Stand Your Ground, Warrior...and Prepare for the CATACLYSM OF AGONY! (LOL)

 

C.C.H. Ground n' Pounder, Queen of Barbarians

 

Bulletproof Bikini

Marguerite Macintosh may have been wandering around Helgor City in little else than a metal bikini, leather boots, and a furry cloak, but this chilly weather should never have been confused for the “dog days of summer”. The only things keeping her warm were the burning pain radiating off of her fresh scars and her boiling blood over this wardrobe fiasco. Her bastard sword was sheathed on her hip; she kept a firm grip on the handle while her other hand carried a mysterious leather sack. She heard enough testicle jokes in her lifetime that they were to be expected when she carried around a package that big.

As she trudged down the sidewalk of this vast city with bustling marketplaces and massive architecture, Marguerite made sure to give stone cold glares at the various men who passed her with dirty thoughts racing through their melon heads. The smiles they gave her, the whistles, and the chuckles were enough to boil her blood even further. The women were equally worthy of her scorn; they twisted their faces in disgust, as though Marguerite was going to steal their husbands right in front of them.

Because the streets were so jam-packed with horn-dog men, racing children, and jealous women, she couldn’t help but bump into a few of them, though she wondered how much of that contact was on purpose. There were a few hands here and there and in an ideal world, those hands wouldn’t be attached to their owners’ arms anymore. The bastard sword was right there, yet she kept it sheathed the whole time.

“Just a few more blocks,” she muttered to herself. The frosty weather nipped at her flesh almost as harshly as the poor sucker she had been in combat with only an hour prior. Those razor talons and blade-like fangs were far from Marguerite’s idea of a fun time. But a payday was a payday and a meal was a meal. “That son of a bitch better not stiff me this time,” she said, referring to her mercenary boss Goldsmith Kingsville.

“You said stiff!” said a giggling teenaged boy as his father pulled him away, also in a chuckling mood.

Marguerite’s knuckles had turned as white as the frosty weather at the strength she was gripping her hilt. She could cause a city wide bloodbath that could only be written about in holy scriptures. She could leave heads rolling down the street like the beer barrels the men probably consumed by the gallon. She could leave intestines strewn across the cobblestones while the diarrhea they contained painted an accurate picture of all the bullshit this place was known for. She thought better off it and continued down the sidewalk. “The real battle…” She stopped herself before her words could be misinterpreted again by snot-nosed kids.

A few more bumps, gropes, and hee-haws later, she finally arrived at the steps of the Kingsville Combat Club. They would prove to be a long climb, not because of the distance, but because of the sharp pains in her leg scars with every step. She sucked it up and pulled herself up the stairs into the stone-carved barracks. It was somehow less painful than being leered at by horny men and scowled at by jealous women. And then she remembered that the cycle would begin all over again once she walked through the doors of her workplace, which she did.

Just as she had predicted, the sparring orcs, in metal armor much more protective than hers, took a break from their exercises to evilly-smile and snort at her. Some of them swirled their tongues around like they were about to eat a delicious roasted ham. Others wiggled their fingers in anticipation of a hard grip. One of them whistled like his voice was a jazz instrument, much to the hee-hawing delight of the other mercenaries. Again, Marguerite could turn this entire room into a farmhouse slaughter fit for oinking pigs. But she thought better of it and picked up her walking speed towards Goldsmith’s office. She slammed the door behind her and the sounds of sparring continued.

And there he was, his booted feet on the desk, his velvet purple suit on, a cigar smoldering in his mouth, and his eyes pasted to his magazine. His entire room was decorated with artwork of half-naked models and leopard print rugs. Marguerite had her angry eyes locked in not on those, but the pervert who hung the pictures there in the first place. He peeked out from his magazine and waved at her before blowing a drooling orcish kiss.

Marguerite marched up to Goldsmith’s desk and slammed the package on the wooden surface, almost creating a few splinters. She pulled the draw string on it and revealed the head of a rival orcish warrior, which made Goldsmith’s eyes light up like a shooting star. He grabbed the head by its hair and examined it further to make sure everything was on the up and up. “Fine job, Margueritie-Sweetie.” She cringed at that nickname. “Our client will be very happy with this!”

Marguerite then slammed her coin bag on the table with equally brutish force and opened it. She pointed inside and said, “Karma. Karma!”

“If you insist.” Commander Kingsville pulled a metal box from underneath his desk, unlocked it with a massive key, and scooped up handfuls of gold coins to put in the Marguerite’s bag. She closed it up, jiggled it next to her ear, and stuck it on her belt, ultimately satisfied with her payday. Goldsmith put the metal box away, but she was still there with her arms folded and a murderous look on her face. “What? You got your payday, now get lost.”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Commander.” Marguerite cleared her throat. “Are you okay?”

Goldsmith throatily laughed and slapped his desk a few times. “Are you kidding me, babe? Business is booming! I’ve never felt better in my life! Are you okay, my ass!” He laughed some more.

“That’s not what I meant, Commander. What I meant was…are you okay…as in…what the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Huh?”

“These other mercenaries, all of which are men, get to walk around protected head to toe in armor while I’m stuck out in the cold-ass weather in… whatever this is! You say business is booming, yet you can’t afford to get me some halfway decent armor?!”

Goldsmith placed a hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, which was instantly swatted away. “Listen, lady. Walking around in a metal bikini isn’t so bad. It’s lightweight, so you can move around easier. You have any idea how heavy those other suits of armor are?”

Private Macintosh grabbed her boss’s jacket and snapped, “Cut the bullshit! This skimpy armor isn’t going to protect me from anything! Look at all these scars! Look!”

Goldsmith pulled on his own collar to signify discomfort. “Trust me, I’m looking.”

“Exactly! You didn’t buy me this piece of crap armor because you wanted to protect me! You certainly didn’t want me to move faster, because let’s face it, fast-moving women make it impossible for you to do your little thing with them. This isn’t protection, Commander! This is fantasy!”

Goldsmith shoved her to the floor. “If you want real armor so badly, then use your payday to buy some! There’s enough in that coin bag to get you at least…”

She got up and got right back in her boss’s face. “You paid for their armor, now pay for mine! You just said yourself you have the money to do it, now quit stiffing me and…”

“Stiff this, you dumb bitch!” Goldsmith tried to slap her with the magazine, but she caught it just in the nick of time and started poring through it.

This wasn’t a literary publication at all. Not a single poem about flowers and shit. Not a single piece of prose about gallant battles. Not a single epic about conquering giants. Just pictures. Pictures of women wearing the same metal bikini as her. Just when Marguerite’s stomach couldn’t twist and wind any further, the final picture in the magazine…was of her. A realistic drawing of her wearing that same bikini, posing seductively at the reader, and blowing a kiss.

Marguerite’s breathing hastened. Her heart thumped in her chest while an icy river of anxiety cooled her burning scars. She dropped to her knees and vomited on the magazine, completely undoing her entire nutrition for the day.

“Oh, don’t act so disgusted! That’s the best art you’ll ever see in your lifetime! He’s great at what he does!”

Marguerite wiped the vomit from her lips and slowly rose to her feet, her trembling hand gripping her hilt even tighter than before, to where her palms were beet red. She angrily whispered, “Did you just say…HE’S great at what he does? He? As in…the male gaze?!” She finally pulled out her bastard sword and sliced Goldsmith’s desk in half, causing the boss to jolt backwards in fear. Sure enough, he had other magazines of half-naked girls stashed in there as well as his cash box.

Goldsmith pulled his collar in discomfort again. “I can explain!”

Not giving him a chance to do so, Marguerite threw a thunderous slash his way and sliced his massive head off, the last of his fucked up mind oozing on the carpeted floor. She dropped to her knees again, shaking in a combination of anger, disgust, and fear. Commander Kingsville had been masturbating to her this whole time. He had thoughts about her. He wanted to be with her. That metal bikini wasn’t practical in any way. It was all a perverted fantasy. Marguerite threw up yet again, this time loudly enough to draw the ire of someone knocking on the door.

“Hey! What’s going on in there! You alright, boss?!”

Thinking quickly, Marguerite took her bastard sword and wedged it between the double door handles. She didn’t know how long the lock would last considering how hard the orc was knocking. The sword even bent a few times like it was made of rubber. Marguerite took the cash box, grabbed Goldsmith’s head, and chucked it through his stained glass window, giving her an easy escape and the orcs enough reason to slam even harder against the doors.

Once the doors broke down, Marguerite, with cash box in hand, ran like the wind. Her leg scars flared up to where she was begging for an amputation. But she kept running through the back alleys. She kept hearing the sounds of orcs grunting behind her. Those throaty screams and curses, as much as they pounded against her eardrum, they softened the further she ran. And then she took a sharp turn into another alleyway and her legs finally gave out on her. Blood running from the wounds made her dizzy. The burning sensation caused her eyes to well up in pain. She was certain the orcs were going to chop her up and have her for lunch…or have her for lunch regardless, which made her gag even more.

But then the orcish voices were gone. She couldn’t hear them anymore. If she was dead from her wounds, then heaven looked an awful lot like Helgor City. It wasn’t heaven at all. Maybe it was hell. Maybe it was some unseen god punishing her for murder and theft. Speaking of theft, the cash box was still right there by her side. She patted it and breathed a sigh of relief once she knew it was safe.

