Matt Gaetz, Respecter of (17-Year-Old) Women

 

And by the way, she's not a 17-year-old "woman". She's a child! Matt Gaetz fucked a CHILD!

Mike McGlone vs. The Epstein Files

 

Bullet With a Name On It

…I’m not a violent person. I don’t carry a gun with me at all times. The last time I got in a fight was in high school. It was a miserable defeat to a guy who mounted my chest and punched me so many times that I got a black eye, numb cheeks, and chewing difficulties. One of the administrators cracked a terrible joke about how I was a lover and not a fighter. I’d expect that kind of humor in the UFC or WWE, but not at school. But I suppose there was some truth in that joke, because ever since that day, I’ve responded to any amount of stress the same way: freezing like Walt Disney eating a popsicle in the middle of a tundra. Fight and flight are gone. Freezing is all that remains. Staying perfectly still and not being confrontational is supposed to be a survival mechanism. But what am I surviving?

 

While I don’t have a violent life or a criminal history of any kind…I have so many violent thoughts swirling in my head. So many people have taken advantage of my freezing response and said whatever the hell they wanted, like the first amendment was made specifically for assholes. No amethyst colors here, just red, white, and blue. I’ve been fat-shamed, called the R-slur, called a pussy for not joining the military, I’ve had slanderous rumors spread about me, and I’ve been accused of laziness when I didn’t want to get a job and go to school at the same time. These people who abused their first amendment rights…they bear the brunt of these violent thoughts. So...many…violent…thoughts…

 

Punches in bunches. Sprawling and brawling. Knees to the face. Kicks to the balls. Maybe a piledriver if I’m feeling strong that day. Hell, let’s go full UFC and throw in a rear naked chokehold. In my brain I’m undefeated, even against well-trained marines and martial arts blackbelts. I justify these victories by saying, “Whose dick did they have to suck in order to get those accolades?” I’m sure they can explain the bruises on their faces, but how will they explain the bruises on the inside of their mouths to their dentist? Dentists can tell what you’ve been up to in the bedroom. Or under the sensei’s desk, wherever you feel more comfortable.

 

But it’s not just unarmed brawling that I fantasize about. Sometimes I’m armed and dangerous. Sometimes I’ve got a big fucking knife. Sometimes I justify those knife victories by saying, “A blackbelt doesn’t give you puncture-proof skin.” Come to think of it…what is a blackbelt good for anyways? Holding up your pants so that we don’t have to look at your Sailor Moon crotchless panties? That kind of intimate wear would never withstand a few strokes from a big ass knife. And neither would your skin. Just hack, slash, hack, slash, an arm there, a leg there, a throat somewhere else, and a glorious bloodbath that will never make me want to shower ever again.

 

But why is it just melee ranged weapons? Why I can’t I shoot a gun? Surely, it can’t be that hard to shoot a gun. It’s like using America Online: point and click. Maybe I’m oversimplifying complicated technology, but remember, it’s my brain, I’m undefeated. If some bozo driving an obnoxiously large truck drives by me and shouts the F-slur, I’ve got a bullet with his name on it. It’s weird to think about, because in order to have a bullet with somebody’s name on it, I have to know that person’s name. Drive-by loudmouths don’t give you their name or any information about them. That’s a big part of what makes them cowards. Not only do they shout their shit, but they drive away before facing any real consequences. Sure, your truck has a badass engine, but can your truck outrun a bullet? Will a V8 engine matter if there’s a bullet in the gas tank? Will all the horsepower in the world matter if the bullet shatters glass and that glass cuts you up? And what good is driving a truck if the driver gets shot and the vehicle flips on its back? Drive-by loudmouths don’t think about these things in advance. Then again, I wouldn’t call anything they do thinking.

 

Violent fantasies are so much fun to have. I love bathing in blood. I love listening to screams. I love the symphonic melodies of bones snapping and organs sloshing. I love listening to my insulters plead for their lives only to lose them anyways. But it’s important to remember that these are fantasies. They don’t exist outside of my brain. If they did, there would be serious consequences. Seeing this many dead bodies would break so many hearts. I’d have my own broken heart as I sit alone in a prison cell with regret on my mind. That’s what you have to remember as you go through life with an imagination: fantasy and reality are not one in the same. That’s why people caution against porn being unrealistic. Porn isn’t designed to tell a realistic story. It has one purpose: to help masturbators achieve an orgasm by any means necessary. If you can’t separate fantasy from reality, you’re already waiting to get fucked.

 

So go ahead and listen to gangsta rap on repeat. Dream of killing your enemies in cold blood. Drink that cold blood like it’s as refreshing as Coca-Cola. Hell, you can even write about some of these daydreams in your stories if you’re an author of some sort. But that comes with its own set of responsibilities. As authors, everything you put on the paper is held in high esteem. Your readers will take everything you say literally and they’ll apply it to their own way of thinking. That doesn’t mean they’re stupid, but they are impressionable. If you’re being held up as an arbiter of truth and you tell a bunch of violent or sexual lies, that’s going to have a bad influence on your readers. Think of all the BDSM rookies who wound up in the hospital after reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Think of all the women who will get pregnant because of birth control misinformation in The Missus, which is written by the same author. You can have your bloody fantasies on paper, but don’t lead your audience astray.

 

If you’re watching Quentin Tarantino movies, don’t duct tape your enemy to a chair and cut his ear off while dancing to 70’s music. If you’re watching WWE television from the 2000’s, don’t simulate sex with a corpse as a way of insulting someone who wronged you. If you’re watching Mind of Mencia and I hope to god you’re not, don’t throw racial slurs haphazardly and then later wonder why you’re being “canceled”. And by the way, cancel culture isn’t real. If you write a shitty story chock full of irresponsible violence and rape, your audience has the right to react in a negative way, because criticism isn’t censorship. Criticism is the other half of free speech.

 

If you must have violent fantasies, reign them in. Don’t unleash them out into the real world. If you’re a peaceful guy in real life, but you have violent fantasies, don’t let anybody judge you for it. Truth is, everybody thinks about violence at least once in their life. At least once, don’t let them lie to you. Nobody’s this candid about their violent fantasies, but we all have them. Some are more mild than others, but they still exist. It’s a normal part of the human experience. Thinking about something is a healthy way to process it. Thinking is the best way to travel. Doing these things in real life will cause so much heartache, for you and your victims. And for the love of god…don’t join the military just because you happen to be good at playing Halo.

