Showing posts with label Phanto. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Phanto. Show all posts
Sunday, May 31, 2026
Monday, January 5, 2026
Phanto vs. Nick Sandmann
He can't sue me, because I'm taking advantage of my free speech rights. Suck it up, churchie!
Saturday, August 29, 2020
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.
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.
Thursday, December 8, 2016
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:
- Ronis Wakizashi, Strict Sheriff
- 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”-
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Scary Masks
***SCARY MASKS***
If you go to my Face Book page (which is under my real name Garrison Haines-Temons), you will see that my profile picture is me wearing Corey Taylor’s Slipknot mask. I wore a different Slipknot mask on Halloween, but the scariness was the same as evidenced by little children crying, screaming, and parting from my walking path like the Red Sea. Scaring the shit out of everyone around me is fun because I already get enough grief for being socially awkward, so why not go the full nine when it comes to traumatizing people? Why does Halloween terror only get to happen once a year? This journal will document some of my favorite creepy masks throughout history and maybe give you all ideas for scaring the shit out of people on October 31st. Starting with…
***SLIPKNOT HORROR MOVIE MASKS***
If you wear one of these masks, you’re a part of something special. You open your ears to the grinding vocals of Corey Taylor and the thrashing heavy metal music the rest of Slipknot brings. Although the music comes off as angry, energetic, and devilish, the people of this band would never inflict harm on another human being. The violent fantasies are just that: fantasies. Each mask comes from classic horror cinema and was designed to carry out the legacy of psychological torture. Corey Taylor’s most recent mask comes from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Mick Thomson’s mask is a modification of Hannibal Lecter’s hockey mask. Shawn Crahan’s clown mask is based off of Stephen King’s horrifying monster Pennywise. Though his name escapes me, the guy who wears the gimp mask with the long leather nose drew inspiration from Alex’s mask from A Clockwork Orange during the rape scene. If you’re not chilled to your core, you were dead from pants-pissing fright a long time ago, my friend. Then again, that’s how most close-minded folks meet their fate.
***PINK FLOYD THE WALL PUTTY FACES***
If you wear this kind of mask, you’ve lost so much of your individuality that you blend in with the rest of the crowd. A flesh-colored mask with two large holes for the eyes and one large hole for the mouth, that might as well be your driver’s license photo. But you didn’t give up on your individuality without a fight. It had to be taken from you via negative reinforcement, which came in the form of coercion, violence, or most common, insults. When someone insults a part of your life, the insulting words leech onto that part of your mind like parasites. Try as you might to derive pleasure from that part of your life, all you’ll get is a playback of those negative words, so you avoid it as much as possible. And when you avoid it, you avoid other things that give you pleasure and hope until you no longer have a face of your own. Fighting for your individuality has become more important now than it ever has been with the emergence of the millennial generation, a group of youngsters who follow their own paths to success and prefer creative expression over dull corporate politics.
***PHANTO FROM SUPER MARIO BROTHERS 2***
You don’t have to worry about having this creepy visage on your face, because Phanto is a sentient being. Two downward curved eyeholes followed by a wide grin, Phanto has one job in Super Mario Brothers 2: to guard the golden key and punish those who take it with intimidation and incessant ramming. Not all Phanto masks have this assignment. Some of them are hanging on the walls of whatever dungeon Mario is in just for a frightening ambience. The hallway leading to King Wart and his vegetable machine is lined with a row of dormant Phanto masks. They won’t hurt you physically, but mentally, you’re on high alert even after King Wart is nauseous from being force-fed vegetables. Looking into those pitch black eyes and knowing you’re being smiled at is enough to give most Nintendo-playing millennials lifelong nightmares. If Phanto’s mouth was capable of forming words, what would he say to you? “Run!”
***HOLLYWOOD UNDEAD GANGSTER MASKS***
If you’re wearing one of these masks, you know the struggles of the originators of these visages. Hollywood Undead is a rap rock band who in their words have nearly died for the music they made. Hollywood isn’t exactly the safest place on earth with its history of gang violence, police corruption, and influx of dangerous drugs. To be a member of Hollywood Undead means you’ve survived these mean streets and you live to tell your tales through rapping lyrics and heavy metal instrumentation. You played a million empty shows to only family and friends, but the minute My Space discovered you, your popularity took off and your scary visages are recognizable from miles away. Keep on rhyming, boys. Keep on head banging. If anybody wants to deliver their negative hate to you, let them know just what it’s like to survive California’s toughest neighborhoods. Most trolls would crap their pants at such visuals, as if the masks aren’t scary enough.
