haze radiating from her eyes as they stared bullets into Wendel’s quivering soul. He desperately darted his own eyes around looking for an escape, but it was just him and the frigid waters, no sign of the carnie who sent him down this cursed creek.

The demonic woman crawled inside the boat and sat across from Wendel, her legs crossed together and her blade-fanged smile sending more chilly weather across his skin. And then she morphed into someone who had Wendel’s heart racing for a much different reason: a familiar pretty face from his past. “Hi there, cuddle bear. Remember me?”

How could he not? The long brunette hair and college emblems were unmistakable. “Katie?”

“Yep! It’s me. You picked a lovely place for our next date, didn’t you. Oh wait…this isn’t a date, is it? I figured as much. You know why? You dumped me, that’s why!” That last burst of anger almost made Wendel jump backwards into the creek. “Here’s a question I’ve always wanted to ask, and not for a friend, either. Why did you dump me, anyways? Hmm? Was I too much for you? Did I come over too many times? Did you not like me calling you all the time?” She heightened Wendel’s heartbeat as she leaned closer with evil eyes. “Was I just another one of your…conquests?! Is that what you do with women?! Do you just fuck them and leave them?!” No answer, only icy sweats. “Answer me, asshole!”

He spat in the creek next to him. “I have dreams of my own, you know! I can’t schedule my whole life around you, okay? That’s why I went to college in the first place. That’s why we all go to college. I went there to get A’s and B’s. What were YOU doing this whole time? Why are you even wearing those clothes in the first place?”

Katie languidly rubbed her thumb and forefinger over the fabric of her college sweater. “You don’t like these clothes on me?” she asked in a subdued voice. “Fine, I’ll take them off.” When she did, she revealed another girl underneath: a blond in a cheerleading outfit. “Do you like this version of me better?” Wendel’s eyes bulged with fear as this new transformation smiled at him. She laid on her stomach and swung her feet in the air. “I never did thank you for helping me with my homework and helping my mom carry groceries when she was laid up. That was really sweet of you.” Uncomfortable silence. “And then you fell off the face of the earth…AGAIN!”

Wendel furrowed his brows. “Charlie…you’re sixteen years old! It was never going to work out! EVER!”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “But…but…you weren’t in any real trouble! The age of consent is…”

“I don’t care what the age of consent is! It’s fucking gross! Get out of my boat!” Wendel whacked her into the creek with his paddle and tried to catch his breath after that dramatic exchange. His breath became shorter no matter how many times he huffed and puffed. The darkness and isolation of this creek was suffocating him like a pillow over his face.

“You’re not going to get rid of me that easily,” said the titular succubus as she crawled back into the boat with a new transformation, this time of a brown-skinned lady in a ripped Metallica T-shirt and knee-high leather boots. Wendel clutched his throat as he continued to fight for oxygen. “That dance floor was all ours. I could have taken you home with me. But you just kept staring at me…and staring at me…like I was some kind of freak. Are you really that shy? Were you really that scared of dancing with me?” She grabbed hold of Wendel’s hand only for him to jerk it away.

“Don’t touch me, Bailey. Don’t. Touch. Me.” Her face grew solemn as he emphasized those words with a pointed finger. “I don’t know what kind of drugs you did the night of the concert, but I didn’t want you dragging me down with you. Like I just got done telling Katie, I have dreams of my own! And they don’t involve…”

The succubus morphed again, this time into a silver-haired cougar. “Don’t involve what? Actual commitment?” She morphed into a southern redhead. “Actual love?” She morphed into a black lady in dreadlocks. “Actually giving a fuck about who you’re with?” The demon changed shape multiple times in succession while demanding answers from Wendel, who was curled up at his end of the boat in the fetal position. Would he risk jumping into shivery waters just to get away from this creature? Was hypothermia really preferable to confronting his own romantic failures? Yes. It was.

But before he could dive in, the succubus grabbed the waist of his jeans and yanked him back in. “You don’t want to do that, Wendel.” She said in a multi-layered, monstrous voice. “It’s cold out there. It’s lonely. Besides, you have someone waiting for you at the end of the creek.”