Meat and Pudding

The putty-faced student marched down the hallway at the instruction of her teacher. She was to remain a few steps behind at all times, never once complaining or having an opinion about any of this. There wasn’t even to be a suggestion as to this meeting with the schoolmaster being a luck of the draw punishment. No opinions or critical thinking of any kind, just marching. The dragons, elves, ogres, and faeries that danced around her brain were reduced to meat shreds by constant conformity. She didn’t mind. She was never meant to mind.

“Halt!” shouted the teacher, to which the student complied. The teacher knocked on the door, awaiting for the schoolmaster to let them both in. There was some hasty wrestling going on in that office. But the putty-faced zombie student had no opinion of it. Once the familiar Scottish accent ordered her to come in, the teacher opened the door and in marched the student like a good little girl.

The door slammed shut and all that remained was a dimly-lit office with books on shelves and degrees mounted on the wall. None of those books probably contained dragons, barbarians, or knights, and the nameless slave didn’t care. Her weary eyes peeked through her clay mask at the Scottish schoolmaster sitting at his desk, drumming his fingers and scowling at her. His white moustache was enough to give away his age and every elderly stereotype that went with it. His black robe and square cap gave away every ounce of authority he had over her, a mere zombie student in a blue blazer, plaid skirt, and brown leather shoes. And that mask. Oh, that mask.

“I understand you’re wondering why you’re here,” said the schoolmaster in a low and sinister voice. “I can assure you it has nothing to do with the constant whining, missed assignments, tardiness, and everything else your generation is known for. It’s not just you, lassie. It’s the student body in general.” He smirked. “Student body.” There would have been a chilling feeling in the student’s stomach if she was capable of critical thought.

“I brought you here today…because I need to vent…and you are going to listen to every last syllable…” The schoolmaster slammed his palms on the desk and stood up halfway. “I hate this job. I hate the people I work with. I hate the ungrateful bastards who goof off in my class like it means nothing to them. I don’t have time for little goblins who don’t take their education seriously. I could just as easily walk off school grounds tomorrow and wish a pox on this entire place.”

He sat back down and folded his hands. “But I won’t do that. You know why? Because I learned the other day that it wasn’t the job itself that was dreadful. It was because it was…missing a certain something. I need something to make my job more…enjoyable. More fun. More satisfying. Work is boring. But you, my lady…you’re not boring at all…In fact…you’re just what I’m looking for.”

The student trembled, but not enough to give away true emotions. The schoolmaster continued. “Do you know why I make you and so many other students wear that faceless mask? Because then, and only then, do I not have to see the look of anguish on your faces when I do what I do. No face equals no guilt. No squinting eyes equals no shame. As much as I like to laugh at the Twilight nonsense of the world, the author managed to get one thing right.” He stood up and revealed that he wasn’t wearing pants underneath his robe. His sausage-like penis lifted the hem of his robe, maggots crawling around it. “The one thing she got right…is that girls with no ambition…are wildly sexy!”

As he slowly crept around his desk, the student’s trembling became more obvious as she backed up against the office door. He continued. “No ambition means no objections. And no objections means…free consent!” His demonic snickers morphed into howling and cackling while his red meat erection grew longer and stronger. “Come to me, my sweet Mary-Sue! Let’s make both of our existences…a lot more fun!”

The dragons and elves in the student’s mind were screaming to be free, screaming for her to snap out of his conformist haze, screaming for her to stand up for herself. She shook some more. She dropped to her butt as the schoolmaster got closer, his yellow fingernails unsheathed. He reached down to touch her neck, most likely wanting some foreplay, some tender moments with his underage pupil.

And then…the student let out a shriek of terror. The schoolmaster reflexively pulled his hand back and covered his own ears, the shriek growing more unbearable by the second. The student stood up and struggled to untwist the doorknob. The schoolmaster wasn’t deterred for long as his yellow fingernails gently raked down her back and his sausage poked her in the skirted bum.

He whispered, “If you don’t eat your meat…you can’t have any pudding…How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat? That starts to take on a whole new meaning, doesn’t it, lassie?”

There was nothing zombie-like about adrenaline chilling the student’s body like a morgue freezer. She stomped on the schoolmaster’s foot and had him hobbling around like a lunatic. She finally opened the door and stormed down the hallway screaming. But there was no such exit for her. Clay-masked pupils formed a wall in front of her and gazed into her soul with empty eyes. On her other side, teachers and administrative staff glared at her while one teacher bounced a ruler in her hand.

The two sides closed in on her every so slowly, playing the roles of zombies to a T. The schoolmaster pushed his way to the front of the teacher wall and snickered at her some more. The closer they got, the less oxygen the putty-faced girl had at her disposal. She clutched her chest in an effort to stay alert, dizziness spiraling through her mind like a stroke. And then her saving grace came in the form of a steel door, which she threw open and bolted down at top speed.

She pumped the brakes as soon as she saw what this was a hallway for: a meat grinder pit clanking and clobbering in search of its next conformist meal. A dead end and a dead body: such was the way of compulsory education. The zombie students, angry faculty, and Scottish schoolmaster blocked the doorway, making both of the student’s escape options result in death or worse. The schoolmaster stalked down the catwalk and edged the student closer to the meat grinder. She did her best to stay balanced, though her dizziness began to cripple every limb on her body.

“Do you want an A+, lassie? Do you want to graduate? If you want that A+…you’ll have to take a D first!” The schoolmaster’s image blurred in and out of focus, the student swearing she was going to faint at any minute. She needed something to hold onto. A railing on the catwalk? Her own trembling legs? No. The piece of maggot-infested meat that dangled from the schoolmaster’s crotch. His smile revealed nicotine-stained teeth and a slathering tongue. “What are you waiting for? Stand still, lassie!”

“Oh, you big tease,” the student flirted. “Uh-oh. Did I just form an opinion of my own? Too bad!” With one yank of his slimy meat, the masked student pulled the schoolmaster past her and launched him into the mincer. Those blocking the door gasped in horror at their one true master being reduced to farmer’s shreds and parasites. He could have worn a mask to hide his pain, but that wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying to the student, who removed her own mask in defiance and threw it into the grinder.

“Just so there’s no confusion, I had a name all along. My name is Jennifer Heath. In my humble opinion…I think this school SUCKS!” More gasping erupted from the crowd. Jennifer lifted her dimpled face defiantly and said, “I guess you’ll have to expel me now. But what will I do with my life? Maybe I can work at McDonald’s and serve up some Quarter Pounders coming from yours truly!” There was a collective, “Eww!” from the crowd.

“Oh, don’t act disgusted!” Jennifer snorted. “If you’re willing to allow a pedophile to run your school, then you have no business pretended that something I said was gross. Why did you let him work here anyways? How many more of you had he fucked?!”

“Watch your language, lassie!” said a random teacher while pointing a ruler at Jennifer.