“You know…maybe I will buy my own armor…and a vacation…I wouldn’t mind a vacation right now…”

Finding Treasure

 Every last page of the treasure map has led you to this. Gold, glorious gold, beautiful gold, showers of gold…wait a minute…Anyways, now that you’ve found these mountains of lovely gold coins underneath the waterfall, you send your pirate crew to haul it onboard your vessel. As you sail away with the precious treasure, you fantasize about what you’ll spend your newfound fortune on. A much-needed vacation? An elaborate mansion? Women? Lots and lots of women? Men? Non-binaries?

Your mind races at a million miles an hour at the possibilities. And then...your train of thought has been derailed when your ship snaps in two like a twig. You and your crew are left floating around the seven seas like turds in a punchbowl. Yes, you’ve got your treasure after all of this hard work…but even your mighty vessel wasn’t strong enough to store it all. You overloaded your fucking ship and sank the damn thing. Way to go, champ! You truly are a million dollar baby and the seven seas have gotten even choppier with the addition of your salty tears.

Everybody wants to find treasure. Everybody wants to live beyond their means. Everybody fantasizes about the high life. But in the midst of their fantasies, they forget the logistics of undertaking such a quest. It’s like the episode of South Park with the underpants gnomes. Phase one, steal underwear. Phase two...Phase three, profit. The gnomes don’t know what phase two is and neither do the pirate captains looking for treasure.

That scenario I painted for you in the above paragraphs was actually the ending scene for Captain William Kidd from the 90’s fighting game World Heroes 2. He got so greedy for his beautiful gold that he took too much of it and it sank his ship. Captain Kidd is a lot of things in that game. He’s a great fighter, no doubt. He’s got friendly dialogue. Now we can add one more quality to his resume: dumbassery. Is that a word? It probably could be if English snobs are willing to let words like “avast, ye matey” float by without examination.

So…when constructing your story about treasure hunting, you first have to ask what it is your sea captain is looking for. It doesn’t always have to be ultra-heavy gold coins. It doesn’t even have to be multiple items. It could be a magical gem. It could be a weapon. It could be a key to the gates of heaven. It could be a book. If you think Potterheads camping outside of Barnes & Noble takes dedication, you’ve never met a sea captain who searches far and wide for a book of secrets beneath the Atlantic Ocean.

Anything can be a valuable treasure if you put enough stock into it. Even another human being can be considered a valuable treasure. Maybe the sea captain is looking for a sexy siren who when discovered will become his wife for all eternity. Sounds great in theory, but it’s not exactly healthy relationship material if one party has too much power over the other.

Okay, so you know what you want your sea captain to look for. How do they get it? Do they have access to a treasure map? If so, how difficult was it to find? Did they have to wrestle it out of the hands of an orcish army? An ogre bruiser? A sneaky goblin? What about the map itself? Is it just one sheet of paper or is it a fucking novel the size of Webster’s Dictionary? Is the map even in plain English or does the captain need a translator to accompany him on his treasure hunt? Does the translator know how to fight or will they be swallowed whole by a bloodthirsty kraken? If you really wanted to be a dick to your main character, you could have the map come in the form of a thick novel with missing pages scattered all over the world, each of them in a different foreign language. How many times can your sea captain’s patience be tested before they say, “Fuck it, I’ll live on the streets?”

As if finding the missing pages to a treasure map wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass, getting from point A to point B is full of obstacles that grind the captain’s patience down to nothing. I’ve already mentioned bloodthirsty krakens who’ll eat entire armies alive with just one bite, but not before they’re wrapped in the pirate ship’s mast and eaten like Hot Pockets. What about other pirates, though? Surely, you’re not so arrogant to believe you’re the only one who wants the treasure, right? That’s why psychology experts warn You Tube consumers not to fall in love with content creators: because there’s an army of watchers who feel the same way and the chances of you being chosen are pretty fucking slim. 

So who are these other pirates going after your forbidden treasure? Skeletons? Orcs? Zombies? Dragon people? Or maybe they’re just ordinary humans. You can breathe a sigh of relief if the latter is the case, right? Not if they’re armed with AK-47’s and all you’ve got is a measly cutlass. I guarantee you Captain William Kidd wouldn’t stand a chance against Somali pirates. He can only throw the Shark Knuckle and Shark Upper so many times before he’s pumped full of lead. Those fighters in World Heroes 2 never really accounted for firearms, did they?

If the other pirates don’t kick the shit out of you, I guarantee that the oceans and general shitty weather will. Have you ridden on a boat with choppy waves before? I have. I was vacationing in Mexico in 2017 and part of my vacation was riding on a banana boat. Because the waves were rough and heavy, I fell off the damn boat and screamed for help until the lifeguards rescued me. The only reason why I didn’t scream earlier was because my head was underwater and bubbles don’t exactly translate well to above-surface lifeguards. 

If you’re sailing the seven seas, chances are good that you’ll be bounced up and down by the rolling waves. Your crew will be jostled around so many times that some of them may even fall off the ship never to be seen again. And that’s just the ocean. What about the rain? And the lightning? Suppose the only translator you have for your overly-complex map gets struck by lightning and dies? Then he gets tossed overboard by the nasty-ass waves? You talk about being lost at sea? Bitch, you’ll be lucky if you’re ever found again. The Coast Guard ain’t going to save your ass, because if they were capable of doing so, they would have found the treasure long before you ever did.

You know those motivational quotes that tell you to take risks without thinking too much about the consequences of failure? They seem inspirational at first, but overall, it’s shitty advice, especially if you’re a sea captain. You have to think about the risk-reward factor all the time. Is it worth the danger of being swallowed whole by the sea? Is it worth being gutted alive by a skeleton crew’s cutlasses? Is it worth the sleepless nights? Is it worth being so tired that you’re constantly on the edge of having a stroke, heart attack, aneurism, or all three at the same time?

What will you do once you’ve found this sacred treasure? Will you save it for a rainy day (one that preferably doesn’t take place during your travels)? Will you spend it all at once on hookers and beer and be right back to where you started in a week’s time? Will you use the mountains of gold coins to pay your bills? Does your landlord or debt collector even accept gold coins as currency? Suppose your landlord says, “Sorry, we don’t accept Canadian money.” Your ass is out on the streets in a big fucking hurry. But at least you found your treasure! Right?

Even if you as an author don’t plan on writing a treasure hunting story of any kind, this can still be a valuable lesson in thinking things through before you rush into a project. If you improvise everything, you’ll have a shitty first draft and a lot of work ahead of you. If you plan everything in advance down to the finest detail, you’ll still have a shitty first draft, but you won’t have nearly as much work to do. I wish I heeded this advice when I started pumping out first drafts left and right. 

One of the biggest criticisms I’ve ever received (aside from having too many saggy jowled dogs and fat male villains) was that I don’t take authority and culture into account when creating my worlds. I’ve often been asked, “Where are the cops?” My logical answer would have been that I want the MC to get the credit for the victory, not the cops. If the cops can solve everything, why have a story at all? Fair point, but the cops and authority figures still matter in every story. Or maybe the country is 100% anarchy and everybody solves their own damn problems. No matter what the case, it’s good to establish these things so that they’re clear to the reader.

But just because a fine eye for detail is required for any writing project, doesn’t mean you have to explain every…little…thing to the reader. There are some obvious parts of your world that you can trust your readers to form pictures of by themselves. Your book shouldn’t be overly long explanations sandwiching the crucial action and drama of your story. That shit just gets boring after a short while. I’ve DNFed books that took too long explaining everything, case in point, the first Game of Thrones book. The author wouldn’t shut his yap about the details of the characters’ clothes and histories, so the action suffered because of it. I would argue that Empress Theresa is the worst offender when it comes to over-explaining things. Then again, Empress Theresa is the worst offender no matter what category you’re talking about.

Finding a nice balance between over-explaining and not thinking at all about the extra details is paramount to a readable book, whether you’re writing about treasure hunting or not. Treasure hunting is just one genre that deserves this middle ground. It could also be true of contemporary dramas where the world-building details are the same as what we experience in real life. So maybe when Captain William Kidd washes up on the shore, he can build another pirate ship and only take half the gold this time around. And then he’d have to find a way to convert that gold into modern day money. If he really was the devious pirate he claimed to be, he could start his own pyramid scheme with that amount of gold. And then when he finally gets taken to court, he can bypass prison altogether and wind up in the safety of a nut house, because no modern day human being talks or dresses the way he does unless it’s Halloween. See? Details matter!