“I don’t need anyone to wait for me! All they want are free meals and alimony for life! How am I supposed to afford all of that?! I have dreams, damn it! I want to make movies! I want to be rich! I want to be…”

“You can be anything you want to be, Wendel! But don’t do it at the expense of those who care about you! Stop leading them on and tell them how you feel!” Wendel finally relaxed in somberness and the succubus let go of his jeans. “Why did you sail down my creek tonight? To get away from your responsibilities to these women? If you’re shy around them or are not interested, you need to tell them! If all you want is sex, you need to let them know beforehand! You can’t keep getting away with shit like this!”

He brought his knees to his face and tucked his face between them, hiding in shame yet again. “I’m sorry…It’s just that…if I tell them…I might…”

“You might what? Lose them?” No answer. None was needed. “You can’t have it both ways, Wendel. Pick one or the other. Do you want to fall in love or not?” Still no answer. It was still unneeded. “Listen to me. Give me your heart and all is forgiven.” He picked his head up and gave a confused look. “Give it to me, Wendel. You’ve used your heart for abandonment and selfishness. Now I want you to use it for love. If you love them, say so. If not, then letting them down is the best love you can give them.”

As the succubus glared at him for an answer, Wendel sat there and pondered these points. He could swim away to the end of the creek and dodge his responsibilities once more. He would be safe. He would be happy. And his dreams would continue. But…just because his heart was broken, didn’t mean the women in his life had to have broken hearts too. He reached inside his chest and gently removed his heart, which he played hot potato with due to how cold and frosty it really was.

The succubus rescued the heart from his hands and inspected it. “That certainly explains a lot. I’ll put it over there with all the others.” She dipped into the creek and stored the frozen heart in a heated treasure chest, where the ice melted and warmth spread across Wendel’s body. He could smile again. It had been so long since he’d done it. His face muscles thanked him for the moment of bliss.

The succubus swam back to the boat and reappeared as another woman from Wendel’s life: a green-haired nerd in a hoodie and thick-rimmed glasses. This time Wendel didn’t shake in his skivvies. He stared at her life seriousness in his eyes, like he actually had an answer for this puzzle.

“Sorry I didn’t text you back. I should have told you…” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I had to put my dog down today and I just…I couldn’t…”

Wendel wrapped his warm hands around his current girlfriend’s arms, touching her with the softest grasp and the purest intentions. “Kayla…do you need a shoulder to cry on?”

“No! I want chicken nuggets!”

He smiled at her and held her head against his chest while she cried in his wool sweater. “I could use some chicken nuggets too. To tell you the truth, it beats the shit out of this carnival food.”

FF DOT: The Pixel Art of Final Fantasy

BOOK TITLE: FF DOT: The Pixel Art of Final Fantasy

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Picture Book

SUBGENRE: Videogame Art

GRADE: A

As someone who spent most of my childhood playing Final Fantasy games left and right, this collection of artwork was nostalgic heaven for me. The first game in the series was basically a D&D campaign brought to life and the character and environmental designs reflected that. Even though my favorite classes to use were physical combatants, I got a kick out of seeing the magic users as well. I could just imagine these brave warriors fighting monsters and crawling through dungeons all over again. The rest of the games in the series gave me a nostalgic boost as well. Cecil was a stud as both a dark knight and a paladin, wearing the finest armor and swinging the mightiest swords. Sabin could be WWE Champion today if he wanted to with his brute strength and intimidating presence. Bartz could put on samurai gear and throw money at his opponents like he was more powerful than Elon Musk and Bill Gates combined. Whenever your creative well is running dry like mine was, this book will power you back up again. You don’t even have to be a fan of the games to get enjoyment out of this; the art is simultaneously a history lesson and a shot in the arm for anybody wanting to flex their creative muscles. What more is there to say other than this book gets an easy A out of me?

