Mr. Green from Clue vs. Toad from Super Mario Brothers 2: The Key to Victory Is...the Key to Victory!

Phanto vs. Nick Sandmann

 

He can't sue me, because I'm taking advantage of my free speech rights. Suck it up, churchie!

"Doctor" Mehmet Oz

 

Mario and Luigi

 

Luigi vs. Rufus Buckley from A Time to Kill

 

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?

It Drops the Key

Throwing turnips at Shy Guys and Ninjis left Princess Peach’s arms limper than spaghetti. Pulling vegetables out of the ground was never her forte and it showed with the aching pulses in her muscles and the kinks in her back. Why couldn’t she just jump on the enemies and flatten them like any other Mushroom Kingdom hero? Because this wasn’t the Mushroom Kingdom. This was Subcon. This was a world of grassy fields, stone temples, bees with lances, birds on flying rugs, and Shy Guys. Lots and lots of Shy Guys, whether the little red-robed, creepily-masked goblins appeared out of nowhere or filed one by one out of a magic jar.

Sweat glistened down from Princess Peach’s forehead, her long blond hair sticky and stale. Her royal pink dress had some dampness here and there, though it still served its purpose of allowing her to float through the air during a long jump. Her skinny bones flared up with pain after so much heavy lifting. Gardening was not her strong suit, nor should it have been. She hunched over and noticed the locked door in the side of a grass mountain. She had a vague idea of the next lifting job required of her, but didn’t want to entertain it too much lest there be even more sweat and aching. And anxiety. And chills. Lots and lots of chills. She gulped a wad of acidic saliva as she leapt down one of the tube-like vases.

Peach descended to the sandy surface at the bottom of the pit with grace and poise. The magical pink dress came in handy yet again, otherwise she’d be doing her heavy lifting with a broken ankle, soft sand aside. And in the middle of this pit was the ultimate test of strength, not only of her arms and chest, but of her intestinal fortitude. The massive golden key shined brightly enough to illuminate the dark pit. Plenty of rocks jutting out for Peach to make her escape. Dexterity wasn’t the issue. Evilly grinning golden masks were what caused Peach to tremble and sweat the most. They surrounded her in a half-circle, motionless, yet menacing. Their dark, curvy eyes gazed upon her with judgment and sadism, daring her to take the key.

She swallowed yet another lump of cold, salty saliva and inched her convulsing hand towards the golden key, yanking her hand away and flinching in anticipation. After some more futile attempts, she forced herself to grow a backbone and snatched the key from its resting place. On cue, one of the Phanto masks’ eyes glowed bright red and a deep-voice laugh echoed throughout the sand pit, causing some dirt to sprinkle below. The mask said, “It drops the key…IT DROPS THE KEY!”

Princess Peach shrieked in terror at the dehumanizing pronoun and leapt from stone to stone on her way out of the vase. She couldn’t believe her own speed. More importantly, she couldn’t believe her own strength. She had the balance of an athlete and the endurance of one as well. Sweat flew off of her face, but there would be a better time to wipe it away. She needed this key. She needed victory. And then…Phanto rammed his face into the back of her head and knocked her off one of the stones. The sand pit cushioned her rapid descent, but Peach held her skull and moaned in pain.

“It drops the key…IT DROPS THE KEY!”

As soon as Peach regained her vision, Phanto’s hideous face came into focus and she screamed in a high pitch death howl once again. She scurried into the corner of the pit with the golden key still in hand and curled into the fetal position, shaking, whining, whimpering, and doing her best to avert her ocean blue eyes from the monstrosity floating in front of her. She covered her face in her arms, but felt the warm air of Phanto breathing in her ear. The longer she held onto the key, the deeper the breaths became. Some of these breaths were accompanied by growling sounds. And then…Phanto spoke again…

“Rape vans…if they were called surprise vans, more women would get into them, because everybody loves a surprise…”

Peach screamed yet again and crab-walked towards another corner, the key still in her possession. Her heart thumped in her chest loudly, threatening to explode like a hand grenade. It slowed down just enough for her to ask a question. “Wait a minute…you…how can you…you know?”

“I can still use my mouth!”