Magic

The thunderstorms of electromancy
Elven royalty dressed in robes so fancy
Pixies and gnomes dancing together
Underneath purple sunset weather
Ogres mourn the loss of beauty
Old witches still call them cuties
Orcish children play among dwarves
A fantasy world removed from war

But in today’s world of disgust
Wizards are met with distrust
The dragons don’t fly anymore
Gatekeepers make life a bore
It’s all about STEM and business
Calling the disenfranchised “idiots”
For daring to believe in a better place
Rebelling against the corporate rat race

The magic is gone, but will it ever return?
Or will the beautiful pages continue to burn?
It’s up to us to slay these hellfire beasts
To bring back childhood memories so sweet
Don’t let the overlords tell you to grow up
Be there for your army when they show up
Fight with swords, staves, and magic wands
Your barbaric war cry is your epic song

The magic didn’t die; it took a vacation
Now it’s alive in a world of devastation
Throwing fireballs and summoning gods
Electrifying the sky with a serpentine rod
Raising an army of skeletons and zombies
Shapeshifting into grizzlies, animal mommies
Our legacies will live on forever and a day
Let’s dance in celebrate in the gnomish way

Drunk as a Skunk

This would have been a perfect time for Sheriff Walt Magnus to begin again…if it wasn’t for the smell of alcohol radiating off of his body like nuclear energy. The burps exploding from his fanged mouth also included splashes of green spittle, a color that already looked horrifying on his scaly orcish flesh. The crotch of his blue jeans resembled a swimming pool, provided his bits and pieces were swimming in sewage. His red flannel shirt was glazed over with sweat, so much so that he had to air out his leather vest just to beat the desert heat. His snakeskin boots danced around on the sandy ground as he shimmied drunkenly from side to side. No doubt the Silver Star on his cowboy hat looked less and less believable with every near trip.

Passersby gazed upon their once beloved Sheriff with crinkle-faced disgust. Elven traders backed away as quickly as they could, probably hoping Walt’s drunken sweat didn’t get on their produce. Human families shielded their children, covering their ears with every passing burp. Even the shirtless, flabby-bellied, shit-breathed ogres held their nose in disgust as they waddled away from Walt. Despite his mind echoing with drunken harmonies, he could make out the various curses that his citizens said under their breath. Walt’s heart would have sunken if his emotions weren’t already numb. Instead, a vomit spill on the wooden steps of the Red Dragon Saloon would have to suffice. Now the citizens got the hell out of there in a big fucking hurry.

“I got this…I fucking got this shit…I can do this…just one measly arrest is all it takes…eh, who am I kidding?” With nobody around to listen to his monologue, Walt collapsed through the swinging doors of the saloon and face-planted on the floor, almost shattering his wide nose and a few fangs in the process. Almost. Drunken stupor be damned, he could still hear the squeaks of a rag cleaning off glass mugs. “Thank god you’re here, Murphy. You ain’t going to believe this, but…I need another drink…”

Walt grabbed the edge of a nearby piano and yanked himself to his feet, but not without dancing around some more. It suddenly dawned on him why the saloon was so quiet. Human corpses decorated the establishment, some bent over chairs, some sprawled out across the tables and the bar, all of them with blood pouring from their wounds like the tap itself. Walt could also smell elven blood, which was a daisy garden compared to the ogres lying about. Once his vision cleared up, he saw no sign of Murphy the Bartender behind the counter.

The one wiping the glass mugs (and shattering a few of them with her thick fingers) was a rotund anthropomorphic rhino dressed in a green leather apron. She gazed into Walt’s watery eyes and pointed her blood-soaked horn at him. “I ain’t Murphy, asshole. He couldn’t make it to work today. He’s taking a permanent vacation in the bowels of hell with the rest of these fat-shaming losers. It’s like they ain’t never seen a big woman before. Even these god-forsaken ogres couldn’t keep their flabby gums shut.”

“Yeah, I know how that is…” Walt burped before staggering and dragging his feet towards the bar, almost falling off of his stool as he parked his ass down. He could have sworn the deer heads on the wall were glaring judgmentally at him as well. Even the corpses looked like they wanted to drag Walt to hell with them, provided the rhino woman was right about their ultimate fates. “Can I at least have a beer?”

The rhino woman laid her palms across the bar after tossing the glass mug aside. “You sure about that, honey? Do you really need another bottle right now? Shouldn’t you be out cuffing people or some shit?”

Walt dropped his forehead onto the bar. “Yeah, like anyone gives a shit anymore. It’s always do this, do that, all without an ounce of thanks. You have any idea how many punks I’ve put in the pokey?” He lifted his head and tried to use his bladed fingers to count, but immediately lost track and chuckled. “I’m all burned out and nobody gives a rat’s ass. They whine and complain to me all day and now they’re fucking surprised that I’m piss drunk.”

“I certainly hope you’re not trying to pull a fast one on me, Sheriff. I might have to gore your ass too if you pull that negotiator 101 shit right now. Yeah, you’re one ugly motherfucker alright, but you’ve got that little narrow ass that the voters like. Me? I couldn’t sell a glass of water to a guy dying of thirst. They see my big ass and my big nose and automatically want to deduct a hundred IQ points. Ain’t nobody voting for me anytime soon.”

Walt burped again, spilling bile down his already messed up shirt and vest.

“Ain’t nobody voting for you either if you keep that shit up. Seriously, go take a bath or something. There are horse stalls across the street that smell better than you.”

Walt almost leaned back too far for his comfort. “You know what? You’re right. Maybe I don’t need a beer today. But…there’s no way in hell I’m going out there in that heat…not like this. You won’t mind if a sleep here for a few hours, would ya, miss?” He took the rhino’s hand and kissed it in a vain attempt to sweeten the deal.

She smiled. “I don’t see why not. Everyone else around here is taking a nap, I guess you could too. Maybe I’ll play something on the piano, like a lullaby or some shit. Or I could just stick my horn right through your fucking chest, either one would be fine.”

Walt lurched forward and a vial of amber liquid fell out of his sleeve. His eyes widened as his façade was exposed to the now growling rhino. She picked it up and shattered it between her fingers, confirming that it was indeed alcoholic perfume.

The Sheriff chuckled hoarsely. “Dina Octavia Lord…you’ve got this entire town scared shitless of you...Nobody’s got balls big enough to confront your big ass…But I will. Come with me, babe. You’re under arrest for mass murder!”

Dina roared a windstorm in Walt’s face, assaulting his nostrils with bad dentistry and knocking him on his back. “Oh, shit!” he said as he put his blown off hat back on and scrambled to his feet, bolting out of the saloon.

The thunderous sound of massive rhino legs charging behind him caused Walt to hold onto his hat and pick up speed. Everybody else scattered like cockroaches, screaming and crying while their arms flailed in the air. As Dina’s feet clomped and shook the ground, Walt’s heart thudded even louder and his mind cluster-fucked itself worse than if he actually was drunk. The footsteps pounded his eardrums like they were actual percussion instruments. “Just a few more steps…a few more!”

Once he could feel the tip of Dina’s horn piercing his ass crack, Walt dove through one of the horse stalls and covered up in the hay. The wooden walls exploded like dynamite once Dina crashed through them. Walt was certain he was going to be flattened like a pancake and crushed like peanut brittle. But then…horse whines belted through the stables and were accompanied by hooves smashing and kicking out of intense fear. Dina bellowed out of both anger and pain, her face and ribs covered in horseshoe marks, broken bones, and blood.

Walt covered up and cowered some more as the horses stormed out of their stalls, leaving a trail of shit and piss behind them, not to mention Dina’s thick blood. Speaking of Dina, she lied on the ground clutching her broken body and coughing up blood. Her horn even broke off to where it was a jagged mess rather than a clean blade.

Sheriff Magnus slowly stood up and pulled out his six shooter, aiming it at the wounded and battered Dina, who just suffered through a kung fu assault from a house full of frightened horses. “You see that, Miss Lord? That’s what happens when you try to use fear to control your enemies. When the people get scared, they do scary shit. In the case of the horses…well, we knew how that story ended. I know you don’t like being called fat and ugly. To be honest, nobody does. But if the whole town followed your example and went on a mass murdering spree…I might have an actual reason to be drunk as a skunk instead of doing my duty.”

Kneeling down beside Dina, he said, “Now listen, lady: I ain’t got cuffs big enough for them wrists of yours. No, that ain’t a fat joke, that’s god’s honest truth. I guess I’ll just have to hold your ass at gunpoint as I take you to jail.” He stood back up and motioned for her to stand up with his gun barrel.

Spitting out chunky blood and broken teeth, Dina said, “There’s no way in hell I’m going to jail before these jokers and clowns do. I don’t see you arresting the dickheads who signed their own death warrant a long fucking time ago. They didn’t have to kiss my ass. They just had to keep their damn mouths shut. Is it too much to ask? I SAID IS IT TOO MUCH TO FUCKING ASK?!” Despite aggravating her rib injuries, Dina found a way to reach Walt’s ankle. She got what she probably hoped for this whole time: suicide by cop. Walt shot her in the chest multiple times, putting an end to her reign of terror for good.

Despite having an obvious victory under his belt, Walt frowned at his handiwork. His body shook in anger as onlookers clapped for him. He couldn’t help but think there was a little bit of truth to what Dina said during her final moments. Walt spun around and confronted his admirers. “What are you fuckers cheering at?! This is your damn fault!” The clapping died down and faces sagged in somber reflection. “Hell, none of you would give me the time of day when you thought I was drunk. You were ready to vote for the other guy once you had enough of my jolly green ass. Shallow bastards!”

Walt ripped the Silver Star out of his cowboy hat and tossed it aside before marching away, his middle finger waving proudly in the air like a patriotic banner. These people were freaks too, but maybe Dina was a little too freaky even for them. Then again, so was Walt Magnus, which was why he stamped away from these ingrates in the first place.