“Or what?! You’re going to hit me with that little stick?! I’m sure some of you have been hit with a much bigger stick in your day.” The faceless students tucked their heads in shame. “Am I wrong? Am I?!”

Suddenly, the students and faculty had a stare down. Opinions were allowed again, not by the authority, but by someone who dared to resist it. The faculty began backing off and holding their hands up defensively. The students were much quicker on the draw. They threw their masks to the ground and stampeded the teachers with riotous force. They screamed obscenities and threw down with their elders, while the stuck-up teachers begged for help. Their authoritarian ways were all an act. They were tough up until the students sung a different tune.

One of the teachers scrambled into the meat grinder catwalk with Jennifer in an attempt to catch his breath.

“We don’t need no education…” sang Jennifer.

“Yes, you do. You just used a double negative.”

Jennifer Heath cracked her knuckles and smiled at her next victim. The teacher swallowed a cannonball-sized lump as it dawned on him what was coming.

Creep Street

Streets of darkness, perfect targets
Hoot and holler like a wild man
Call them “hotties”, grab their bodies
Creep Street is in style, man
Get rejected, get defensive
When she tells you to, “Fuck off!”
Alpha male with a baby’s wail
Never ever to be sucked off
Grab her arm, do your harm
Purple circles on her bicep
You entitled little child
You know she doesn’t like it
Throw her down, make her drown
In your disgusting fluids
Traumatize until you realize
You’re nothing but human sewage
Cops do nothing, her brain is numbing
Did you get your hot desires?
So romantic, necromantic
Accuse her of being a liar
Shoot you dead, bullet in your head
That’s what we all should do
There’s no magic in street harassment
Who’s the next victim you choose?
Blond or brunette? Moans or music?
Long legs or ample breasts?
It doesn’t matter, dick gets fatter
She’s face down just like the rest
Creep Street blues, call it fake news
You’ll get away with it this time
But Karma’s a bitch, a scratch to itch
Your life ain’t worth a thin dime

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.

"Gary the Four-Eyed Fairy and Other Stories" by Frank Mundo

BOOK TITLE: Gary the Four-Eyed Fairy and Other Stories
AUTHOR: Frank Mundo
YEAR: 2011
GENRE: Fictional Short Stories
SUBGENRE: Contemporary
GRADE: Mixed

Let’s talk for a minute about the writing style of this book. It is easy to digest, which means reading sessions will generally last longer for audience members who tire too quickly. However, there are times when the style is a little TOO easy to digest. If we’re talking actual digestion, I was hoping for the middle ground between tough dry meat and a breath strip. Unfortunately, I got the breath strip end of the spectrum. There are times where he tells instead of shows (especially in the opening story). There are fight scenes and other dramatic moments that go by too soon. Some of the language sounds like it’s objectifying women. And then we have the repetition. In case you didn’t know it, the little girl in the first story smells like bologna. Don’t believe me? The author will tell you a gazillion times. This could be a literary technique I’m not privy to, but Frank Mundo does this throughout the entire book and it’s more noticeable than Gary’s bruises in one of the later stories. Because of these elements in the writing style, stories that were supposed to be emotionally impactful came across dryly.

Awkward writing style aside, that doesn’t mean I couldn’t pick out favorites when it comes to entries in this collection. The second story, Remorse, has two different narratives going on at the same time and they’re both tragic in the way they end. One narrative is about a college student falsely accused of rape and the other is about a sickly grandmother who wants JT (the main character) to kill her and put her out of her misery. Remorse was painful to read about and I mean that in the good way. I consider it one of the best stories in this entire collection. But it’s not without its glaring problems, namely the way Frank Mundo handles the subject of rape accusations and the intricacies of consent. In his mind, if someone gets drunk on beer and has sex afterwards, all bets are off and there is no case. Not the most sensitive way to handle such a topic. While false rape accusations do happen (albeit rarely), it does make me wonder how Frank Mundo views women and it worries me. He even refers to the accuser by a particular below the belt body part. The story still hit me where it hurts given how both narrative threads ended, but still, it can also rub people the wrong way in a negative light.

A Friend in Need, on the other hand, was appropriately handled. It’s a story about a college kid trying to write a letter to the parents of his deceased roommate. What’s the catch? The deceased roommate, Walter Garcia, has a drawer full of child pornography. The main character has to carefully word his letter so that he doesn’t offend the parents while also not masking his own disgust with Walter. And because he’s writing the letter on an old-fashioned typewriter, he keeps throwing away the pages whenever he makes a mistake or hates his writing in general. This story is one example where the simplistic writing style doesn’t hamper the emotional impact of it all. Frank Mundo can get away with it this time around. Not all the time, but this time around. The simplistic style allows for a speedy narrative and that’s the kind of pace you want when talking about a guy who’s struggling with his racing thoughts. This story is another one of my favorites from the collection.

There are times when it’s hard to enjoy this book, but enjoy it I did. Throughout my reading journey, I kept asking myself what kind of grade I would give it. Would I fail it because of the haphazard writing style? Would I pass it based on the content alone? After wrestling with myself in a mat classic, I settled on three stars out of five. Not the worst, not the best. It’s simply just there. Having given this book a mixed grade, would I recommend it to other readers? I guess it depends on the reader in question. In general, though? That’s going to require some more self-wrestling.

Scotty's Got a Gun

VERSE 1
All the talent in the world couldn’t save his sorry ass
When his sanity and dreams shattered like church glass
Beautiful colors scattered across the wooden floor
Heart of gold tainted and rotten to its frozen core
All the needles and bottles couldn’t erase his pain
All the nights of incest drove him bat shit insane
Calling it love doesn’t change the simple fact
That Scotty’s revolver is about to click-clack

CHORUS
Scotty’s got a gun! X4

VERSE 2
There’re only two choices for the rapist in his bed
Shoot a bullet in her chest or a bullet in her head
Give her one last chance to confess her mortal sins
But she says a prayer like God will actually let her in

CHORUS
Scotty’s got a gun! X4

VERSE 3
No one ever believed a word of Scotty’s story
Except for the parts that were intentionally gory
Matricide is the buzzword that makes the paper
To give that bold headline some extra spicy flavor
A villain to a world that never gave a goddamn
If it didn’t happen young, it would’ve happened as a man
There’s no such thing as a happily ever after
When the whole universe needs some laughter

EXTENDED CHORUS
Scotty’s got one left in the chamber
Scotty’s got some residual anger
Scotty’s got some scorpion venom
Which one of you fuckers wants to go to heaven?!
Scotty’s got a gun! X4

The Fanatics

VERSE 1

Science fiction has always been fiction

Brainwashing rhetoric’s part of your diction

Looking like dorks in black slacks and ties

“Boys will be boys, we’re just one of the guys”

Dementia’s done less damage than your ethos

Stripping creativity from ordinary people

A cult of fanatics, that’s all that you are

I’ve heard better speeches from drunks at bars

CHORUS 1

Conga line of doom

Darkness in your room

Poison in your food

You’re the fanatics!