***OCCUPY WALL STREET’S GUY FAWKES MASKS***
Every Guy Fawkes mask is identical with the curved moustache, soul patch beard, and debonair face. But make no mistake about it: you didn’t lose your individuality by joining this movement. You joined it because you’re sick of the top one-percent trying to strip you of everything you love. You ask for “free shit” because getting it with today’s wages would be impossible with bills and screw jobs serving as obstacles. Though vocal you may be, you still are capable of the same amount of peace and serenity as any other legitimate protester. But the corrupt police department doesn’t always know this. If they see you with a Guy Fawkes mask, they will not hesitate to beat and pummel you while pinning false charges and making false arrests. The one-percent think they’ve won after such a bloody battle with authority. But they haven’t. They’re merely proving a point we’ve known all along and the Guy Fawkes clan is here to spread that awareness worldwide. Those who listen to you will feel empowered. Those who don’t will feel unjustifiably safe.
***THE WYATT FAMILY’S SHEEP MASKS***
Unlike the members of Slipknot, the WWE’s backwoods cult known as The Wyatt Family enjoy the opportunity to bring violence and hatred to every battle with other WWE superstars. It’s not enough that Erick Rowan (the white sheep) and Braun Strowman (the black sheep) are nearly seven feet tall and weigh in excess of 300 lbs. of muscle and murder. They also have to wear creepy-looking animal masks that do little more than solidify their loyalty to not only their brother Luke Harper, but their leader Bray Wyatt. Very few people have waged war with the Wyatts and emerged survivors, let alone victorious. These men are huge, they have scraggly beards, they stink like a swamp, and two of their members feel the need to wear sheep masks. If they carried sickles, chainsaws, and knives to the ring with them, they would complete their serial killer images. When Bray Wyatt tells you to “Run!”, that’s the wisest advice anybody can give you. Stretch your legs, get your cardio in, because it’s going to be the longest and most exhausting marathon you’ll be a part of.
***CONCLUSION***
If somebody calls you a coward for “hiding behind” one of these masks, just allow them to get a better look at you and then we’ll see who’s shitting their pants at the end of the confrontation. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
A new week is already here, which means a new prompt has been released. This time we’re dealing with the topic of “homecomings”, which is good news for me because I happen to have a synopsis ready for such an occasion. My story will be called “I Owe You Nothing” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
John Link, Sexual Harasser
Tina Williamson, Victim
Kenny Williamson, Tina’s Father
Melissa Williamson, Tina’s Mother
PROMPT CONFORMITY: The story begins with Tina returning home from school.
SYNOPSIS: Prior to the events of this story, John had repeatedly asked Tina out on dates during school time and Tina’s answer was always a definitive no. Fast forward to the actual story and Tina comes home from school to see John in the living room chatting with her parents and buttering them up. Tina continues to resist John’s advances despite coercion from him, Kenny, and Melissa. The situation reaches its boiling point when John pulls a gun out of his coat pocket and demands a yes answer at the threat of Tina being shot.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Danielle Courtney’s drawing yielded some…interesting results, particularly those of Marilyn Manson comparisons. I can’t say they’re wrong. Hehe! This next drawing will be different because the character is actually supposed to look manly. He’s a human necromancer named Angelo Rude and he’s the lead villain of a short story that used to be called “conform”, but is now called “Dead Man Walking”. Dance, skeletons! Dance!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“If you’re 555, then I’m 666!”
-Slipknot singing “The Heretic Anthem”-
If you go to my Face Book page (which is under my real name Garrison Haines-Temons), you will see that my profile picture is me wearing Corey Taylor’s Slipknot mask. I wore a different Slipknot mask on Halloween, but the scariness was the same as evidenced by little children crying, screaming, and parting from my walking path like the Red Sea. Scaring the shit out of everyone around me is fun because I already get enough grief for being socially awkward, so why not go the full nine when it comes to traumatizing people? Why does Halloween terror only get to happen once a year? This journal will document some of my favorite creepy masks throughout history and maybe give you all ideas for scaring the shit out of people on October 31st. Starting with…
***SLIPKNOT HORROR MOVIE MASKS***
If you wear one of these masks, you’re a part of something special. You open your ears to the grinding vocals of Corey Taylor and the thrashing heavy metal music the rest of Slipknot brings. Although the music comes off as angry, energetic, and devilish, the people of this band would never inflict harm on another human being. The violent fantasies are just that: fantasies. Each mask comes from classic horror cinema and was designed to carry out the legacy of psychological torture. Corey Taylor’s most recent mask comes from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Mick Thomson’s mask is a modification of Hannibal Lecter’s hockey mask. Shawn Crahan’s clown mask is based off of Stephen King’s horrifying monster Pennywise. Though his name escapes me, the guy who wears the gimp mask with the long leather nose drew inspiration from Alex’s mask from A Clockwork Orange during the rape scene. If you’re not chilled to your core, you were dead from pants-pissing fright a long time ago, my friend. Then again, that’s how most close-minded folks meet their fate.