Rusty

VERSE 1

It’s been too long since my last dance

Never gave my tired soul a single chance

To rest and unwind in the easy chair

While complaining that this isn’t fair

Fifteen hundred words sung like birds

The most drunken shit you’ve ever heard

Colored pencils on a blank white canvas

Muscled orcs swinging big fucking axes

CHORUS

Not a problem, it’s just a little rust

Blow the pages into a cloud of dust

Clear the cobwebs from my head

Thank the universe that I’m not dead

VERSE 2

Three days coming, three more going

Ran out of gas, showing signs of slowing

Can’t concentrate worth a good goddamn

Can’t be your Adderall addicted superman

A candle that burned at more than two ends

A streak of sadness growing hard to defend

The lowest of lows and the lowest of blows

Is when everyone cares, but nobody knows

CHORUS

Not a problem, it’s just a little rust

Blow the pages into a cloud of dust

Clear the cobwebs from my head

Thank the universe that I’m not dead

BRIDGE

How much more can I do today?

How many obstacles are in my way?

How many hours must I spend in bed?

To not feel like I’m the walking dead?

VERSE 3

Complaining about it doesn’t feel right

When others have a much bloodier fight

Keep my chin up and ball up my hands

I don’t expect the world to understand

I don’t expect the world to forgive me

For this rusty life that I’m truly living

I don’t expect the world to bow down

I’m tapping out in the final round

CHORUS

Not a problem, it’s just a little rust

Blow the pages into a cloud of dust

Clear the cobwebs from my head

Thank the universe that I’m not dead

Cuddle Therapy

“I’m too ugly for this shit,” grumbled Fergal McQueen as he glared at himself in the bathroom mirror, his hands flat against the sink with his fingers tapping impatiently. His scaly green orcish skin, his thinning black mullet, his brown fangs, his ill-fitting Sepultura T-shirt and blue jeans, they came together to give him more than enough reason to want to punch the mirror. The shattered glass in his knuckles wouldn’t be worth it, so he refrained.

Fergal gazed around the bathroom with sandy yellow eyes and became jealous of the decorations he believed were more beautiful than him. The black marble sink, the red glass butterflies hanging over the mirror, the green paper lanterns with runic symbols on them, they made him shake his head and then face-palm for a while. He sighed through his pierced nostrils and said, “Here goes jack shit.”

He stormed out of the bathroom and stood at the lobby desk with his beefy arms folded, waiting impatiently for the owner of this establishment to show herself. A few long minutes later, she finally did. Flapping her butterfly wings and flipping her silken brown hair, she descended into her seat gracefully, but nearly shot up like a fountain at the sight of her latest customer.

“Um…uh…” said the owner with wide eyes and quivering lips. She fidgeted with her white halter top and black yoga pants to stall for extra time. “Um…welcome to Galatea’s Cuddle Sanctuary. I’m Galatea Lyon. How can I, um…help you?”

Being as socially awkward as he was, Fergal slammed a bag of money on the counter and had Galatea huddling on the floor. Once she slowly lifted her head, Fergal said, “I didn’t come here to be ridiculed. I came here to cuddle. Do you have an opening or not?”

With shaking legs, Galatea returned to her upright position and stumbled through her words some more. “Um…sure, I have an opening right now if you’re ready. Uh…follow me, if you will…” Her flapping and flying became more disoriented as she guided her customer down the hallway. “So, uh…what do you do for a living, Mister…?”

“McQueen. Fergal McQueen,” he grunted. “I’m a soldier in the Dragon Rider’s Army.”

“Oh, uh…that’s…cool…”

“What do YOU do for a living: pretend to speak perfect English?”

Galatea giggled nervously, still struggling to keep it together. “You’re funny, Mr. McQueen. Uh…yeah…here we are.” She pulled back the bamboo curtain and revealed a room with a red velvet bed and white crystalline walls, which meant more decorations for Fergal to be jealous of for their comparative beauty. “Have a seat on the bed, if you don’t mind.”

He did just that, not at the plush pillows, but at the foot, keeping a comfortable distance from a woman who clearly was anything but comfortable. She said, “Um…so since you’re obviously new here, I’ll explain to you how this works. This is a cuddle therapy session. This is a non-sexual service, so everything we do here is strictly G-rated. If you’re uncomfortable with what I’m doing to you, say so and we’ll try something else. Any questions before we begin?”

“Yeah, I have a question…so you’re all about unconditional love and being accepting of everyone just like your ad says, yet you can’t even put together a sentence around me. How does it feel to be a hypocrite, Miss Lyon?”

“What? No, no, no, it’s not like that at all.” She scooted across the bed and reluctantly placed her hand on her client’s shoulders, squeezing them as gently as she could without getting her hands too dirty. “To be honest, this is all new for me. You know, the, uh…uh…”

“Look, if you don’t want to get your perfectly manicured nails dirty from touching my disgusting orc body, then say so and I’ll go somewhere else. You didn’t even have to complete your sentence. I’d know that look anywhere. You’re a racist.”

“Mr. McQueen, it’s not like that at all.”

“Of course it is!” he snapped, causing his cuddle therapist to scoot back in fear. “Everywhere I go, people look at me like I’m a six-foot tall horse turd walking by. They back away like I’ve got the plague. They think just because I’m ugly as fuck that it’s okay to walk faster down the street to avoid me. I seriously thought this place would be different. But no, not you. You’re about unconditional love as long as your clients are a bunch of sexy princes with more abs than hairs on my ball sack.”

Galatea gulped. “Um…Fergal, please listen to me. This has nothing to do with you looking a certain way. It’s just that…um…how do I say this without sounding insensitive? Um….you…don’t look like you’ve washed today.” Her voice became squeakier as she finished her sentence and shrugged her shoulders.

Fergal took a whiff of his arm pits and said, “That’s not BO. That’s just me looking like a giant green turd.”

“Please, stop saying those things…”

“Look at you!” he shouted as he stood up. He pointed an accusatory finger at the trembling Galatea and yelled at her some more. “You can’t even look me in the eyes! You can’t even stand up straight when you’re around me! Sure, I don’t have the best social skills in the world and I don’t look like a fucking supermodel, but I still need this service, damn it!”

Unwrapping her hands from her head, Galatea shakily stared into her client’s yellow eyes and tried her damnedest to keep it together. “You…you need this service? Why?”

“Because I can’t get it anywhere else, that’s why!” snapped Fergal while throwing back the red blanket. “Nobody wants to be around me! Hell, I don’t want to be around me half of the time! And don’t give me crap about how it’s because I’m yelling all the time! If a sexy supermodel was yelling at you, you’d think it was some kind of BDSM fantasy or some shit!

Who else am I supposed to cuddle with? A wife I never had? My fellow soldiers? Yeah, good luck with that! I’m not so sure even a human or a pixie like you would ever want to snuggle up to a bunch of rowdy ass soldiers who make fun of everything and call everyone fags! So what am I supposed to do, Galatea, if that is your real fucking name and you didn’t just steal it from a poetry book?!”

Fergal’s heavy breath filled the air and intensified the silence between himself and the shivering pixie before him. The more he stared down at her, the angrier he became as visions of racist bullies and loudmouthed politicians swarmed his mind like a war flashback. Rocks thrown at him, laughing, pointing, running away, and every racial slur in the book pelted his brain.

To him Galatea was no different despite her pretty disguise. If anything her prettiness made her casual racism even worse because she clearly hid something from him while others were at least honest about it. But maybe the thing she was hiding wasn’t an agenda after all…

“I think we can come to a compromise, Mr. McQueen,” she said with her hands raised defensively. “If you promise to calm down and take deep breaths…we will continue our cuddle therapy session…in a bathtub. Of course, you’d have to change into a pair of swim trunks, but…it’d be the answer to both of our problems. Clients are encouraged to show up to these sessions clean and spotless, because…well…it’s my job to hold you and touch you and…”

Fergal held up his hand and cut her off, taking even more intense breaths, but not out of anger. He was actually trying to calm himself down long enough to listen to reason. He wanted to give this a shot. It was his only chance at getting the affectionate touches he needed. “Okay…I give up. Let’s do this.”

“Great!” said Galatea with a little more pep in her voice. “There’s a pair of swimming shorts in the drawer over there. I’ll leave the room for a while and give you some privacy while you change. Okay?” She smiled with a lingering hint of nervousness and tiptoed her way out of the room.

Once she closed the door behind her, Fergal went to work in stripping down and changing into a pair of red shorts. They were a little tight around his waist, so he walked like a penguin in an attempt not to rip them. From there he followed Galatea down the hall and into the bath spa.

Sure enough, there was a black marble bathtub in the center of a white crystalline room. Red paper lanterns gave the room a dimmed lighting affect that did its job in soothing Fergal’s nerves. Galatea flew to the tub and filled it up with warm water before dropping a bath bomb inside and creating a mountain of suds and trippy colors. Holding a sponge in one hand, she waved Fergal over with her opposite finger and patted the rim of the tub. “Come on in,” she said in her cutesy-wutesy voice, giving a light shade of red to Fergal’s green scaly complexion.