Mr. Poopy Pants

The lifelessness in Earle Saint’s eyes told the story of a man whose inner tiki torch had burned out a long time ago. The heat was there in the form of ashes, but the flame was long gone. Working for a software company operated by elitist screamers tended to do that to a man’s soul. “Work harder!” they said. “Lose weight!” they said. “You’re too fat and lazy!” summed up the bosses’ earworm rhetoric. The effects of their words were broadcast to the world via dark circles, a receding hairline, aging lines, and a saggy frown on Earle’s face.

Where does a man with blasting head voices go to take his bosses’ unsolicited weight loss advice? To McDonald’s, of course, but not for a cheeseburger or McNuggets. The only menu item Earle could stomach at this point was a cup of black coffee. No cream. No sugar. Nothing that would make it taste better than the shit sandwich he had to eat every day at that tech company. Just a standard cup of black coffee from a place famous for ball pits and constantly smiling clown mascots.

When Earle placed his order at the counter and paid for it with some pocket change, the clerk gave him his receipt with the order number on it. And he thought to himself, What’s stopping them from getting my fucking coffee right now? He shrugged his slumped shoulders and dragged his sorry keister to the nearest table, a small exercise, but one that left him even more tired than his office job.

He plopped down on the seat, took his glasses off, and held his battered face in his hands. The white dress shirt several sizes too big for him still managed to keep him claustrophobic in this public space, as did his green slacks. He just wanted to shower and change into a bathrobe. But the act of getting on with his day couldn’t be achieved without a steaming hot cup of black coffee, caffeine thundering through his veins. But the longer he waited, the more he tapped his foot long before the caffeine kicked in.

Earle wanted so badly to go postal at this moment. The demon had been building up inside him for years. His overworked mind still raced with thoughts of his father telling him he wasn’t good enough before spanking him with a belt. His dying brain cells conjured images of his mother telling him he wasn’t a real man for being unable to lose weight and lift heavy objects. His ashen head jelly flashed memories of him being beaten and kicked by jocks twice his size, but half his girth. All the pain and heartache culminated in a lifetime of work at a job he couldn’t wait to retire from, if he would at all.

And then a child’s scream jolted him awake like a black coffee shot to the heart. Earle had completely forgotten that he was in McDonald’s and school was out for the day, hence running children in the restaurant while their parents read the newspaper or fingered through their smart phones. Earle would have envied the happiness of these children if they weren’t so fucking annoying to him. They ran around like they were playing tag, weaving between tables without caring if they stepped on Earle’s foot. But the screams. Those screams that were like an acid trip without actually doing drugs. Schizophrenia in the real world.

“HEY!” Earle screamed in retaliation, getting everyone’s undivided attention. “Keep your voices down, you little bastards! I can’t take that noise!”

One of the previously screaming children burst into tears and ran into his formerly inattentive mother’s arms. She hugged him and gently said, “It’s okay, Devon. He didn’t mean that. He’s just being a Mr. Poopy Pants.” That got a laugh out of the rest of the children, but a tighter jaw clamp from Earle Saint himself. The children started chanting “Poopy-Pants!” at Earle, probably thinking his gut would bust with any more stress.

“Stop calling me Poopy-Pants, you little assholes!” The parents joined in on the action as well. “I mean it! Knock it the fuck off! You know what?! Some days, I wish I could buy a shotgun and blow your heads off!” This earned a collective gasp from the McDonald’s crowd and immediately shut them up. Earle’s face almost sagged with guilt for a moment. Almost. But not really. A victory was a victory.

But then the “Mr. Poopy Pants” chants started again and Earle’s eyeballs bulged out of his skull. The train tunnel veins in his body became visible through his corporate slave uniform. Foam was slopping out of his tightly clamped teeth. His fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails nearly broke against the weight of his ham-hawks. And then the literary descriptions resembled real life as Earle Saint transformed into a seven-foot tall powerhouse monster with fur everywhere, razorblade fangs, and a roar that would make the gods themselves cower in fear.