***PINK FLOYD THE WALL PUTTY FACES***
If you wear this kind of mask, you’ve lost so much of your individuality that you blend in with the rest of the crowd. A flesh-colored mask with two large holes for the eyes and one large hole for the mouth, that might as well be your driver’s license photo. But you didn’t give up on your individuality without a fight. It had to be taken from you via negative reinforcement, which came in the form of coercion, violence, or most common, insults. When someone insults a part of your life, the insulting words leech onto that part of your mind like parasites. Try as you might to derive pleasure from that part of your life, all you’ll get is a playback of those negative words, so you avoid it as much as possible. And when you avoid it, you avoid other things that give you pleasure and hope until you no longer have a face of your own. Fighting for your individuality has become more important now than it ever has been with the emergence of the millennial generation, a group of youngsters who follow their own paths to success and prefer creative expression over dull corporate politics.
***PHANTO FROM SUPER MARIO BROTHERS 2***
You don’t have to worry about having this creepy visage on your face, because Phanto is a sentient being. Two downward curved eyeholes followed by a wide grin, Phanto has one job in Super Mario Brothers 2: to guard the golden key and punish those who take it with intimidation and incessant ramming. Not all Phanto masks have this assignment. Some of them are hanging on the walls of whatever dungeon Mario is in just for a frightening ambience. The hallway leading to King Wart and his vegetable machine is lined with a row of dormant Phanto masks. They won’t hurt you physically, but mentally, you’re on high alert even after King Wart is nauseous from being force-fed vegetables. Looking into those pitch black eyes and knowing you’re being smiled at is enough to give most Nintendo-playing millennials lifelong nightmares. If Phanto’s mouth was capable of forming words, what would he say to you? “Run!”
***HOLLYWOOD UNDEAD GANGSTER MASKS***
If you’re wearing one of these masks, you know the struggles of the originators of these visages. Hollywood Undead is a rap rock band who in their words have nearly died for the music they made. Hollywood isn’t exactly the safest place on earth with its history of gang violence, police corruption, and influx of dangerous drugs. To be a member of Hollywood Undead means you’ve survived these mean streets and you live to tell your tales through rapping lyrics and heavy metal instrumentation. You played a million empty shows to only family and friends, but the minute My Space discovered you, your popularity took off and your scary visages are recognizable from miles away. Keep on rhyming, boys. Keep on head banging. If anybody wants to deliver their negative hate to you, let them know just what it’s like to survive California’s toughest neighborhoods. Most trolls would crap their pants at such visuals, as if the masks aren’t scary enough.
***OCCUPY WALL STREET’S GUY FAWKES MASKS***
Every Guy Fawkes mask is identical with the curved moustache, soul patch beard, and debonair face. But make no mistake about it: you didn’t lose your individuality by joining this movement. You joined it because you’re sick of the top one-percent trying to strip you of everything you love. You ask for “free shit” because getting it with today’s wages would be impossible with bills and screw jobs serving as obstacles. Though vocal you may be, you still are capable of the same amount of peace and serenity as any other legitimate protester. But the corrupt police department doesn’t always know this. If they see you with a Guy Fawkes mask, they will not hesitate to beat and pummel you while pinning false charges and making false arrests. The one-percent think they’ve won after such a bloody battle with authority. But they haven’t. They’re merely proving a point we’ve known all along and the Guy Fawkes clan is here to spread that awareness worldwide. Those who listen to you will feel empowered. Those who don’t will feel unjustifiably safe.
***THE WYATT FAMILY’S SHEEP MASKS***
Unlike the members of Slipknot, the WWE’s backwoods cult known as The Wyatt Family enjoy the opportunity to bring violence and hatred to every battle with other WWE superstars. It’s not enough that Erick Rowan (the white sheep) and Braun Strowman (the black sheep) are nearly seven feet tall and weigh in excess of 300 lbs. of muscle and murder. They also have to wear creepy-looking animal masks that do little more than solidify their loyalty to not only their brother Luke Harper, but their leader Bray Wyatt. Very few people have waged war with the Wyatts and emerged survivors, let alone victorious. These men are huge, they have scraggly beards, they stink like a swamp, and two of their members feel the need to wear sheep masks. If they carried sickles, chainsaws, and knives to the ring with them, they would complete their serial killer images. When Bray Wyatt tells you to “Run!”, that’s the wisest advice anybody can give you. Stretch your legs, get your cardio in, because it’s going to be the longest and most exhausting marathon you’ll be a part of.