He dipped his foot in the water and hissed at the warmth, slowly lowering himself in and accidentally letting out a bubbly fart upon parking his ass in the tub. “Sorry about that. You probably don’t want to…”

“Nah, don’t worry about that,” interrupted Galatea with a smile. Without hesitation or nervousness, she gently ran the sponge across Fergal’s arms, chest, and shoulders while resting her head on top of his. The warm water, the massaging touches, the extra affection, and even the potent lavender smell was enough to make him want to squeeze his legs together so that he didn’t accidentally become…you know…

“What happened to your chest? You’ve got some nasty cuts and bruises there. Is that from your job?” she asked.

“No, those aren’t war wounds…unless you’re talking about my war with the racist assholes who pummeled me with stones all my fucking life. Sharp stones, big stones, little stones, they all feel the same to me. I was actually kind of hoping one of those stones would be powerful enough to kill me, but as it is…”

“Oh my god…Mr. McQueen, that’s terrible! I truly do feel awful for my reluctance around you. I didn’t realize…I mean…Look, I’ll tell you what. For what I did tonight, your first cuddle session here is free.”

“You…you don’t have to do that, Miss Lyon,” said Fergal as a singular tear ran down his face, a face he still believed was the ugliest thing on the planet. “Sorry, I don’t normally cry like this…”

“It’s okay to cry here, Mr. McQueen. I’m not one of your fellow soldiers. I won’t call you horrible homophobic slurs. Let the waterworks out. You’re not the first to cry under my care and you won’t be the last. You are loved, Mr. McQueen, whether you realize it or not.”

Fergal let the waterworks flow indeed as Galatea continued to gently scrub and massage him into relaxation. No more droughts tonight. Not now. Not ever. The tears had been a long time coming. They were greasy. They were oily. But they were less messy than any drop of blood he spilled on the battlefield, be it with the racist mobs or the enemy he fought in the army. Crying sucked and felt good at the same time.

Deviant Artists

A rainy night had fallen upon the Crystal Hill Art Gallery long after the last staff member locked up the building. Ironclad doors with heavy bolts sealed off the front and back entrances as well as the individual rooms where art was displayed. Discouraging thieves became even more of a requirement as the double paned windows were guarded with steel bars. If this wasn’t already a museum for art, it could easily double as a prison for the worst kinds of criminals.

Even the dark of night couldn’t suppress the shimmering beauty of the pearlescent marble statues. Curvy goddesses barely covered in silk tapestry. Armor-clad warriors carrying the heaviest weapons. Seductive mermaids with the sweetest grins. They all shined and reflected off of one another in the moonlight pouring through the stained glass windows. A dark paladin covered head to toe in spiky armor stood angrily across from a thickly muscled female orc warrior, who also looked ready to rip someone’s head off.

A bolt of lightning flashed in the night sky and as if on cue, the dark paladin and orc statues cracked and splintered, shedding large chunks and spraying specks of dust across the room. The cracks became deeper canyons until their marble coating was completely destroyed, revealing living versions of the warriors the art portrayed.

The dark paladin, Golo Quinn, dusted his hands and armor off while Junie Axel, the orc, kicked pieces of marble across the room like soccer balls. “Goddamn, am I glad to be out of that,” she said.

The two of them met in the center while Golo summoned a glowing orb with his palm and gazed around the room they successfully infiltrated. “Look at all of this crap…Look that this!” he growled. He shined the ball of light towards the goddesses and mermaids in particular. “Who in the hell wants to pay thousands of gold pieces just so they can have women in their rooms they’ll never be able to fuck?!”

“I bet if we found that Golden Dagger, we could carve better statues out of our own shit. Where the hell is it, anyways?” complained Junie as she dusted her leather armor off.

“Beats me. For all we know, the fuckers who built this place could have hidden it among one of the ‘masterpieces’. It could be in one of the mermaid’s bras for all I know. Or it could be up somebody’s ass. I guess we’ll never know until we start looking.”

Cracking her neck in both directions, Junie asked, “How do you want to do this? Should we sneak around like cat burglars or should we just wreck the shit out of everything?”

Golo shook his head. “It’s a little late for the cat burglar shit considering how we got here. I say we just smash everything to pieces. The art sucks anyways, so who’s really going to miss it? Plus, if we actually find the goddamn dagger, we could make our own pieces and sell them to the stupid curator for a cool payday. Come on, help me with this door.”

“My pleasure,” said Junie with a vomit-breathed smile. She effortlessly yanked one of the warrior statues off of its pedestal (while accidentally tearing its leg off) and started ramming it against the iron door. Though the dents in the door resembled meteor craters, the statue was just another worthless pile of dust afterwards. “Looks like it’s going to be harder than we thought. I wonder if any of these jerk-offs in armor are really that tough.”

“Only one way to find out.” Golo sent the ball of light floating overhead while he wrapped his arms around a mermaid and yanked it free, also with little effort. This time, he swung the statue like a baseball bat against the door, detaching its head, then its torso, then crumbling the flipper into powder. The door had even more massive dents, but it still wouldn’t budge. The dark paladin growled like a beast.

The two would-be thieves continued this process of ramming and smashing statues against the door until the entire room was caked in dust, causing Junie to sneeze a glob of yellow slime all over one of the goddess’s detached breasts. “Now that’s what I call a money shot!” she chuckled before burping loudly.

The iron door resembled a battered semi-circle rather than a symbol of security. All it took after every statue was desecrated was a spin kick from Golo’s metal boot. The twisted door crashed to the ground while Junie coughed and waved the smoky air out of their solitary confinement.

“Quit being a wuss and help me find the damn dagger,” said Golo while marching over the fallen door. He held out his palm and brought the ball of light back into his grasp, shining it over various paintings with nature scenes. Snow-covered mountains, enchanted forests with faeries, relaxing beaches with nude models, they all made Golo cringe and curl up in his suit of armor.

“If you spray some more dust in my face, I could sneeze again and create better paintings than these pieces of trash,” joked Junie while wiping her nose with her finger.

“Or you could jerk me off over a sheet of paper, either one sounds more profitable right now. Why would anybody think that painting trees is interesting?! They’re trees! They’re goddamn trees that don’t do a damn thing!” yelled Golo, who then punched one of the paintings and ripped it off the frame.

“Allow me!” said Junie as she and her accomplice went around ripping up paintings and cursing at them. Shredded canvases lined the floor and raging attitudes had the burglars banging their fists against the wall. They were no closer to finding the Golden Dagger. “This is horse crap!”

“Yes, I know how badly these paintings suck.”

“No, Golo, this is actual horse crap! Where the hell is that dagger?!” Junie folded her arms in frustration and slammed her back against the wall. The ridged frame of the picture behind her sent shockwaves of pain through her spine. She roared and held her wound while Golo pointed and laughed at her.

“Why, you little!” Junie turned around and started punching the hell out of the painting, bruises the size of molehills forming on her knuckles with every strike. Ignoring the pain in her hand, she ripped the picture off the wall and revealed something that instantly calmed her anger. “Oh my lord.”

Golo’s laughter turned to confusion. “What?”

“I don’t believe this. I knew it! I knew it was hidden among one of these pieces of garbage!” Junie stuffed her non-aching arm into the hole and pulled out a source of brilliant light that rivaled Golo’s fluorescent sphere. A pearl handle poked out of a leather pouch that the orc held in her hands like a kid receiving a Christmas gift. After a while of trying to contain her giggly fits, she pulled the handle and revealed the source of her and Golo’s greed: the Golden Dagger. The one artifact that could create pieces of art out of stone despite the user’s underachieving skill level.

Junie dropped to her knees and gazed upon the dagger with neon eyes. “This is beautiful. This is a work of art on its own.” Even though Golo wore a horned helmet that covered his face, the orc could tell he was smiling too. “We’re going to be rich…we’re going to be bloody rich!”

Holding the dagger like she was about to murder somebody with it, she tested its powers on the wall next to the mini-vault. Instead all she ended up doing was ripping a few chunks of wood. Nothing artistic, nothing glorious. “What the hell’s going on here?! Is this stupid thing just as worthless as the rest of the crap in here?!” She tried stabbing the wall again and had the same result: a whole lot of nothing. “This thing sucks! We wasted our time in here!”

Junie threw the dagger to the floor only for the magical artifact to float in the air before it had the chance to crash. The wide-eyed, shaky thieves slowly backed away from the artifact while it danced and spun around, shooting golden dust every which way and rendering the ball of light redundant.

With a mind of its own, the dagger stabbed itself into the wall and carved a proper piece of art within seconds. It was detailed. It was lifelike. It was…a mosaic of Junie Axel crapping her pants, to which Golo Quinn laughed himself into soreness yet again. The orc stomped her foot and complained, “Really funny, smart ass! Really goddamn funny!”

Junie lunged for the Golden Dagger’s handle only to have it fly away and carve yet another masterpiece out of the wall: Golo doing a striptease with a saggy gut hanging low. The dark paladin threw his gauntlet to the ground and shouted, “What the hell is going on here?! Is this some kind of joke?! When did a shitty piece of art become such a smart ass?!”

The anger tapered off into shaky fear as the dagger pointed at both Junie and Golo. Was the maniacal artifact going to fling itself into one of them? Was this how they were going to die? At the blade of a dagger with a sense of humor? Not yet. The dagger found more empty wall space and carved out a message for the intruders: “Frauds”.