Peach yelled.

“And my eye sockets!”

She yelled again and tried to escape by scratching and clawing the dirt walls. She got a few feet at best, but slid down on her royal pampered butt every single time. Giving up was her best option as she sat down and allowed tears to pour from her eyes.

Phanto floated over to her and started breathing in her ear again. That air. That warm, thick, horny air. “If it makes you feel any better…I would have chased you even if you didn’t have my key! Ooooooohhhhh, my!”

Peach sniffed in between ellipses. “You’re…you’re disgusting…you’re so gross!”

“I’m not the one who’s shagging a fat plumber in shit-covered overalls!”

As Phanto laughed at his own remark, Peach’s face boiled red with anger, her arms trembling for different reasons than physical labor and traumatic fear. With the ease of a bodybuilder, she chucked the key at Phanto in hopes of smacking him between his frightening eyes. The key passed right through him like the ghost he was and he laughed some more. “Was that supposed to hurt? You really shouldn’t have let that key go. It doesn’t vibrate…but it can still keep you company for when the fat man can’t save you…”

“Eww, yuck!” Peach dry-heaved on the sandy floor while Phanto continued to chuckle at her. Once all the bile was cleared from her throat and the snot drained from her nose, she scowled at her nemesis, folded her arms, and said, “You know what? I’d rather get killed than listen to another one of your bad jokes! Are you going to kill me off or are you just going to laugh at me like a moron?!”

“What do you think?”

“You know what?! Forget Subcon! Forget King Wart! I don’t need this key anymore! I wouldn’t go inside that grass mountain if there was a blizzard outside and my melons fell off from frostbite!” She marched over to the key and wielded it like a club.

Phanto snickered again. “Young lady, you already tried that and I’m still here. I’ll always be here. I’ll always be in your darkest dreams. I’ll always whisper in your ear and tell you how lovely you are. I’ll always give you kisses that don’t smell like fire flowers and mushrooms. I’ll always…”

“Screw this key!” Peach tried to break it across her knee, but to no avail. Instead she danced around holding her bruised knee in pain while Phanto laughed at her some more. She then threw the key on the ground and tried to break it with various rocks she picked up.

“Young lady, what are you doing? Stop!”

Peach didn’t listen. She pounded the key with stones larger than the last. The golden key flashed and flickered, but wouldn’t break. Instead of seeing the brilliant golden colors, Peach saw dark red. She smashed more rocks…and more…and more….Muscles bulged from her arms, her strength further encouraged by Phanto’s pleas for mercy. The key illuminated and deluminated over and over again…until it cracked and the brilliant light was no more. A deep-voiced death wail echoed across the sandpit and Phanto dropped to his doom, smiling no more, glaring no more, and shining brightly no more.

Princess Peach wiped the sweat off of her forehead with her white gloved arms and plopped backwards against the wall, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. Her heart slowed down. Her skin cooled off. Her sweat dried up and formed a sticky residue. “You know…” she whispered to nobody in particular. “Maybe there’s a way I can pick the lock. Or maybe I’ll just kick the door down. Or maybe I’ll throw some more vegetables at it.”

“Or maybe you can work out a deal with me!” Phanto glowed back to life and grew bigger in size, laughing louder, laughing longer, and laughing powerfully enough to create a cyclone around him, kicking up sand and dirt everywhere. Peach screamed once more as she held onto a jutting stone, her high heeled shoes flying off and into Phanto’s growing mouth, which now had a snake’s tongue and vampire fangs protruding from it. He grew larger…and larger…and his eyes burned with red neon. He opened his mouth in an attempt to chow down on his victim.

Phanto’s gigantic fangs clamped down over Peach’s hips, causing her to sit up in bed and gasp for air. Even after finding out this was all a nightmare, her heart wouldn’t stop thumping and her sweat made her feel like she was being water-boarded. Nonetheless, she plopped on her back and breathed a sigh of relief, provided she could catch her breath in the first place.