Forty-five years of child abuse, fatphobia, anti-male sexism, and attempted murder came pouring out of this monstrous form like hot lava. Children and their parents alike scrambled underneath the tables as they trembled and screamed in horror. Earle would cause them to scatter like cockroaches whenever he’d uproot a table or chair and toss it haphazardly around, almost getting the McDonald’s workers killed. They too took cover wherever they could find it, which in their case was the kitchen, where the boiling of the fry machine oil couldn’t compare to the solar Armageddon that was burning within Earle’s demonic form.

“I! WANT! COFFEE!” he shouted while chucking uprooted furniture around and smashing the walls upon themselves. Probably thinking it would calm him down, one of the female workers brought him a whole machine filled with boiling hot coffee. Once Earle snatched it from her hands, she darted back into the kitchen and screamed her head off.

He ripped the top off the machine like it was an ordinary bottle cap and chugged the entire contents like he was a caffeinated Supreme Court justice who loved beer too much. The scalding hotness soothed his bloody throat and bathed his bladder in liquid heaven. And for the first time since the Reagan administration, Earle Saint gave a tiny smile, which soon formed into a bigger one. And a bigger one, showing off all of his meat grinder teeth.

The kids and parents slowly crawled out of their horrified crouching positions and shakily made their way for the door thinking this McMassacre was finally over. But then the frown returned. The hideous saggy frown that weighed him down more than his human form belly. Forty-five years of hatred didn’t go away just because he drank an entire machine full of black coffee. A warm heart and a warm feel-good story were very different from a warm caffeinated drink. Earle tossed the machine aside like it was a stuffed toy from his murdered childhood, which he still missed to this day.

Another scream came, but it was quickly snuffed out upon the machine’s impact. Terror turned to sorrow. Rage became homicide. Death was inevitable with this much destruction happening all at once. Unfortunately, it happened to the kid named Devon, whose head was bashed beyond recognition from the impact of the machine, his mother crying over his slaughtered corpse.

Earle Saint knew his rage would get him into trouble one day. He just didn’t think it would involve taking another’s life by accident. He regretted not going to therapy. He hated that he couldn’t get a better job. He despised his owns selfishness. It all showed when his monstrous body shrank into a smaller version of his human self, with the anger of an entire audience looking down upon him like the microscopic criminal he was.

One of the kids, who looked like she could be Devon’s sister, slowly dragged herself towards the shrunken Earle, wiped the tears from her own eyes, and said, “You’re not Mr. Poopy Pants. You’re a dumpster fire!”

The audience gasped while the mother pulled the sister away in shock. Earle’s only sensible response at this point was…”Same thing.” He had no idea what was going to happen to him in the aftermath of this heinous day. Jail time? Another attempted murder on him? Suicide? But what he lacked in answers, he made up for in caffeinated heaven, which would be the only kind of heaven suitable for someone of his sins. “Can I please go to hell now?”

He asked and he received. The mother angrily strode up to him and squashed him underneath her high heels, spreading his bloody shame all over the floor. He never had the chance to heal himself. He never had the chance to atone for his worst moments. His entire life had been a chronicle of negative shit. But it was too late to save him. He got his coffee and that was all he could take to the afterlife with him. At least they made it how he liked it.

He Hates His Penis

He hates his penis and all that it stands for

He hates his tastes, wants to be a sad bore

If anybody knew what kind of shit he liked

He’d be locked in darkness without his rights

A broken lamp, but there’s no genie inside

No way to get rid of the parts he must hide

Take a razor blade and cut his dingus off

And the sack for which he turns and coughs

The thoughts don’t stop, he wants to drop

Before he gets his ass beat by the keystone cops

Throw the TV out of his window pane

Before a Huggies commercial drives him insane

No where to turn to, no one to talk to

Want to stab him to death? He won’t stop you

He never asked for his brain to be fucked up

Nobody would choose it, it’s just tough luck

Where does he go from his lowest point?

Does he just light up yet another joint?