Golo gazed at the message with hatred while Junie’s body convulsed in the corner. The dark paladin threw down his other gauntlet and yelled, “Frauds?! We’re frauds?! We’re not the ones carving these ridiculous-looking statues and painting these faggy pictures! We’re not the ones who suck! I purposefully stayed away from art class so that I wouldn’t have to make these pieces of shit!”

The dagger carved out another message on the wall: “Lazy”.

“Why you!” belted Golo as he chased after the floating dagger with his footsteps quaking the ground beneath him. The chase led him around the entire gallery, his legs aching and his heart thumping like a war drum. He jumped in the air whenever the dagger soared too high, but his heavy armor caused his shoulders and legs to burn with pain afterwards. He hunched over for a quick breather and even ripped off his helmet, throwing it to the ground and cursing.

The Golden Dagger spun around in the air before finding another empty space to carve a message into. All the weapon could muster were the letters L-O-S-E before Golo found a second wind and lunged at the blade with the last of his rage. His hands gripped the pearl handle with such force that he almost broke it off as it struggled for freedom. “I got you now, you little prick! Hold still! Junie, get your big ass over here and help me!” The orc remained cowardly in her corner. “Now, damn it!”

The orc took her time in getting up while Golo wrestled with the struggling blade on the ground. Junie slowly tiptoed towards the scuffle and hunched over her cohort, not wanting to jump in too soon. And then the blade jerked upwards and brought the dark paladin to his feet. Now it was Golo’s turn to hold the weapon like a murderer. “Wha…what are you doing, buddy? Golo?” pleaded Junie.

With a complete loss of control over his hand, Golo brought the Golden Dagger down upon Junie in a series of rapid-fire stabs that decorated the walls and shredded paper in blood. The dark paladin screamed, “No!” as his friend was being mutilated, but he couldn’t even release his grip. The blade kept raining down upon the orc until she was nothing more than a pile of broken bones, shredded skin, and pooling blood. The knife flew freely from Golo’s grip while the dark paladin pounded the floor repeatedly, tears welling in his eyes.

“What the hell did you have to do that for?!” Golo screamed, wiping an angry tear from his eye with his finger. “She was my friend, damn it!” The dagger lowered itself down into Golo’s field of vision and illuminated it with its golden glow. Dancing and prancing in front of him, the dagger’s light showed him a vision of beauty created from the madness of violence. Junie wasn’t just a mere corpse. She was a sculpture of something more beautiful than her wicked soul could become. “A mermaid? Seriously?! You…you made a mermaid out of my friend?!”

The Golden Dagger carved out another message on the wall: “Profit”.

“I…I don’t understand…you want me to sell this to the curator?”

One final message was sent loud and clear to the boohooing knight. It wasn’t he message he wanted to see carved out. It was the message he needed to see: “True art!”

"The Golden Bell" by Aurora Styles

BOOK TITLE: The Golden Bell

AUTHOR: Aurora Styles

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Dark Fairytale

GRADE: Pass

Lady Bellicent is a royal politician with undeniable physical beauty, a strong belief in fairytales, and a desire to gentrify her city into an educated, high-class metropolis. Her methods come across as arrogant and vain, so much so that she encourages the wrath of Rosamund the apothecary and her golden bell, which is used to summon necromantic faeries whenever she needs them. Bellicent’s controlling husband Lord Fitcher also serves as a thorn in her side, especially with his harsh demands of keeping her out of his “special room”. Sooner or later, everything will come crashing down upon this magical kingdom and Bellicent’s happily-ever-after story will turn into a sick and twisted nightmare she can’t wake up from.

When you first read this wonderfully dark story, your eyes will widen at the scene of Lord Fitcher sewing corpses of his past wives together into one piece of art. The only thing his “creation” is missing is a head, but don’t worry, because he has lots of inspiration for that particular piece. Fitcher seems to be happy and deranged as he marvels at his masterpiece. He’s basically the love child of The Joker and Hannibal Lector, which is why it’s imperative that nobody enters his secret chambers. But you know deep down inside his cover will be blown at some point in the story. It has to. You can see it from miles away. Such tension will follow you throughout your reading adventure and that’s part of what makes this story so good. Aurora Styles leaves no stone unturned when it comes to her craft and it brilliantly shows throughout her work.

Serial killer aside, I also enjoy the shades of gray logic Aurora employs with her characters. Yes, they do awful things such as framing each other for witchcraft or casting spells that will doom each other forever, but at the same time, you can’t help but feel sorry for the characters when these bad things happen to them. Yes, Bellicent comes off as arrogant and spoiled, but did she really deserve her fate at the end of the story? Yes, Rosamund is quite arguably the most sympathetic character in the book, but was her revenge plot against Bellicent overkill? Even Lord Fitcher with his psychopathic ways comes off as a charmer when dealing with the public (then again, lots of serial killers do in order to keep up appearances). At the end of the day, there’s no clear answer as to who the reader should cheer or boo. Trust me, that’s a good thing, because it keeps the reader on their toes and makes them anticipate the second part of this series.

Speaking of shades of gray characters, whether you like him or not, you have to admit that Lord Rhazien’s skull motif is pretty cool. He wears them like armor, he has skulls on his magical staff, and he pretty much is a skeleton demon who’s described as having burning green eyes. This is the kind of character videogamers would love to play as or against. Constantly throwing fireballs, controlling hordes of goblins and undead creatures, and transforming everybody he captures into disgusting orcs. Yep, he’s definitely a videogame-worthy character. It makes me wonder what kind of creativity cosplayers would whip up if they decided to go to a convention dressed as Rhazien. So many dark fantasy dream scenarios, so little time!

Considering how well this novel was written, I’d say that The Golden Bell, the first in a series, is a resounding success. Sure, there are a few sentences that look like they could be typos, but then again, it could also be part of the classy dialogue that fantasy novels are known for. Buy a copy of this book and enjoy yourself. It’s only a hundred plus pages long, so you’ve definitely got time to blitz through this magical adventure full of twists and turns. A passing grade is what this wonderful book deserves!

Shipping Meme

***SHIPPING MEME***

During the past few days, I’ve been having conversations with my friends Zero Urrea and Marie Krepps about how much fun it is to link two things together with the letter X (a practice commonly found in Japanese anime). Would you go to a concert that was featured as Korn X Starset? You’re damn right you would! Would you ever play a videogame that featured the team of Super Mario X M. Bison? Sure, why not? And of course, the X link is used to signify collaboration between two romantic partners. Cloud X Tifa, Mario X Peach, and Squall X Rinoa are all mainstream examples of this. You could also mix and match between genres and canons…and genders. Would you ever read an erotic fan fiction that featured Tifa Lockhart X Stephanie McMahon? You bet your sweet ass!

Which brings me to something authors might have to deal with if their work becomes famous enough: shipping. If you write a novel that’s highly enjoyable, your readers are definitely going to want to tinker with various combinations of characters as romantic couples, for better or worse. You know who’s not okay with this? Anne Rice, who went to great legal lengths to make sure her fans don’t do that to her books. Some people are okay with this, others are not. More important is how you feel about your own fans doing this to your books. Me personally? I think it’d be flattering no matter what the combinations ended up being.

Unfortunately, I only have one edited and published novel to my name and it’s not even a full length book, so I don’t have a wide roster of characters to work with. Then again, if I include minor characters, this meme could actually be lots of fun. So here’s how this works: I’m going to make a list of Occupy Wrestling characters, use a number generator to randomly pick two of them from that list, and discuss how they’d work as a couple. I won’t use the same character twice and I’ll only generate five different couples. Are you ready? I know I am!

1. Debra Winter, Human Valet
2. Desilu McCourt, Amazonian Knight
3. Dovald, Superhuman Knight
4. Garra, Superhuman Knight
5. Hall Markata, Undead Necromancer
6. Jason Finnegan, Human Wrestler
7. Keegan Day, Human CEO
8. Mitch McLeod, Human Wrestler
9. Monzo Bleeder, Orc Wrestler
10. Nina Jordan, Human Cop
11. Riley Warpthroat, Skeleton Knight
12. Rosie Rogers, Human Referee
13. Snake of Jehovah, Skeleton Monk
14. Stephanie McMillan, Human Wrestler
15. Teiji Roughhouse, Rat Wrestler

FIRST COUPLE: Riley X Keegan

THOUGHTS: Keegan’s blatant bigotry aside, these two would be perfect for each other. They’re both hell-bent on dominating the wrestling scene. They’re both sadistic. They can intimidate the hell out of anyone. And lastly (and this is the most important part), they both look like they were just brought to life by a necromancer. Maybe when these two are in the bedroom, Keegan can use the Day Family Gem as a ball gag for Riley. Keegan does control his minions with that magical MacGuffin, after all.

SECOND COUPLE: Snake of Jehovah X Dovald

THOUGHTS: Another pair of viciously monstrous villains? Sure, why not? Though considering the fact that all Snakes of Jehovah look the same covered up with monk robes and snake masks, Dovald could end up accidentally cheating with another minion. But if that were to happen, how exactly would they initiate the cheating? Snakes of Jehovah are skeletal minions, with no sexual orifices or genitalia, so the closest Dovald could get to achieving sexual pleasure is to take the snake mask off and go through the eye sockets.