Permanent addicts!

VERSE 2

Leaving your sorry ass like an abusive husband

An army of puppets is what you’ve summoned

There’s nowhere for the escapees to retreat

Dead pets hollowed out and laying at their feet

CHORUS 2

Psychological rot

Void of deep thought

Never ever get caught

You’re the fanatics!

Bringers of madness!

BRIDGE

Just another million dollar check in your account

Your followers grow even bigger in amount

An army of zombies to do whatever you need

A dinner of flesh and bladed mouths to feed

VERSE 3

World domination is what you want the most

Who cares if the innocents end up as ghosts?

Who cares if we have to look over our shoulders?

Who cares if we have no chance of getting older?

Follow our asses all over the fucking planet

Even in outer space you have the advantage

Governments in your pocket, aliens by your side

Nowhere left to run and nowhere left to hide

CHORUS 3

Gossamers in your head

Rape victims in your bed

Your critics end up dead

You’re the fanatics!

Most dangerous faction!

One day you will fall

Hands against the wall

The right to one phone call

You’re the prisoners!

Good riddance, you sinners!

Higher Ground X System of a Down: Prison Song

***HIGHER GROUND X SYSTEM OF A DOWN: PRISON SONG***

Two years ago, I went down a research rabbit hole and found an episode of Millennium called “A Room with No View”. It was that episode plus an Otherwise song that was the launching point for a novel I’m currently editing called “Beautiful Monster”. Two years later, I went down another research rabbit hole and found a TV show that could very well tell Millennium to hold their beers. Take my hand; we’re going on a journey today!

It all began with a Star Wars meme that I got curious about: Anakin Skywalker saying “I don’t like sand.” He complains about how coarse and rough it is and then tells his wife Padme that unlike sand, she’s smooth and soft. It’s easy to blame Hayden Christiansen for that hokey delivery, but to be fair to him, nobody could make that dialogue sound good. Not Samuel L. Jackson. Not Michael Chiklis. Not Walton Goggins. And sure as shit not Hayden Christiansen.

So one thing led to another and I went to Hayden Christiansen’s Wikipedia page. Sure enough, one of the roles he’s famous for was Scott Barringer in the 2000 teen drama Higher Ground. And in this 2000 teen drama, Scott was a star athlete and one hell of a piano player. And then his parents divorced and his father got remarried to a woman named Elaine, who was closer to Scott’s age. Elaine started sexually abusing Scott to where his trauma could only be numbed with drugs and alcohol. His addictions got so bad that he was sent away to a “therapy school” to deal with his problems, never once addressing the root of it all, Elaine raping him.

Now, I’ve never actually watched a single episode of this show. I wouldn’t know where to start looking for it. But I saw the phrase “therapy school” and wondered just what that entailed. So the rabbit hole continues. Turns out there’s no therapy to be found in these places. Therapy school is just a PC term for “child prison”. Of course, if they started calling themselves child prisons, you know how many parents would fork over their children to them? Lots of them, because Scott’s parents don’t have any fucking principles. If they did, there would be no sexual assault and therefore no TV show.

But what exactly goes on in a “therapy school” a.k.a. “child prison”? Well, the reason why I’m calling it a prison is because therapy schools have a lot in common with establishments that openly admit to being prisons. You can’t leave whenever you’d like, you lose all of your constitutional rights, the overseers beat your ass and scream at you for no reason, and your individuality is long gone, never to be seen again. I’m not sure if this actually goes on in Higher Ground, but from what I’ve researched about therapy schools, it’s probably a safe bet. Oh, and one more thing: therapy schools get richer by keeping kids locked up and abused. They’re for-profit, just like real prisons.

One of the many behavioral modification exercises the therapy schools like to push on their patients, I mean, inmates is…wilderness training. It’s basically survivalism and it doesn’t actually cure bad behavior. You know what the counselors, I mean, prison guards really like about wilderness therapy? No cameras. No witness. Not a goddamn thing for miles. The prison guards already get away with abuse on a regular basis, but out in the wilderness, they’ve got that extra insurance.

You know what else they like to do? Hire “teen escort services”. That already sounds suspicious because the word “escort” is associated with the GFE (Girlfriend Experience). Putting the word “teen” next to it doesn’t sound any better. But that’s not where this story ends. A teen escort service is where a bunch of guys kidnap the child in the middle of the night and forcibly bring him or her to the therapy school. No due process, no right to legal representation, just a traumatic experience that will haunt the kids forever and ever. How the fuck is this legal?!

You’d think with all these ass beatings and traumatizing scream sessions going on, somebody would step in and shut down these child prisons or at least try to sue the shit out of them for millions of dollars. But this is America; capitalism and the almighty dollar come first. Therapy schools, just like for-profit prisons, are a business and business is booming. Besides, with all the money they make, they could very easily win a court case against them with the best lawyers money can buy. If suing prisons was really that easy…well, you get the picture by now.

So…in the same way that Beautiful Monster was a throwback to Millennium, its potential sequel, Prison Song, will be a throwback to Higher Ground. I haven’t figured out the exact circumstances of the therapy schools nor have I outlined the damn story. Shit, I’ve only edited three chapters of Beautiful Monster thus far, so I don’t have a clear picture of what these new changes will do for the sequel. But just like Beautiful Monster, Prison Song will be named after an actual piece of music, that being Prison Song by System of a Down. You want some lyrics? You want some protest music? Here you go:

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“They’re trying to build a prison. Following the rights movements, you clamped down with your iron fists. Drugs became conveniently available for all the kids. Well, I buy my crack, I smack my bitch right here in Hollywood. Nearly two million people are incarcerated in the prison system in the US. They’re trying to build a prison for you and me to live in. Another prison system for you and me. Minor drug offenders fill your prisons, you don’t even flinch. All our taxes paying for your wars against the new non-rich. Well, I buy my crack, I smack my bitch right here in Hollywood. The percentage of Americans in the prison system has doubled since 1985. They’re trying to build a prison for you and me to live in. Another prison system for you and me. All research and successful drug policies show that treatment should be increased and law enforcement decreased while abolishing mandatory minimum sentences. Utilizing drugs to pay for secret wars around the world. Drugs are now your global policy, now you police the globe. Well, I buy my crack, I smack my bitch right here in Hollywood. Drug money is used to rig elections and train brutal corporate-sponsored dictators around the world. They’re trying to build a prison for you and me to live in. Another prison system for you and me.”