She turned her head and smiled at the man laying next to her: a chubby Italian plumber who would never hurt her, who always rescued her when she needed it, and who loved her unconditionally through thick and thin. She patted Mario on the shoulder and kissed the back of his head. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Mario rolled over to face Peach and said, “Goodnight, babe!” in a familiar deep voice. And then came the familiar glowing red eyes. And the familiar golden mask. And the familiar evil smile. Mario was wearing Phanto’s face like the Halloween costume it was and Peach’s heart finally couldn’t take it anymore. She rolled off the bed and went into cardiac arrest. As her vision faded to black, Phanto floated over her and said, “What was that you said about killing you instead of making jokes? Oh yeah…I remember…” He gave her a “goodnight” make-out kiss just as she passed into the abyss.

No Country For Old Farts

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

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

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

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

“Wily…Wily…WILY!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what would that be?”

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

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

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

Bubble Man

Just go for a swim in the waterfall

Dive off the hydroelectric dam wall

Undersea creatures waiting for you

Seductive sirens sing the sweetest tunes

Hammerhead sharks smell your blood

Now’s the time for underwear mud

Speedo lemonade for the jellyfish

Sting your ass for as long as they wish

Hold your breath like a YA hero

Watch your temperature drop to zero

Ain’t no lifeguards in my domain

Just a short existence and eternal pain

You came searching for the Bubble Man

Couldn’t come up with a better plan?

Dollar signs in your bloodshot eyes

Dreams of riches dissolved into lies

Bubble Man’s got a price on his head

Yet you’re the one who ends up dead

But not before he has some good fun

And even then, he’s still not done

Bubbles in your ass and in your lungs

Bubbles in your sack and in your eardrums

Pop them fuckers like birthday balloons

Scrape your guts off with a metal spoon

Mix your slime in a cauldron of chowder

Feed it to the minions with curry powder

Shit you out for the plankton and coral

They bring our climate back to normal

You weren’t the first to look for fortune

But you’re the latest post-birth abortion

Bubble Man may have a name so silly

But his weapons turn bitches to beef chili

Better luck next time, bounty hunter

Should’ve stayed in the arms of your mother

Everything Is Stolen

***EVERYTHING IS STOLEN***

Just to be clear, this journal entry isn’t about art theft, though it is a horrible thing to do to somebody and those who commit this crime should be punished to the fullest extent. I’m talking more about the interpretation of creative fuel. Inspiration always comes from somewhere whether it’s a book we read, a movie we watch, a videogame we play, or even personal experience. Because we draw inspiration from these and other sources while processing them into our own version of art, there really are no original ideas. In other words, everything is stolen whether we want to admit it or not. The only original thing about our art is our interpretation of the creative fuel.

A few days ago, I drew a picture of my latest dark fantasy warrior, Night Terror. He’s a demonic mask who makes an appearance as the main villain of my short story “Burning Dragon”. The ultimate design looks original enough, but if you take a careful look at the curved eyes and wicked grin, you’ll see exactly where I drew inspiration from. In case you didn’t play that game as a youngster, I’m talking about Phanto from Mario Brothers 2. Adding the doodads from the demon horns to the facial hair to the golden jewelry was my own interpretation of the creative fuel I was given. If I drew Phanto as is, then it would be character theft and that’s a serious offense. I took something from my childhood and made it into something I could call my own. That’s what art really is: an artifact of our thoughts. Hell, the word art is in the word artifact, and artifact is the root word of artificial. It’s not the real thing. It’s a representation of the real thing and has the same aesthetic pleasure as the real thing.

Deus Shadowheart is a character I’ve had since the beginning of my writing career in 2002. He’s a Gary-Stu barbarian with big bulging muscles, long black hair, thick metal armor, and a big fucking weapon of some kind in either hand. I’ve always said that Diablo II was my creative fuel for wanting a barbarian character. But what about the name Deus? That actually comes from the Ronin Warriors anime, which I watched religiously during my freshman year of high school. One of the main villains on that show was a toximancer named Dais (pronounced “DAY-us”). I liked him so much that I thought I should borrow his name for my beastly barbarian. The rest is history.