THIRD COUPLE: Jason X Stephanie

THOUGHTS: At least we’re back into normal territory since they’re both humans. Plus, they actually have things in common that they could bond over. They’re wrestlers. They’re despicable heels. They’re both championship material. Ship them, damn it! There’s just one curiosity I have: if Jason is a three hundred pounder who suffers a heart attack in the first chapter, even if he lived through it, would he be healthy enough for sexual activity? Would he have to be on bottom while Stephanie was on top? Would he fall asleep halfway through and lose his erection? So many burning questions.

FOURTH COUPLE: Hall X Nina

THOUGHTS: Spoiler alert: Hall ends up using his necromantic powers to raise Nina from the dead as an ash-covered zombie. I’m more curious about what you, the readers, didn’t get to see when all that happened. You think Hall is into that kinky shit? Does he forgo apps like Tinder and Grinder and just settle for a trip to the cemetery? Well, he doesn’t have to anymore if he’s got Nina as his minion. While Nina isn’t the most attractive woman in my book, there’s something sexy about a woman in uniform.

FINAL COUPLE: Desilu X Debra

THOUGHTS: If it wasn’t for the fact that Desilu tried to snap Debra’s spine in two with a camel clutch, this could actually be somewhat normal. Debra is a bisexual who appreciates both masculine and feminine features in both genders. Desilu is a big fucking Amazonian who knows how to wrestle (not just in the ring). Hell, she could probably do a better job of protecting her than Mitch ever could. That, and Desilu is happy to train Debra in wrestling herself since that’s all Miss Winter really wants: to be self-reliant. Of course, if Debra is that desperate for wrestling lessons, she might have to take a serious beating at the hand of Keegan’s minions. Oh wait, that already happened.

Okay, I must admit that I had fun doing this. Maybe I can do it again when I publish another novel. Hell, even my unpublished first drafts could use some love and war. What if I took Mario Bryan from Watch You Burn and paired him up with Daniel Mercer from Demon Axe? Or as the Japanese would say, Mario X Daniel. They’re both mentally ill, so they could help each other through their toughest episodes. Mario is schizophrenic and Daniel has PTSD. The two illnesses are similar to each other, but schizophrenia is a psychotic disorder and PTSD is an anxious disorder. This could actually work! But that’s a story for another day. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you soon!

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Fifty Shades of Grey is to literature what candy corn is to vegetables.”

-Bill Maher-

Backwoods Barbarian

***BACKWOODS BARBARIAN***

With American Darkness 3 suspended and Poison Tongue Tales 3 not even a possibility, I need something to work on to keep me busy and to keep my creative juices flowing. I originally wanted to do a modern day drama about fat-shaming called “Hulk Logan”, but I couldn’t pre-write it past the fifth chapter. I was hesitant to do the story I’m going to talk about in this blog entry, but then I realized something along the way. Though it could be categorized as fantasy, it’s actually a deconstruction of the violent messes Poison Tongue Tales, Demon Axe, and Occupy Wrestling have been. Yes, this new story will have plenty of fight scenes, but they’re not a means to an end.

I’m talking of course about Backwoods Barbarian, an environmental fantasy I’ve developed all the way to chapter twenty. Yeah, I know, everything has to be about barbarians. All barbarians 24/7. It’s all I ever think about, yada, yada, yada. What good is a barbarian’s rage if he keeps losing his fights and getting himself into trouble? This barbarian can’t win with brute force alone, because there are other fighters out there who are more powerful than him, particularly a dwarf monk named Sabin Rex and a werewolf assassin named Gray Miller (both characters I’ve used in past stories).

Who is this barbarian? Well, he’s not Deus Shadowheart. He’s not Brutus Warcry, either. In fact, if I reveal his name, it might be a tad upsetting to the originator of this character given how the barbarian was once used as a killing machine D&D character. His name is Agrusk Xis and he’s an orc who makes his solitary home in the woods.

He was once owned by an online friend named Timothy. He was also a former character in an attempted dark fantasy novel of mine in 2014 called Fireball Nightmare. I asked Tim if it was okay to use Agrusk in that manner and he said yes. Given Agrusk’s new role as a bumbling brute, Tim could possibly want to think twice about letting me use his character. If he wants me to withdraw Agrusk from Backwoods Barbarian, I’ll gladly do so and swap him out with another character.

If Tim should happen to say yes once again, then Agrusk will be a part of something greater than himself whether he uses brute force or not. As I’ve already established, Agrusk is an orc barbarian who lives in the woods hunting meat and picking fruit. His forest home is about to be chopped down for urban development thanks to the political strategy of Flora City Mayor Annette Cote. Agrusk just wants peace and quiet in his forest home, so he tries to muscle his way into keeping his solitary residence. Needless to say, he’s overpowered and outmanned.

Agrusk meets two environmental protesters along the way: an Amazonian Viking “singer” named Johnna Larson and a bagpipe-playing bard named Julie Piper. Throughout the novel, they teach him that using debate tactics and peaceful protest is more powerful at affecting change than anything he could do with an axe. The whole novel is one big internal battle between Agrusk and his conscience. Can he keep his temper under control or this hothead screw everything up with one moment of impatient rage?

I’ve tooled with the idea of an environmental fantasy before where the plot centered around the government cutting down somebody’s forest home for urban development. I wrote a 2010 D&D-style movie script called Tree Party Nation, where the forest was an eco-terrorist group’s base of operations. As I’ve mentioned earlier, in 2014 I wrote Fireball Nightmare, where the often-recycled Gary-Stu barbarian Deus Shadowheart protected the forest under the command of a living volcano. It’s 2018 and the third time will be the charm. Backwoods Barbarian will be the one that gets this concept right. Watching a “Terrible Writing Advice” You Tube video on environmentalism helped me figure things out.

So that’s it for now. Backwoods Barbarian is officially my next long-term project. It’ll be a departure from what I usually do (barbarism aside), especially considering that I’m shooting for 2,000 words per chapter instead of 1.500 like I normally do. At twenty chapters, that’s an even 40,000 words, which is the generally accepted minimum for a full-length novel. Wish me luck, guys. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

JERRY: Hey George, ask that guy what street we’re on.

GEORGE: Excuse me, where are we?

STRANGER: Earth.

JERRY: Hey, we’re on the phone with the police!

-Seinfeld-

Street Sleeper

Johnny De Morgan’s pick strummed delicately across his guitar strings and created a heavenly lullaby for those walking the streets at night. He too could feel the heaviness of his eyelids and the quicksand-like pull underneath his body. Yet he continued to strum his beautiful melodies as the snow gently poured into his guitar case, barely a single gold coin occupying this space. Strangers walked by with their chins tucked into their chests, not giving Johnny the slightest glance.

The night sky blanketed the city in midnight shadows. Johnny wished he too had a blanket of some kind, but all that kept him minimally warm was his checkered overcoat, striped scarf, and thin layers underneath. He struggled to keep his fingers steady in this shiver-inducing weather. Sometimes his melodies would echo awkwardly across the street corner because of his shaking. Johnny stopped playing and gripped the neck of his guitar like he was actually strangling someone. He held the instrument above his head like he was going to smash the fucking thing to pieces.

“Johnny, no!” shouted a feminine voice off to the side. The busker’s eyes must have been too frosty to notice her at first, but that beautiful voice could have only belonged to the elven rogue Debra Lynch. Light green skin, thick layers of black wool, wavy blue hair, and a cap over her scalp: she was unmistakable at this point. She had the same weary and sorrowful expression in her damp eyes that Johnny did. That made her even more beautiful (not that Johnny would ever tell her something like that).

“Johnny, you can’t give up yet. You’ll freeze to death out here if you don’t keep playing,” begged Debra.

“I don’t know, Debra,” said Johnny with his head hung low. “Does it really matter anymore how good I am with this stupid thing? Nobody’s paying attention. Everybody just wants to walk on by like I’m some sort of fucking monster. Forget it, Debra, I’m done with this shit.”

“So what would you rather do? Starve to death?” pleaded Debra while cupping her hands over Johnny’s arm. “You don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s either this or death. Wait a minute…you’re not actually considering…” The elf’s voice grew shaky with those last few words.

“Like you said, Debbie-Cakes: I don’t have a choice in the matter,” said Johnny with more coldness than the snowflakes pounding down on him. “I can stand out here and freeze like a motherfucker playing for pennies…or I can just fall asleep in my own shallow grave. Never have to wake up again. Never have to deal with these ignorant people. Never have to worry about where my next meal’s coming from. Sounds like heaven to me.”

Debra smacked Johnny in the back of his head and messed up his black puffy hairdo. “I don’t ever want to hear you talk about that nonsense again! If you just fuck off the face of this earth, what am I supposed to do for the rest of my life? I need you, Johnny. We need each other!”

Tears welled up in Johnny’s frosty eyes as he said, “Sorry, I’m just a little frustrated, that’s all. God, what I wouldn’t do for a hot bowl of soup and a fucking blanket! Is that too much to ask for?!”

The argument came to an abrupt end when Johnny and Debra’s eyes zeroed in on a heavyset orc strutting down the streets. His leather armor, bloody war paint, and gigantic sword sheathed on his back gave him the aura of an undisputed champion. The burdensome sack of gold coins on his belt caused Johnny and Debra to snap awake with secretive excitement. Johnny strummed his guitar much more vigorously than before in hopes that the rock and roll music would entice this brutish warrior.