-System of a Down singing “Prison Song”-

What's So Funny?

VERSE 1

You refuse to laugh at female comedians

But you’ll laugh at those who wear above medium

You refuse to laugh at jokes actually funny

But you’ll laugh at those you consider to be ugly

A hairy body or a Buddha belly

A disfigured face or thighs of jelly

You’ve got a shallow point of view and it shows

Your sense of humor sucks, your philosophy blows

CHORUS

What’s so funny? X4

VERSE 2

You laugh when a man gets kicked in the nuts

You laugh even harder at a fat plumber’s butt

Laugh harder than that at the Hashtag Jada Pose

Laugh so fucking hard, milk comes out of your nose

You’ve got the sense of humor of a middle school bully

Yet you smile and laugh like you’re so fucking holy

The whole world thinks you’re a major asshole

So why are you next in line for a seat at the castle?

CHORUS

What’s so funny? X4

VERSE 3

You won’t share a meme unless it has a Nazi symbol

But you’ll gladly pass over Lily Singh and Jimmy Kimmel

You’ll get your comedy from the shittiest places

And then drain the smiles right off your victims’ faces

Nainan eleven, presidential erection

Attention, attention, national dissention

You’re more see through than a wet T-shirt

Your jokes are duds, but the truth will always hurt

CHORUS

What’s so funny? X4

Two-Sentence Horror Stories: Third Strike

Bart Simpson laughed his ass off when he spray painted a penis and testicles on the side of Mr. Burns’s mansion. He screamed in terror when Burns caught him in the act, to which the Nuclear Power Plant tycoon unzipped his own fly and said, “You’re the perfect height for what I’m about to make you do, little boy!”

Travis texted his European girlfriend with grinning and heart emojis while calling her a “Beautiful Bulgarian”. He had a kiwi-sized lump in his throat when his phone auto-corrected his message to “Beautiful Bulge Area” before sending it.

Sammy drove cautiously on a winding mountain road with no guard rails while his wife and baby son snoozed in the back together. For some reason, he thought it would be a good idea to start texting on his smart phone.

A hulking ogress with rotting flesh, maggot-infested fingernails, and drill bit fangs burst through Grayson’s front door with a leonine belch and a paternity test in her hands. While Grayson cowered and shivered behind the easy chair, the ogress tossed the test results in his lap and said, “Congratulations, asshole!”

A stacked WWE Wrestlemania pay-per-view featured the main event of “The Monster Among Men” Braun Strowman vs. “The Modern Day Maharaja” Jinder Mahal for the latter’s WWE Championship in a first blood match. The match ended in five seconds when Jinder poked Braun with a sewing needle and drew a tiny drop of blood, causing the ripped-off fans to destroy the arena in a fiery riot.

Middle school sex ed was off to a rowdy start when the children screamed like banshees and threw paper airplanes at each other. They grew silent, shaky, and wide-eyed when the evilly-grinning professor wrote his name on the chalkboard, which was Mr. Ray Pugh.

Melissa clutched her chest and fought for oxygen when she saw that somebody on Face Book with a Pepe the Frog icon posted a countdown clock for her newborn baby’s eighteenth birthday. She nearly had a conniption when somebody else posted underneath it, “Why wait?”

Colton squirmed and ached in his bent over position while Dr. Smith performed a colonoscopy on him. Colton jumped out of his skin when the doctor said in a jolly voice, “Hey look, we’ve got half a million hits on You Tube!”

Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader engaged in an epic light saber battle that saw Vader slice off Luke’s arm. As young Skywalker doubled over in pain, Vader breathed deeply in his ear and said, “Luke…I am your husband!”

Paul logged onto his Porn Hub account in hopes of finding a live teen webcam feed. He nearly lost both his erection and his sanity when he heard a familiar comedian’s voice on the other end of the feed yell, “Hey, hey, hey, come try my king sized pudding pop!”

Shane couldn’t wait to start his new job at Analytical Weaponry, Inc. That was, until he drove up to his workplace and saw the company name on a neon sign, which had all of the letters after the first L in the word Analytical blown out.

George opened his email and found a message demanding fourteen thousand dollars in exchange for keeping quiet about his porn viewing habits. To show there was no playing around, the extortionist put George’s password in the title of the email.

Anderson took a few puffs of his cigarette before coughing up black pudding all over the floor. His stomach ached and his throat soured when he saw that the tar blob had teeth and feces attached to it.

Stacy approached a hotdog cart and asked for a six-inch Polish sausage. Pee-Wee Herman emerged from his crouched position laughing like a madman with his penis sandwiched in a hotdog bun, complete with “mustard, ketchup, and relish” dripping from the tip.

Mary Poppins floated into London with a grimy man on her arm. As she arrived for her babysitting job, she introduced him to the children as Peter File.

“I’m lost without you, my love,” said Prince Charming. He gave his girlfriend a passionate tongue kiss before closing the casket one last time.

“I’d really like to give you a hand job right now,” said Sedona before licking her rosy red lips. Her lover nearly had a heart attack when she pulled off her arm glove and revealed bladed monster fingers underneath.

It is the middle ground between whiny and angry, between involuntary celibacy and a mass shooting, between a toxic romance and full-blown hostility. This is the dimension of pornographic imagination, an area which we call…The Friend Zone!

After Glenn refused to answer the phone, a robotic voice on the answering machine said, “Please return the call to Charles Dahmer at 1-800-666-5150. This is an attempt to collect your blood and any information obtained will be used for that purpose.”

Chase entered his massive pickup truck and blew into the ignition interlock device. After registering a blood alcohol level of 0.87, he was able to start his vehicle and speed off into the busy night.

Marcus shivered in a cold sweat as he paced around his room for hours waiting for his girlfriend to text him back. His tongue and throat dried when she finally sent him a text saying, “We need to talk.”

“Introducing his opponent fighting out of the red corner: a serial killer and totalitarian dictator who holds a spotless record of thirty-two victims, I mean, wins and no losses, stands at 7’3”, weighs in at 500 lbs., and fights out of Charlottesville, Virginia by way of Jeddah, Saudi Arabia with a pit stop in North Korea…Bone Saw…McGraw! And when the action begins, our referee in charge of the octagon is Steve Mazzigatti.”

On the morning of Valentine’s Day, a grinning Britney excitedly opened a heart-shaped box from her secret admirer. She screamed and dropped it because instead of chocolates, the box contained the bloody remnants of her aborted son.