One last example and I’ll get out of your hair. My most recent short story was a psychological horror called “Madhouse”, where an artillerist mercenary named Joe Fields enters a dusty Japanese temple to track down his target. The metal armor and big ass guns were ripped directly from Starcraft, another computer game I played as a child alongside Diablo II. One of the character classes in Starcraft is a Terran marine, a basic long-range warrior with heavy metal armor and a gigantic gauss rifle. I’ve been accused of stealing from Starcraft before, but then again, as I’ve said at the beginning of this journal, everything is stolen from somewhere.

I even had a multi-genre writing teacher in college named Carlos Martinez who said that great writers steal from other sources. He wasn’t condoning outright plagiarism, but he was encouraging the class to draw inspiration from as many sources as possible. Come to think of it, Carlos was one of my favorite teachers in college. He was always encouraging to me even when I doubted myself. I could have written the worst possible story or poem in the history of mankind and Carlos still would have believed in me. Naturally, I take him seriously when he encourages me to draw inspiration from everywhere.

I’m willing to bet that one of you, my loyal readers, have stolen something before as well, maybe a clever line or a character archetype. As long as you give credit where it’s due and didn’t steal the whole thing, your ass should be covered like a blanket on a pig. See? I stole that blanket on a pig line from a Cricket Wireless commercial. Adios, amigos! Thanks for reading!

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

It’s a new week and it’s time for a new story, though as we’ve learned from this journal entry, there’s no such thing as a new story. The prompt is adrenaline and this story just happens to be called “Fire and Fury” (a title I stole from a Skillet song). It goes like this:

 CHARACTERS:

1. Ronis Wakizashi, Strict Sheriff
2. Julie Clay, Traumatized Sailor

PROMPT CONFORMITY: As someone with PTSD, Julie is constantly running on pure adrenaline.

SYNOPSIS: Sheriff Wakizashi is celebrating the closing of his latest criminal case by having breakfast at his favorite restaurant, the Buffalo Brunch. While he’s there, he notices Julie sitting alone at a table acting strange. A waitress accidentally spills coffee on Seaman Clay’s fingers and sets off a traumatic rage in which the sailor holds the entire restaurant hostage. Ronis’s first instinct is to blast her with his double barrel shotgun, but then he decides trying to calm her down and get her to safety is a much better idea. Ronis’s social skills were never top notch, so playing the role of negotiator brings up a bad taste in his mouth.

***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER 10***

Now that Daniel Mercer has finally figured out what his “toy” is for, he plans on holding a concert with Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez as bouncers. Everybody seems to be onboard with this plan except for Raven, who wants to hunt down Roger Zee before holding anymore events. Raven’s reasoning is that attracting that many people at one time will just give Roger more targets to slash to pieces. Daniel’s twisted logic dictates that Roger isn’t going to make himself easy to find, so why not draw him out? Who has the monopoly on common sense: Raven or Daniel? You be the judge.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Now that Night Terror (a.k.a. Phanto V 2.0) is in the books, the next warrior to be immortalized in a drawing will be Olivia Snow, the elven cryomancer from a story aptly called “The Cryomancer”. For this drawing, I was thinking something along the lines of Frost or Sub-Zero from the Mortal Kombat series. Well, there I go stealing again! I hope the picture looks good with my own interpretations.

***BOOK QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“It’s like thinking you’re having phone sex with Jessica Alba only to find out you’ve been beating it to Bea Arthur.”

-Chris Jericho, author of “A Lion’s Tale: Around the World in Spandex”-

Fighting Game Neighborhoods

***FIGHTING GAME NEIGHBORHOODS***

I’m sure most of my reading audience is old enough to remember videogames from the Nintendo and Super Nintendo gaming consoles. What I don’t know is if any of you have played beat ‘em up fighting games like Double Dragon or Final Fight. If you haven’t, then you probably won’t understand just what the hell I’m talking about. In which case, feel free to skip past this portion of my journal and go straight to the creative project updates and the quote of the day.

For those of you who did play those kinds of videogames as a child, congratulations, your childhood was fucking awesome. There’s no violence quite like senseless violence as you move your ass-kicking character from one side of the screen to the other. No talking, no nonsense, just straight up ass-beatings and maybe some kya noises. What this journal deals with in particular is how most of those games take place in poor, dilapidated neighborhoods.