The orc attempted to skate on by, but Johnny and Debra blocked his path with the biggest of grins. Debra even rubbed her gloved fingers together to signify what she and her friend wanted. “Fuck off and die!” shouted the beastly warrior as he shoved Johnny into a row of rubbish bins.

“Hey!” belted Debra. “Who the hell do you think you are pushing a defenseless man like that?!” When the orc refused to listen, the elf grabbed him by the thick wrist and jerked him over for attention. “I’m talking to you, you gigantic sack of shit!”

“Debra, wait!” pleaded Johnny as he picked himself and his guitar off the ground. “That’s Link Rotunda! He’s a cage fighting champion! You’re not going to get any gold from him by calling him a sack of shit! Show some respect!”

Link’s rotten grin coincided with Debra’s fiery glare as the orc said, “That’s better! That’s what I like to see: people taking initiative!” He pointed his sausage index finger at Debra and said, “You could learn something from a guy like him!” The elf hmphed and folded her arms, never releasing her death stare from the gigantic bully. “Now then, where were we? Ah yes! You want some of this gold, sonny boy? You want to eat tonight? You’re going to have to earn it! Forget that stupid hipster guitar! You’re going to dance for your supper!”

“He will do no such thing!” grunted Debra before being held at bay by Link’s massive arm.

“What do you say, you sweet little boy? Are you going to dance or what?” asked Link with a devilish smirk. Despite Debra’s angry protests, Johnny tossed aside his guitar and danced around like a monkey attempting ballet. Link’s throaty laughter caused Debra to hold her face in her hands in sheer embarrassment. “Good one, good one! Now put the garbage can on your head! Do it, monkey boy!”

Sure enough, Johnny heaved a garbage can over himself and danced around some more, Debra shaking her head the entire time and Link laughing it up with a few knee slaps to boot. “How am I doing, Mr. Rotunda?”

“Oh, you’re doing great, my friend! You’re going to be a rich motherfucker in no time at all! Just one more thing and you’ll have all the gold you want! Take off that silly garbage can…and suck my dick!”

The monkey dancing was replaced with a frozen stillness and silent weeping underneath the garbage can. He slowly pulled off the bin and revealed an expression full of shock and despondency. “Is that what you really want, Mr. Rotunda? I’ll do it if that’s what you want.”

“This is bullshit!” shouted Debra as she picked up the fallen rubbish bin and tossed it at Link.

The orc slashed it in half with one wave of his newly unsheathed sword. Garbage scattered across the ground and blew away in the winter breeze. Johnny silently asked Debra what the fuck she was doing and elf stood her ground with clenched fists and a raw attitude.

Meanwhile, Link just laughed it off and said, “I guess you don’t really want hot soup after all. It’s a shame, because I could have given you more soup in that one BJ than any restaurant. It’s saltier too! And tastier! Or so I’ve been told!” Link sheathed his sword, waved goodbye, and chuckled, “Keep saving up!” He turned heel and strutted away until the nighttime shadows covered him completely.

Johnny’s cheeks quivered and his eyes cascaded as he struggled to say, “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? He was our meal ticket!”

Debra’s angry breathing intensified to where this winter weather could be confused for a boiling summertime hell. She grabbed Johnny by his overcoat and shoved him against a brick wall. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” raged the elf. “Do you really think he was going to pay you all that money to humiliate yourself like that? Bullshit, he would have disappeared like a fart in the wind! I know you’re a homeless man looking for change, but you should never have to lower yourself like that just for a half ass chance at getting paid! I don’t care if Link Rotunda is the champion of the fucking universe! He’s a bully first and a humanitarian last! How do you think he wins so many of those fights?!”

Johnny snorted loose snot up his nose and swallowed before sobbing, “I’ll take a small chance of getting paid over no chance any day of the week.”

Debra slammed Johnny back first against the wall and raised her fist in the air as though she was ready to knock a few teeth loose. “I should turn that fucking face of yours inside out for saying shit like that! I should rip your brains out through your eye sockets and eat that for dinner instead of some poor man’s soup!”

Johnny De Morgan could feel his insides turning into jelly and his bladder and bowels loosening while anticipating the stinging fist that would eventually shatter his skull into snowflakes. The tension in his stomach made him ill. His skin turned pasty white. He shook harder than when he was struggling for warmth.

And then Debra said, “I’ve got a better idea than that” before showering her victim with a handful of golden coins. Johnny could finally breathe a heavy sigh of relief like a whirlwind of seething pain coming out of his mouth. His elf compatriot brushed his checkerboard coat off and said, “The only way you’ll ever eat with me tonight is if you never pull that shit again. You’re my best friend. I hate seeing you in pain like that. Link was never going to give you those gold coins, so I snatched them from him while he was busy laughing like a fucking hyena.”

Johnny and Debra embraced one another and gave their bodies enough warmth to last through two more winters. It wasn’t just physical warmth that Johnny felt throughout his body. It was that special warm fuzzy feeling of knowing his best friend had his back through thick and thin (even if she did scare the shit out of him). Johnny could picture the bowl of soup sliding down his throat and soothing his frosty wounds. Broccoli cheddar soup from a garlic bread bowl. Thank you, Mr. Rotunda. Thank you so much!

50/50 Booking

***50/50 BOOKING***

When you see the title of this blog entry, you’re probably thinking to yourself, “Man, this guy can’t shut up about wrestling!” What can I say? We all have our obsessions. But it’s true: 50/50 booking is a wrestling buzzword. However, it can apply to any piece of fiction regardless of genre. 50/50 booking is when the hero and the villain have an equal number of victories against each other. In terms of wrestling, it makes the entire roster equal to each other and nobody becomes wildly popular. However, in mainstream fiction, it could mean something entirely different.

Most of the time, we’re resigned to the idea that the hero will win in the end and get his just rewards. So if you’re doing 50/50 booking in your novel, then you’re just telegraphing the hero’s victory. What’s one more victory going to mean? It’s even worse when the hero wins all the time and rarely loses, which is why a lot of readers prefer their heroes to be average joes instead of muscle-bound ass-kickers. How do you relate to someone with a constant string of victories?

To use an example from my own novella Occupy Wrestling, Mitch McLeod could technically be accused of having a Gary-Stu win-loss record. While he wins most of his fights, there are other ways in which he’s losing. His relationship with Debra Winter is falling apart, he can’t trust a neutral referee like Rosie Rogers, his allies are getting mauled left and right, he’s no closer to solving the mystery of where these monsters are coming from, and most importantly, his body is breaking down with every “victory”, if you can call them that. Does winning in one department and losing in several others constitute 50/50 booking? You be the judge. Buy a copy of Occupy Wrestling on Amazon today! Okay, that was pretty shameless, I agree.

But then you have scenarios where the villain racks up most of the victories and makes justice for the hero seem impossible. By doing this, you’re definitely giving your hero an obstacle worthy of conquering. But if the villain wins too often, then nobody’s going to believe it when the hero finally achieves victory. The villain could beat the shit out of the hero for an hour and a half, but are you going to believe it if the hero suddenly wins with a knife to the back?

Truth be told, there is no right or wrong answer to the 50/50 debate when it comes to normal fiction as long as the ultimate decision you make is believable and relatable to your audience. If there is a right or wrong answer, I’d love to hear what it is. Obviously, the answer is going to be different depending on who the hero is. Is the hero an average joe or a beefy warrior? Or maybe he’s somewhere in between those two extremes. Maybe while everyone around him has magical powers, he’s just a barroom brawler who’s only fought a handful of times. I’d love to hear your guys’ philosophies on 50/50 booking and how it relates to your personal stories. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***

I’m only one story away from this collection being complete and ready to critique. After “Street Sleeper”, I’m moving onto another novel called “Puberty X Piracy” (whether or not I post those chapters online is up to the admins and their views on extreme sexual content). Until then, here’s the synopsis for Poison Tongue Tales 2’s final story:

CHARACTERS:

1. Johnny De Morgan, Human Busker
2. Link Rotunda, Orc Warrior
3. Debra Lynch, Elf Rogue

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: On a snowy winter evening, homeless street musician Johnny is freezing and exhausted as he tries to play songs for cash on his acoustic guitar. His guitar case is shallow with money and his enthusiasm for music is dwindling fast. Link Rotunda, a prizefighter, has just won a massive amount of money during a championship match, so Johnny desperately tries to cater to him with his music. Link laughs at and bullies Johnny while telling him to “get a real job”, much to the anger of fellow homeless beggar Debra Lynch. Link is much bigger and stronger than both of them, but Debra won’t allow Johnny to be pushed around. Johnny still tries to beg for money seeing as how he feels it’s his only real chance at getting a hot meal and a bed that evening.

FUN FACT: Link Rotunda will be the next Dark Fantasy Warrior that I draw. He used to be a Dungeons & Dragons non-player character, but now he’s a short story character who will bring the PTT2 series home.

***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

VIC MACKEY: Ronnie and I are going to have fed badges, you and queen bitch will be serving double life sentences, and I’ll have full custody of Jackson.

SHANE VENDRELL: You leave my family out of this!

VIC MACKEY: I’ll send you a post card from Space Mountain.

-The Shield-