Numbing his pain with drugs and food

He lived another day, stabilized his mood

He’s a monster without the claws and fangs

A warmonger without the guns and tanks

A devil without living in the hells below

That shit’s on earth, in case you didn’t know

The Fiend

 Consumers of storytelling should never have to compromise when it comes to good character work. Apparently, the readers of the Wrestling Observer Newsletter agree with me given how often they slaughter Bray Wyatt in the yearly awards. No, this isn’t just a minor disagreement. They annihilate him! They murder him! They brutalize him! They do all the things he could never do to his opponents when it counts the most. Oh sure, they’ll give him the Stockholm Syndrome treatment with the Best Gimmick awards in 2013 and 2019. And trust me, there’s a lot to be said about playing a demented cult leader and an indestructible monster on TV. But unfortunately for Mr. Wyatt, that’s where the praise ends and the raging against terrible booking begins.

Most Overrated Wrestler in 2020 (that’s a little harsh, all things considered, but okay). Worst Feud of the Year in 2017 against Randy Orton. Worst Feud of the Year in 2019 against Seth Rollins. Worst Feud of the Year in 2020 against Braun Strowman. Worst Gimmick in 2017 for being the bodily host for the spirit of Sister Abigail. Worst Gimmick in 2020 for doing the same indestructible monster character in 2019, but with more losses and more ridiculousness. Worst Match of the Year in 2014 against John Cena in a Steel Cage match (deep voiced child, anybody?). Worst Match of the Year in 2017 against Randy Orton (the worms…all those fucking worms!). Worst Match of the Year in 2019 against Seth Rollins in a Hell in a Cell match (a.k.a. the match without rules and limitations that ended in a disqualification anyways). Last and surely least, Worst Match of the Year in 2020 against Braun Strowman in a Wyatt Swamp Fight (there was no clear winner in this cheesy horror movie with more plot holes than I can count).

So…how did this happen? How did the WWE fuck up this badly when they had handfuls of gold with Bray Wyatt’s various characters? How do you fuck up a charismatic cult leader who could and would kill you with a screwdriver if he wanted to? How do you fuck up a creepy children’s show host who looks crazy enough to be on the sex offender registry and therefore shouldn’t be around children? How do you fuck up an indestructible monster with a hideous, ugly, nightmarish face that would put Pink Floyd and Slipknot to shame? How do you fuck up a character with so many layers, so much creativity, and so much potential to be a top star for the rest of eternity? I’ve got your answer right here: he loses too much.

Yep, that’s right. He’s a three hundred pound killing machine who can hit like a cannonball and move like a cruiserweight. His dialogue is so cryptic, so seductive, yet so terrifying that it’ll echo in your mind like a schizophrenic voice for days on end. If he tells you he’s going to murder you in a cold blood and leave your corpse for the buzzards to feast on, you don’t question him for a second…until he loses all of his biggest matches. He talks a big game and never backs it up when it matters. The audience is so used to seeing him fail that when he finally does add a championship or two to his resume, nobody cares. All the Hawaiian shirts, bowler hats, demonic masks, and pedophilic tendencies don’t mean shit if no one believes in the villain who embodies those traits.

Even if you don’t watch wrestling and have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, you as authors should still take Bray Wyatt’s story and career as a cautionary tale when creating your own villains. If you want to create a convincing villain, you can splatter them with all the creative tropes in the world as long as they’re powerful enough to make their eventual defeat believable and meaningful. I’m not saying the villain has to win EVERY time, but his losses should be in small ways that don’t derail whatever momentum he has. 

You think Darth Vader would be an iconic villain from the Star Wars franchise if he kept getting his ass kicked by the rebels? Fuck no, he wouldn’t have! So what does he do to solidify his power? He cuts off Luke Skywalker’s hand, he imprisons Han Solo and hands him over to Boba Fett to be frozen in carbonite, he destroys entire planets with his Death Star battle station, and he murders the fuck out of Obi-Wan Kenobi. If you’re coming for Darth Vader’s head, you’d better paralyze his ass, because he’ll kill you the first chance he gets.