You know the kinds of neighborhoods I’m talking about. The buildings are so broken down that they look like they’re about to collapse. Cars parked on the side of the road live up to their moniker of Fixed or Repaired Daily. The roads and sidewalks have so many potholes that it’s amazing your character doesn’t trip over them constantly. There’s trash everywhere, and I mean everywhere. In the second stage of the first Final Fight game, the subway train’s windows are bashed in and there’s graffiti all over the walls.

If you’ve ever lived in a small town or inner city district before, then you’ve probably made the connection between your own life and a fighting videogame. You would often pretend to be Billy Lee or Cody Travers as you punch and kick at invisible enemies. You couldn’t do that to real people walking by or else that would be considered assault and battery. There are places in Port Orchard and Chehalis, WA that look like they could be backdrops for a fighting game based on their depressing appearances alone. I haven’t met anybody in Port Orchard who was worthy of a Mike Haggar piledriver. Chehalis? Oh, that was quite the different story.

But why is this trope so relevant to fighting games? Why do they always take place in shitty neighborhoods? You never see fighting games that take place in friendly or rich neighborhoods. Even Belger’s penthouse from the first Final Fight game looked like shit. But what if there was an installment of Double Dragon that took place in a gated community? Would it have the same feel? Would it make less sense? Are people in rich neighborhoods suddenly better than people in poor ones?

And that’s how you can tell if class warfare exists. You won’t see Guy slinging a katana at some Wall Street motherfuckers. If Mike Hagger ever got elected president, you wouldn’t see him clotheslining Andore out of his boots at the white house. You won’t see Shadow Master drinking a glass of Chablis while eating caviar with Liberace playing in the background. The poor neighborhood trope in fighting games is stereotypical of how Americans see their economic inferiors. Then again, nobody played those games because of they were models for progressive values. They played them for the same reason I’d love to play them again someday: because kicking ass is a lot of goddamn fun!

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

Speaking of kicking ass and taking names, this week’s story will be called “Kink Floyd” and will conform to the Captive prompt. It goes like this:

 CHARACTERS:

Tarja Hunter, Cop

Daniel “Kink Floyd” Alexander, Bondage Enthusiast

Johnny Filter, Straightedge Gangster

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Tarja is the captive of Daniel and Johnny.

SYNOPSIS: In order to gain leverage over the Paulson City Police Department, Johnny kidnaps Tarja (their best detective) and takes her to Daniel’s studio. “Kink Floyd” as he’s nicknamed poses her in humiliating sexual bondage positions while Johnny takes pictures on his iPhone. Distributing these pictures could do serious damage to the Police Department’s reputation, which is why Johnny wants to use the photos to blackmail them into allowing him and his gang to do whatever they want. But even in kinky bondage, Tarja won’t give up without a fight to the death.

FUN FACT: If Tarja ever arrests her two captives, not only will they be charged with assaulting an officer and attempted conspiracy, but they’ll also be charged with murder. The victim? Pink Floyd’s music.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

If Stinger Crushwar’s head looks like it’s a little too far on his left shoulder, I apologize. That was a goof on my part and hopefully there will be fewer of them in the future. No sense in crying over spilled milk, though, because the next one to appear on the list is Mathias Jorgenson, the elf sorcerer from “Forever Autumn”. I already drew a picture of Autumn the parrot wizard, so Mathias was naturally next on the list. “Forever Autumn” was described by my audience as “cute” and “cartoon-like”, so hopefully I’ll capture those essences when I draw Mathias.

***POISON TONGUE TALES***

Only my Deviant Art members will understand why this section of the journal is significant since they’re the only ones who see my editing work. The next three stories that will undergo literary surgery are the three M’s of Poison Tongue Tales: “Mastodon”, “Minnie-Moo”, and “Molly-Dolly”. All three of these stories deal with animals and they all start with the letter M, which spells out MMM!! Tarja Hunter’s going to be saying that a lot when I eventually write “Kink Floyd” for the WSS contest. Hehe!

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call a mean Canadian?

A: Eh-Hole.