Mitchell’s stomach gurgled and growled after eating twenty Carolina Reaper hot wings in a row without even a sip of milk. Fifteen minutes of sweating and tearing up later, when it was his turn to use the toilet, he pulled his pants down and his intestines fell out.

Lexi opened a package hoping it was diapers for her children’s charity drive. Her jaw hit the floor when she found out they were adult diapers with a semen-soaked note saying, “These would look really hot on you, Sexy-Lexi!”

Little Debbie skipped up to a cobweb-covered house dressed as a princess and said, “Trick or Treat!” to the wolf man, who had a pot of candy on his lap. She reached inside and cried buckets when she touched the werewolf’s warm and greasy Snickers bar, which was poking through a hole he cut in the bottom of the pot.

Leonard awakened in the middle of the night to find hundreds of hairy tarantulas crawling all over his naked body and sinking their fangs into his flesh. He tried to scream for help, but one of them crawled inside his mouth and clogged his throat.

Helgor the Barbarian wrapped his massive hands around the goblin’s throat and watched his eyeballs bulge and his face turn bright blue. Helgor whispered seductively into his victim’s ear, “This would be a good time for Autoerotic Asphyxiation!”

After hours of body-shredding labor, Wendy pushed one last time and gave birth to her baby boy. The doctor wrapped the bloody mess in a blanket and said, “Congratulations, it’s a porcupine!”

Bethany and her husband laid naked in bed next to each other while attempting to catch their breath. She smiled at him, licked her fingers, and said, “I haven’t creamed that hard in a long time, Uncle Cletus!”

Tucker browsed through the doggies and kitties at the animal shelter and had a cutesy-wutesy smile on his face the entire time. The adoption agent approached him with a clipboard and said, “Let me know which animal you want and I’ll be sure to send you home with a package of condoms.”

Nobody Cares

VERSE 1

The world is on fire, dictators are liars

Nobody left on our planet to admire

We go through the motions every year

Drown our sorrows in drugs and beer

The other side wants to mock our tears

And divide us with their angry fears

Nobody cares that this is happening

The apathetic have become champions

CHORUS 1

And nobody cares

Nobody cares

Another rainstorm of bullets

Godly rhetoric is bullshit

VERSE 2

We could burn an orphanage tonight

Leave a beacon like a searchlight

Everyone would look the other way

Carry on like it’s just another day

We could steamroll our own young

When they grow a silver tongue

And nobody would give a damn

Despite performances of a ham

CHORUS 2

And nobody cares

Nobody cares

Another war with ourselves

Creating our own version of hell

BRIDGE

Sex is used as a weapon

The rapists go to heaven

The victims are crucified

Accused of spewing lies

And nobody cares

Nobody cares

VERSE 3

If one person could do enough

Then life wouldn’t be so tough

If one person’s voice truly mattered

We could put an end to the splatters

I wanted to believe that this was true

But there’s nothing I can do

Except play the role of the helpless

Call me lazy or call me selfish

CHORUS 3

And nobody cares

Nobody cares

Another day in paradise

Why can’t we all play nice?

And nobody cares

Nobody cares

Another day in the shitter

Leaves us cold and bitter

Another day in this winter

Is worth becoming a quitter

And nobody cares

Nobody cares

Tales From the Hood 2

MOVIE TITLE: Tales From the Hood 2

DIRECTORS: Rusty Cundieff and Darin Scott

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Horror Anthology

RATING: R for violence, language, sexual content, and political themes

GRADE: Mixed

Master storyteller Mr. Simms is hired by rightwing prison CEO Dumass Beach to give secondhand experience to a police android named Robo Patriot. These stories are designed to help the robot identify threats to America and deal with them appropriately. Instead of giving Beach his confirmation bias, Simms tells stories about the pain racism and sexual harassment have caused throughout the years. Whether the lead characters in these stories are Tinder rapists, mammie doll collectors, wannabe thugs, or black republican politicians, they all will get what’s coming to them in the end. Beach doesn’t like these premises, but live with them he must.

Compared to the first Tales From the Hood movie, this sequel had more cheese than a stuffed crust Domino’s pizza. Whether you agree with the messages in this movie or not, every storytelling device these directors used was so obvious even to the most tone-deaf viewers. I’ll leave it up to you to figure out what the prison CEO’s name Dumass Beach is supposed to be a play on words of. The poor acting skills of the white characters didn’t make me believe in the stories, especially the mammie doll collector in the first story. The Robo Patriot sounds like it was haphazardly thrown together at the last minute, not an ounce of creativity left. The CGI effects looked faker than a John Cena pro-wrestling punch. I could have eaten Wendy’s Baconator fries and gotten the same amount of cheese, but no, I had to sit through Tales From the Hood 2 because I thought it could measure up to its 1995 predecessor.

I can’t completely dump all over this movie, though. There is a reason it received a mixed grade from me instead of a failing one. The strong themes of racism are what saved it. Floyd, the museum curator in the first story, delivered his dialogue about the history of black culture in a convincing and educational way. Plus, I loved his evil side near the end (even though he was technically the good guy of the story). In the last story, a group of voodoo sacrifices have to convince a black republican to vote with his heart, not with his wallet. And don’t forget the third story about the Tinder rapists, which is a cautionary tale to end the romanticizing of “boys will be boys”.

Beach’s distasteful reactions to these stories should serve as a reminder of how abundant racism and sexism are in today’s culture. It’s a shame these stories had to be poorly acted by the white characters. The black characters did an excellent job, by the way. I’m not trying to be a “reverse racist” when I say that. I’m just calling it like I see it. The black actors most likely experienced overt racism during their lives, so they bring that into their acting gigs and it sounds more authentic. I was disappointed with Zoe’s performance, though. She sounded just as unconvincing as her white friends.

I can understand the hate this movie gets online, but it’s not as bad as I was anticipating it to be. It had its good moments along with its hokey ones. And yes, it didn’t live up to the bar the previous Tales Form the Hood movie set. I get that. Even Mr. Simms’s “Welcome to Hell!” line sounded forced, like the directors were trying to recapture that old glory of Clarence Williams’s version of Simms in the first movie. But like I said before, this movie gets a mixed reception from me, not a negative one. But would I want to watch it again? Maybe if I was a robot during an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000.

It's Not Porn

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

VERSE 1

Lesbian ladies on a double-decker bus

Homophobic men spying on their love

“Give us a show and make the fuck out

While we snort with our big piggy snouts”

The answer was no because they said so

Barbaric men decked them in the nose

Punching, screaming, secretly creaming

Where are the police when you need them?