Your main villain doesn’t have to have political power over an entire galaxy. Maybe he can have power over another person. Maybe he can kidnap somebody and bend them to his will through mind-fucking torture and endless agony. Can his captive defeat him over and over again for the story to be believable? Hell no! But can his captive run away for a little while and get recaptured and brutalized over and over again? Sure! Even if the kidnapper gets an infected bite on his arm, that’s still a small enough defeat that he’s not completely gone just yet. Maybe he has no medical supplies for that wound. Maybe over the course of the story, he has to travel a long way to the nearest hospital for care. The longer he travels, the sicker he becomes. Even if he does make it to the hospital, he still risks getting captured himself, but by the police. So many layers to this story, yet the kidnapper in question is still a villain you love to hate and would love to see systematically destroyed.

Now…take those two scenarios I laid out and replace the head villains in charge with “The Fiend” Bray Wyatt. He’s the last motherfucker who deserves to wield a light saber. He shouldn’t be allowed near anybody whom he can easily stuff into his windowless van on its way to a room with no view. Long dreadlocks that look like Cthulu’s tentacles. A face with an enormous grin, rotten teeth, and ripped skin. A lantern with Bray Wyatt’s original head covering the light. Dialogue peppered with death threats and seductive promises of the darkest kind. Immunity to pain that his torture victims could only dream of having during their times of torment. If he’s written like a killer, he will succeed in these roles and become even more iconic than his predecessors. If he’s written like a chump like he’s been for most of his career, Siskel and Ebert will come back from the dead just so they can shit all over whatever story he’s a part of. And then they’ll be put back in their graves by The Fiend’s necromantic powers.

Even the most brain-dead authors understand the idea of the villains having a shit-load of power. Power can come from anywhere, but if a villain has a lot of it, then his defeat will be even more incredible, especially if the hero comes from modest means. But that of course is giving the WWE too much credit. They used to know how to build stars. Hulk Hogan, The Ultimate Warrior, Stone Cold Steve Austin, The Rock, and John Cena are all shining examples of their success in that department. But as Vince McMahon got older and slower, so did his storytelling. 

As the CEO of WWE, Vince gets the final say in whatever creative decisions make it to television. When his brain is rotting that badly and he has that much influence over the shows, people start to notice and people turn off their televisions. I turned off mine in 2018 and haven’t turned it back on for WWE since then. Thanks, guys, for completely murdering my love for pro-wrestling. And an extra special thanks goes to the geniuses who set Bray Wyatt up to fail. He had all the creative potential in the world. He could have been a badass villain everyone can be scared of. But not anymore. That makes me sad. I’m sure it makes him sad as well.

Authors, if you’re going to make your readers sad, do it the old-fashioned way by killing off their favorite characters or at least badly torturing them. Don’t do it by creating awful villains. And don’t do it by creating awful heroes and neutral characters either. If you’re going to create a character cast, do it right! Make them three-dimensional. Make them overflow with personality. Saddle them with crazy gimmicks. But most importantly, make their victories and losses believable, for fuck’s sake! 

(sigh)

…In case it wasn’t abundantly clear already, my heart hurts for Bray Wyatt and all of his incarnations (except for Husky Harris, but he was just learning how to do decent character work at the time, so I shouldn’t be too hard on him). Wrestling fans were angry as hell in 2020 when the Wrestling Observer Newsletter put out their yearly awards and Bray Wyatt was absolutely wrecked. If those same fans still believe in the magic of Bray Wyatt, then they’re certainly welcome to. I’m not going to shit all over their happiness in that regard. So maybe the negative attention has less to do with the wrestler himself and more to do with the way he’s portrayed on TV. Even Dave Meltzer, the head journalist in charge of the WON, called him a genius when it came to his character work. I bet it hurts him and the rest of his voters to do Bray dirty like that. But silencing criticism is the same thing as acknowledging the problem doesn’t exist. WWE fucked up Bray Wyatt like a bunch of idiots and now they’re surprised when he doesn’t connect with everyone who watches him. How sad. How relentlessly sad.