Sunny Demonseed

When I first heard that Shy Guys from Mario Brothers 2 were hideous monsters underneath their robes, I was skeptical. They’re so darn cute and cuddly! Maybe there’s a teddy bear underneath. Or a Golden Retriever. Or a Russian Blue Hair kitty. Maybe even a domestic rat lives underneath that robe. Those sweet images I’m projecting on Shy Guy are the basis for a fan fiction character who was anything but a villain. Despite his last name, Sunny Demonseed was the definition of a honey bear.

In fact, Sunny was so cute, cuddly, and lovable he never made the cut when King Bowser and King Wart needed ninjas for their squad of assassins to hunt down Mario. Sunny was supposed to teach his attack dog how to rip someone to shreds. Instead, he rolled the puppy-duppy over and rubbed his belly. Bowser and Wart grabbed Sunny by his short little arms and dragged him into a place where he would never know the taste of freedom (unless it was covered in icing). From that moment on, Sunny Demonseed was supposed to be a dessert chef for his masters.

And boy, did he make some tasty treats. He made cakes that touched the ceiling with their pink frosting. He made strudels that were smothered in strawberry sauce (made with real strawberries, by the way). He made donuts that turned Bowser’s arteries into the Alaska Pipeline and Wart’s colon into the Puget Sound. Life was good as a dessert chef. It was even better when Sunny was assigned two new work partners: a grumpy Phanto named Duo Edict and a barbaric Goomba named Cleon Downstroy. Neither of his new acquaintances were ecstatic about working in a dessert kitchen, but if anybody could calm them down and restore happiness to the workplace, it was Sunny.

With lighthearted characters like Sunny, it would be inappropriate to put them in a dark fantasy nightmare like…well…Fireball Nightmare. The Mario franchise in general is cute and cuddly, and Sunny and friends should be as well. I was planning on putting Sunny, Duo, and Cleon in a Mario fan fiction movie script called Mario Thugs. It was chock full of comedic goodness and moments of infinite “aww’s”. But then things spiraled out of control without a real plot to keep the chaos contained. Ultimately, Mario Thugs was an aborted story and Sunny was left without a home. The most exposure he ever got was through a poem I don’t consider to be up to par anymore with my Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage songs.

Sunny may have a childlike mind and a babyish body, but he’s not too young for employment, especially when it comes to my imagination. I know you all are going to point out my affinity for original fiction over fan fiction due to the former being profitable. The most I ever got in terms of profit was sixty cents. Besides, I’m not in the writing business because it’s lucrative (it’s not). I’m in it because I love the craft. I’m not a mercenary for hire. I have more money than I’ll ever need in my lifetime. If I want to write a fan fiction without worrying about being sued by Nintendo, then goddamn it, I’m going to do it! Someday, but not today. Fireball Nightmare needs further planning and I actually have to write the damn chapters.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I once worked at an orange juice factory, but I couldn’t concentrate, so I got canned.”

-Jerry “The King” Lawler-

"The Room of Ancillary Dreams" by Harold Budd

When you play “The Room of Ancillary Dreams” by Harold Budd on your MP3 player, stereo, computer, or whatever the case may be, one of two things will happen to you. If you’re in bed trying to relax, not only will you enter the dream world, but you’ll be a gatecrasher for your own subconscious. If you’re trying to write a piece of literature on your computer, you will be free of distractions while having your musical needs satisfied to the fullest extent. I use this ambient piece of music for both purposes.

All you need in order to reproduce it is a piano and a wah-wah pedal. It’s a slow-paced song, so it’s easy for anybody to play regardless of their skill level. If you’re a piano player and you need to put on a concert for your audience, choose this song. Your audience will be knocked out within the first few seconds and you can get out early to catch a show of your own. Hell, they might even need blankets and pillows just to get through the entire show. The song is that relaxing.

I dare you all to go to You Tube right now and look up “The Room of Ancillary Dreams” right now. If you’re going to do it, make sure there’s a buckwheat pillow resting on your computer desk. Don’t worry about snoring too loudly, because it’s just another part of the restful ambience. There’s a good chance you sound like a cat purring when you snore. If you sound like a helicopter, though, that’s not a problem either.