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

VERSE 2

Unconscious girl behind a dumpster

Rapist swimmer summons the thunder

He called it twenty minutes of action

As he grinned with sick satisfaction

Slap on the wrist for Mr. White Privilege

A new idiot for the concrete village

He blamed it all on the damn alcohol

But at least his career never had to fall

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

BRIDGE

The faces of hate in the Sunday paper

The violence never seems to taper

No abortions for the pregnant victims

The right-wing never wants to listen

VERSE 3

If they dress like “sluts” and you grab their butts

Don’t be surprised when they kick you in the nuts

A revealing cosplay doesn’t give you the right

To fill her head full of trauma every fucking night

The real world isn’t like the porn on your computer

This urban war zone isn’t a First Person Shooter

You weren’t the first and you’re not the last

To need to have your head pulled out of your ass

CHORUS X4

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

"Little Birds" by Hannah Lee Kidder

BOOK TITLE: Little Birds

AUTHOR: Hannah Lee Kidder

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Fictional Short Stories

SUBGENRE: Contemporary

GRADE: Pass

In her debut book, Hannah Lee Kidder’s stories are short, sweet, and to the point, but they pack the most powerful punches in their tiny spaces. Even stories that are only a sentence long are capable of tugging at the reader’s heartstrings with oftentimes brutal force. The subjects she touches on include rape, suicide, breakups, and elderly dementia to name a few. These topics aren’t there just to shock the reader; they have a purpose beyond that. You will be so in love with this book that you’ll wish it was longer.

My favorite short story in this book has to be Wolverine Frogs, the one that deals with the always raw subject of rape and the trauma afterwards. The main character wishes she could have claws like a wolverine frog so that she’ll be better equipped to fend off future attackers. She’s so traumatized that she’ll unleash such amphibian fury upon anybody who gets too close to her, innocent or not. This is such a realistic portrayal of psychological trauma that the trigger warning was absolutely necessary. As a reader, you want her to recover even though that’s not always a truthful outcome. You’re genuinely worried that she might do something to hurt herself in order to alleviate the pain. Wolverine Frogs is without a doubt the most heart-wrenching story in this collection.

My second favorite story in this book is Cane Sprouts, which tells the tale of a young New York lady who returns to her grandparents’ trailer near the Bayou. Again, realistic portrayals of the subject matter at hand are what you can expect. In this case, we’re dealing with elderly dementia. The grandpa mixes up names, gets lost in the middle of fields, wanders everywhere with a broken shotgun, and wakes up from naps in an even more confused state than when he’s already awake. This is heartbreaking to watch as this kind of behavior is usually the precursor to death. The main character’s guilt over not being able to see her grandparents as often as she can is palpable during these moments of elderly confusion. That’s what makes the story so believable and raw.

My third favorite story in this book could be considered micro-fiction seeing as how it’s only two to three pages long. But like I said in the intro, sometimes the shortest stories pack the biggest punches. Of course, the story I’m referring to is He Wrote Me a Song, which details the budding friendship between a nameless female high school student and another kid named RJ. She would always loan him pencils and he showed his gratitude by writing a beautiful song for her. Gratitude is a powerful thing, especially to people like RJ who’ve had it rough over the past few years with people looking their noses down at him. The smallest gestures can have the biggest impact. However, before the main characters’ friendship could blossom…well, let’s just say that your waterworks will be well deserved by the time this story is quickly over.

Some would argue that these stories rely too much on shock value to get their points across. I respectfully disagree with that assessment. These stories have a purpose and that is to be as real and honest as possible. The shocking conclusions are just a small part of the overall bigger picture. If someone in your life is hurting, be there for him or her. Show that person that you care and that everything will be okay in the end. You don’t really know what you’ve got until it’s gone. That’s what Little Birds means to me and that’s why it receives a passing grade.

Comedic Obligations

***COMEDIC OBLIGATIONS***

When you’re a writer and you feel obligated to include certain elements in your story, you can often find yourself not knowing what the hell you’re doing. For example, there’re a lot of TV shows, movies, and books out there that have shoehorned romances, so you feel like in order to stand a chance of being above average, you too have to have a romance despite not having the necessary experience or interest. The same thing is true with comedy. Although George Carlin remains one of my strongest comedic influences, not even his material is capable of making me into a carbon copy of him, which he wouldn’t want anyways because of his strong individuality. I can be funny sometimes, but when I feel obligated to make a joke in my stories, the writing suffers badly and I have to go through yet another round of editing. Tonight I’m counting down the three cringiest examples of jokes or cleverness gone badly in my stories. Why three? Because that’s three cringes too many.

I should go ahead and say that all three major examples come from Poison Tongue Tales, the first drafts at least. You won’t find the jokes there now, thank god. Let’s begin with the major money line from Stone Cold, a short story within that tome about a barbarian (surprise, surprise, surprise) who wants revenge on a warthog sorcerer and a female dark paladin for killing his wife. The barbarian wins the battle, but not without feeling like his heart is going to explode and a vein in his brain is going to pop like a balloon. While the female dark paladin is laying on the ground on her way to the afterlife, the barbarian leans down and says to her in a sexy voice…”Maybe I’ll get some practice on you before I meet my wife in heaven.” Practice doing what, you say? Well, if you can’t figure that out, I’m not going to tell you. Either way, you should be appalled at that, which is why that line no longer occupies my story.

And then the other two examples come from the same story within PTT. That story is called Streetwalker and that title alone should already have you feeling anxiety bubble up in the pit of your stomach. The main villain, another barbarian (what a goddamn shock), wants to buy the services of a wizard prostitute to celebrate a major victory in battle. The prostitute turns him down, so instead of paying the full price, he tries to get it for free by attempting to rape her. Being that she’s a wizard and that she’s using her prostitution money to fund her magical education, the hooker throws every kind of elemental spell at the barbarian’s way. Fireballs, lightning bolts, poison bubbles, shadow spears, glacial spikes, you name it, she’s throwing it. She thinks she’s won the fight, but the spells have absolutely no effect on the barbarian. So what does the would-be rapist say? He says…”In order to cast the spells properly…you need the world’s biggest magic wand!” In the words of my beautiful beta reader Marie Krepps, “Why doesn’t he just shoot her already? I’d rather get raped than listen to another one of his bad jokes.” You and me both, Babe-a-Licious Mondo. You and me both.