Don't Call Me That

Don’t call me a racist, don’t call me a sexist

Don’t laugh at my failures, don’t pray for my exit

Don’t call me a monster, don’t call me a perv

Don’t call me the ugliest motherfucker on earth

Don’t call me a weirdo, don’t call me a psycho

Don’t text your threats at me with a million typos

Don’t call me a piggy-pie, don’t call me fat

Don’t look at me like you’re disgusted at that

Don’t call me a sinner, don’t call me the devil

Don’t even suggest I’m on the lowest level

Don’t call me a rookie, don’t call me lazy

You’re nearsighted and your vision’s hazy

Don’t call me something you can never take back

What are you smoking? Weed, tobacco, or crack?

Who told you those lies? The leader of a cult?

Whatever it is, it’s getting really fucking old

Speak only for yourself and for nobody else

When you buy your own lies, the bullshit sells

I’m not going to heaven, I’m not going to hell

I’d rather stay at the dingiest no-tell motel

Rather die on the toilet of a McDonald’s bathroom

Than on the battlefield serving your holy platoon

Don’t call me your prisoner of your losing war

Don’t call me a ghost you should always ignore

"What Hides in the Darkness" by K.L. Cottrell

BOOK TITLE: What Hides in the Darkness

AUTHOR: K.L. Cottrell

YEAR: 2014

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Paranormal Fantasy

GRADE: Extra Credit

Everywhere Marienne goes, she sees hideous monsters disguised as real people. It started when she lost her parents in a car accident and her sister Claire blamed her for it. At first Marienne believes she’s going crazy until she sees two of these Hellions gang up on a handsome young man named Gabe. All pumped full of adrenaline, she joins the fray and helps him destroy both monsters. It is then revealed that Marienne is not alone when it comes to her ability to detect Hellions. Those with this ability are referred to as The Light Force. She undergoes athletic and combative training with other members of The Light as part of her newfound calling in wiping out these demonic beasts.

One of the many things I enjoyed about this book was how lovable these main characters are. It shows in the flirtatious and sometimes awkward way in which Marienne and Gabe talk to each other and slowly build up their budding romance. It also shows when Beatrix and Wes, a married Light Force couple, have each other’s backs through the hardest of times. Combine all four of these awesome characters together and you have a recipe for sweetness that rivals Betty Crocker cake mix. They stick together through thick and thin. They laugh and smile when they’re having fun together and cry endlessly for each other when danger strikes. With this kind of unbreakable friendship, the Hellions don’t stand a chance.

In addition to characters you will instantly fall in love with, others have the world’s most punchable faces. The character I despise most is Rafe, the predatory ex-boyfriend of Marienne who cheated on her with her best friend Audrey and wonders why things ended the way they did. Then you have the ultra-nutty sister Claire, who insults and slaps the stuffing out of Marienne whenever she gets the chance. And don’t get me started about Claire’s new boyfriend Shaun. Actually, I probably shouldn’t get started on him anyways since there’s a twist in the middle of the book about Shaun and I don’t want to give away spoilers. The most irritating part about these villains is that they’re realistic and actually believe in the hate they’re preaching. In wrestling lingo, these people are called “heels” and they’re doing a great job of angering the reader.

And now for the reason why I gave this book an ultra-rare extra credit grade (five stars). I mentioned before how sweet and likeable the heroic characters were. The physical training Marienne goes through reflects so much of those traits that it doesn’t feel like an overwhelming marine boot camp storyline. She’s self-motivated enough that she gets through her intense exercises and sparring sessions without one line ripped from R. Lee Ermey’s character in Full Metal Jacket. I believe we all have the ability to motivate ourselves through anything if we feel passionately enough about it. Knowing Marienne, Gabe, Wes, and Beatrix’s friendship is still intact after all of this heavy work is refreshing to me, especially after watching movies and TV shows where the drill instructor mentality rules over everything. The battles and traumas the heroes endure in this book are no joke, so they have to be there for each other and have emotional moments every now and then.

The fast pace, the likeable heroes, the despicable villains, the world building, and the loving nature of it all make What Hides in the Darkness an awesome book worth reading from beginning to end. The author even does a great job of making you want to complete the trilogy with her perfectly-timed cliffhanger ending. Give this woman your patronage and she’ll give you five-star entertainment!