Why exactly am I going to great lengths to sell you this wonderful piece of music? Because as an avid listener, it’s my obligation to do so. Realistically though, this is a song I always keep on my MP3 player in case I go for a long road trip or airline flight. My mom is on the verge of retiring and when she does, the vacations will come more often.

Riding in the car or on an airplane isn’t the most fun experience you’re going to have. If you’re on a six-hour flight, your ass will get sore and you will get cranky. But if you have a neck pillow and a copy of “The Room of Ancillary Dreams”, your long journey will seem like it went by in only a few seconds.

It used to be that I always requested sleeping pills during long trips. I may not need them in the first place now that I’ve discovered this blissful combination. If you’re going to a writer’s retreat in Tuscany or a reader’s conference in the Bahamas, do you really want to be awake for the entire thing? Absolutely not. Even if there was a terrorist takeover of your flight, being asleep is the best way to survive.

Grab your pillow and get some Z’s, people, because with this song in your headphones, even the UFC can’t rack up that many knockouts.

　

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do Nintendo characters use to get high?

A: Donkey Bong.

Books Based On Videogames

It’s 2001/2002 and you’re a member of Playbyweb.com, a post-to-post RPG website. You try to establish an RPG based on a popular videogame only to be met with comments like, “Why don’t you just play the videogame?” Are you sick of those comments yet? Get used to them, because in 2009 when you officially solidify your status as a bookworm, you take an interest in books that were adapted from videogames. A few weeks ago, I went to Barnes & Noble and bought something that I look forward to reading someday: “Diablo III: The Order”. I’ve never played Diablo III, just the second one and the first one. Judging from how memorable Diablo II was, I figured that the third one in the series should be just as exciting and fast-paced. I expect the book will be just as action-packed as the videogames themselves. This will be the attitude I take with me whenever I go shopping for books at Barnes & Noble. There’s a whole sprawl of books and graphic novels based on videogames. I’ve seen ones based on Halo, Diablo (as I’ve said earlier), Sonic, and…those are the only ones my shitty memory will allow me to say. I’m sure there are others. Shit, just the other day, I was surfing Amazon and I purchased a copy of “Super Mario: How Nintendo Ruled America” by Jeff Ryan. It’s nonfiction of course since it’s in the style of a biography. I’ll look good on my shelf once it gets here. In the meantime, all this talk about books committed to videogames makes me want to see some novels based on other games as well. A Mario biography is nice, but how about a novel based in the Mario universe? Wouldn’t you like to see a story told through the creepily curled eyes of Phanto? I would, that’s for damn sure. Or how about a Final Fantasy IV novel told in a Calcobrena Puppet’s point of view? I’m sure that would sell. Hell, I’ll even settle for a Pac-Man book if it’s at all possible. I’m sure someone out there with a wild imagination could do it. Or if you’re into something a little more action-packed, let’s try some Street Fighter and Tekken books. There’s a whole universe of videogames out there that hasn’t been exploited yet. The only thing stopping authors like me from exploiting them is the anal-retentive copyright laws where corporations will literally sue over nothing. That’s part of the ongoing debate over fan fiction these days: internet postings and personal sharing is fine, but no official publication lest you be taken to court. If there are any authors out there who are more capable of getting a license to write videogame books than I am, I implore you, make these novels a reality. And no, I won’t just “play the videogame”, because I’ll get frustrated by the immense difficulty level. The last time I actually played a game was in 2010 when I kept getting my ass kicked by a lava dragon in Final Fantasy III for the Nintendo DS. It seems hypocritical that I would want videogame based novels after not having played one in three years. Maybe I’m just nostalgic since they were a huge part of my childhood. So how about it? Will we have that Donkey Kong novel or not? Anybody? Hello!

　

***CODY’S ARMY***

Whenever I’m not posting blog entries like the one I just did or writing chapters of Hardcore Hate 2: It‘s a Real War, I’ll be reading “Cody’s Army” by Jim Case. I’m 20 pages into it and it’s already an exciting thrill ride.

　

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Mickey Mouse is in Walt Disney’s office and Walt says, “I can’t just fire Minnie for being stupid.” Mickey says, “I didn’t say she was stupid. I said she was fucking Goofy.”