***CONCLUSION***
If somebody calls you a coward for “hiding behind” one of these masks, just allow them to get a better look at you and then we’ll see who’s shitting their pants at the end of the confrontation. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
A new week is already here, which means a new prompt has been released. This time we’re dealing with the topic of “homecomings”, which is good news for me because I happen to have a synopsis ready for such an occasion. My story will be called “I Owe You Nothing” and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
John Link, Sexual Harasser
Tina Williamson, Victim
Kenny Williamson, Tina’s Father
Melissa Williamson, Tina’s Mother
PROMPT CONFORMITY: The story begins with Tina returning home from school.
SYNOPSIS: Prior to the events of this story, John had repeatedly asked Tina out on dates during school time and Tina’s answer was always a definitive no. Fast forward to the actual story and Tina comes home from school to see John in the living room chatting with her parents and buttering them up. Tina continues to resist John’s advances despite coercion from him, Kenny, and Melissa. The situation reaches its boiling point when John pulls a gun out of his coat pocket and demands a yes answer at the threat of Tina being shot.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Danielle Courtney’s drawing yielded some…interesting results, particularly those of Marilyn Manson comparisons. I can’t say they’re wrong. Hehe! This next drawing will be different because the character is actually supposed to look manly. He’s a human necromancer named Angelo Rude and he’s the lead villain of a short story that used to be called “conform”, but is now called “Dead Man Walking”. Dance, skeletons! Dance!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“If you’re 555, then I’m 666!”
-Slipknot singing “The Heretic Anthem”-
Saturday, August 23, 2014
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-
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Gatekeeper Kamala
Before I was permanently banned from Play By Web for not getting along with the admins, I had an RPG on that site called “Here In My Room”, named after the Incubus song from A Crow Left of the Murder. The premise of the game was that a kid would be in his room and all of the sudden he would get sucked into an imaginary world based on one of the items in said room. For example, if the kid had a Pink Floyd the Wall poster, he would probably find himself in an assembly line full of faceless children. If the kid had an NES cartridge of Super Mario Brothers 2, he’d find himself running away from Phanto masks in the desert. Why exactly these kids were going into these imaginary worlds, I’ll never know. I never figured that part out before I was banned. All I knew was that the one person who would guide these kids into their respective worlds was a Grim Reaper-like skeleton named Gatekeeper Kamala. In case you’re wondering, I didn’t take the name Kamala from the WWE legend of the same name. The two Kamalas couldn’t be any more different if one was a Ugandan homophobe and the other was a lesbian nun. Gatekeeper Kamala may have had the appearance of Death, but he was far from lethal. He may fight for his children, but he would never injure the children themselves. He would be the one who provided the children with their respective outfits and weapons as they enter their dangerous worlds. The player who went into the Pink Floyd world was dressed in rock fan clothing and was armed with a magical guitar. The player who went in the Super Mario world was utilizing a feather and a fire flower at the same time (like either of those things would defend him against Phanto). As I write these things down in my word document, I suddenly realize why Gatekeeper Kamala is bringing these children into these fantastical worlds. The real world is a much darker place to be for a teen due to bullying students, mean teachers, and strict parents. Even if the fantasy worlds are dangerous, they’re also places where the child is free to exercise his imagination and be whoever the hell he wants to be. Gatekeeper Kamala may have a deathly appearance, but he will be the one who unlocks the players’ minds. But as I’ve said earlier in this post, I’m no longer a member of Play By Web and I don’t have a long rolodex of friends I can call to play RPG’s with me. For the time being, Gatekeeper Kamala is unemployed. As long as fan fiction laws are in place, he may remain unemployed for a long time due to me possibly being sued for using copyrighted material in my stories. If Kamala is going to find a job in my imagination, it’ll be strictly for shits and giggles. No profits, unfortunately.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Started at the age of four. My mother went to the grocery store. Went sneaking through her bedroom door to find something in a size four. Sugar and spice and everything nice wasn’t made only for girls. GI Joe in pantyhose is making room for the one and only. King for a day, princess by dawn. King for a day in a leather thong. King for a day, princess by dawn. Just wait ‘til all the guys get a load of me. My daddy threw me in therapy. He thinks I’m not a real man. Who put the drag in drag queen. Don’t knock it until you tried it.”
-Green Day singing “King for a Day”-
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Started at the age of four. My mother went to the grocery store. Went sneaking through her bedroom door to find something in a size four. Sugar and spice and everything nice wasn’t made only for girls. GI Joe in pantyhose is making room for the one and only. King for a day, princess by dawn. King for a day in a leather thong. King for a day, princess by dawn. Just wait ‘til all the guys get a load of me. My daddy threw me in therapy. He thinks I’m not a real man. Who put the drag in drag queen. Don’t knock it until you tried it.”
-Green Day singing “King for a Day”-
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
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.”
***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.”
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