That Emmy Award-winning zinger should have been the end of it for Streetwalker, but it wasn’t. Instead the audience was treated to yet another “clever” piece of writing. It wasn’t really a joke nor was it intended to be misogynistic. It was just my obligations creeping through yet again. So what happens in Streetwalker (SPOILER ALERT) is that the barbarian has his way with the prostitute and leaves her bloody and bruised in a dark alleyway. Yes, she managed to knock is money bag loose (his actual money bag, not his testicles, you fools!), but even with all of that gold at her disposal, she still feels guilty for “allowing herself” to be raped in the first place. As part of this self-imposed guilt trip, I, the narrator, describe her ordeal as…(gulp)…I’m not sure if I should say this, but I’m going to if it means proving my point…the prostitute’s rape was…”a permanent part of her resume”. I can hear the dry heaves coming from miles away. Absolutely barferrific. No call for that. It got so bad that when Marie was writing her critique notes, she said, “Let’s keep this between you and me.” I couldn’t agree more, but here it is out in the open.

I didn’t count down those three examples because I wanted a laugh track to magically appear in my room. I counted them down because I wanted to be free from my obligations of putting comedy and/or clever lines in my writing. Yes, comedy is nice every once and a while, but only when done by a true master. Whenever I get into a heated argument with someone, my brain shuts down, so I can’t quickly access a savage one-liner to defeat my opponent. Why should I expect the same thing from my characters? Because Hollywood told me to do it? Because they do it so well in the WWE (which I still don’t watch anymore)? Why can’t two people just have a passionate conversation full of vitriol and curse words? Why does everything have to be funny all the time?

Now that I think about it, the funnier a movie or book tries to be, the more it comes off as bathos to an otherwise emotional moment. Bathos is defined as a descent from emotional highs and it’s usually achieved through comedy. Marvel movies have been accused of doing this a lot, especially with anything featuring Iron Man and his actor Robert Downey, Jr. When you rob your audience of an emotional high, you’re stealing a major part of the movie-watching experience. I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I get hit in the feels, I don’t want my attacker to use kid gloves. That’s why I like books like The Perks of Being a Wallflower and The Savior’s Champion. Sure, they have witty dialogue peppered here and there, but it doesn’t diminish the dramatic action of their respective stories.

I have not yet mastered the balance between (good) comedy and punches to the feels. I’ve been an amateur/professional author since 2001 and I still can’t do it. Is this something I should work on or should I abandon it altogether? Is comedy really that important or should I emancipate myself from the chains of obligation? See? Even that last line sounded too over-the-top to be considered comedic gold. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like laughing at bad jokes, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Chapter seven of this ongoing rewrite is edging towards the horizon. Windham managed to free himself from the shackles and now he needs to not only escape Shelly’s castle, but beforehand has to draw blueprints from the inside and collect a handsome payday from Shadow Asylum. Can he keep his emotions in check long enough to not spoil his escape? Can he watch one of his own being sold to a paying aristocrat without snapping again? Whatever the case may be, I’m free from the chains of comedic obligations, so there won’t be any jokes about Nickelodeon Slime Cannons or some shit like that (some of Shelly’s sex slaves are teenagers).

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

If Fred Durst started his own airline company, would he call it Air Bizkit? It makes me worry about the cabbage and broccoli platters he’d serve to the coach passengers. At least they wouldn’t have to worry about the plane running out of fuel, although the weather would always be cloudy up there.

***POST-SCRIPT***

Okay, so I’m not completely emancipated.

Romantic Obligations

***ROMANTIC OBLIGATIONS***

It seems as though every movie you watch or every book you read is required to have at least one romantic subplot. The story can do fine without one, but it’s shoehorned in there anyways because…reasons? Unfortunately, this obligation has reflected in my own writing as well. In Occupy Wrestling, Mitch McLeod HAD to have Debra Winter as his fiancé. In Beautiful Monster, Windham Xavier HAD to have Tarja Rikkinen as his lover (that’ll change soon enough, trust me). In Silent Warrior, Scott George HAD to have Adrienne Simpson has his underage girlfriend (disturbing, I know). And finally, Incelbordination HAD to have a plot where Oswald Crow was pining for a girlfriend (this one actually makes sense since Incel culture is all about the lack of romantic sex).

I don’t want my readers to think that this is me putting the romantic genre on blast. When executed correctly, romances can leave a lasting impression and make the consumer hunger for more. The biggest knock on some of these romances is that they happen too soon or without enough building up. Me? I’ve only had two relationships in my whole life, yet I somehow feel obligated to write romantic subplots in my stories because that’s what the majority wants. I know how ironic that sounds coming from a guy who preaches individuality in his poetry all the fucking time.

While romance is popular among most consumers, I feel like I can finally be free enough to say that it’s not a requirement. No author should be pressured into putting romance in a story that doesn’t need it. Best friends? Maybe. Casual acquaintances? Perhaps. If I had allowed myself such freedom earlier in my career, I could have saved myself a lot of heartache when it came to ratings and judgment from my audience. While I don’t have a definitive consensus on how Demon Axe turned out, I can safely say that the budding romance between Daniel Mercer and Raven Triscloud was one hundred percent unnecessary. They didn’t spend enough time around each other. They criticized each other a lot. How exactly did they deserve a romantic subplot?

My current WIP is the rewriting of Beautiful Monster, which if you remember the first draft had a romance that DEFINITELY had no business being there. Windham Xavier endured a week of rape and he’s expected to jump into a relationship with Tarja Rikkinen? Bullshit, man! What the fuck was I thinking? If that wasn’t bad enough, they had Porn Hub-esque sex early on in the story. Again, what the fuck was I thinking?! So in this new version of Beautiful Monster, Windham and Tarja’s relationship will be mostly platonic. I say mostly because…well…no spoilers! Only Khlav Khalash! Seriously though, Windham and Tarja’s chemistry will be slower than an old lady crossing the street with a pair of bad knees. I should know how slow that is, because my mom had knee surgery two years ago and is still hurting like a motherfucker. Sigh…

After I rewrite Beautiful Monster and try to dub it as the novel that will save my career, I plan on sending all of my first draft novels to Hollow Hills and rewriting those as well. Will they have romantic subplots? I don’t know and I don’t care either way. I’m free from the shackles of other people’s expectations. If they want to fuck, they’ll fuck. If not, then they’ll watch The Price Is Right. I’ll take Rivers and Lakes for $200, Alex. Wait a minute…

If you don’t want romantic subplots for your stories either, that’s cool with me. I’ll read them anyways and enjoy them just the same. Romance can be fun to read about, but it shouldn’t be a necessity for EVERY…SINGLE…STORY! Hollywood does this a lot and their romances suffer because they’ve been executed too soon with little to no true chemistry. In the words of Eminem’s high-pitched voice, “Let’s just be friends!” I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER PROGRESS***

As of today, I have one prologue and three chapters written. Windham is safe and snug in the shackled confines of Shelly Atwood’s bed. Shelly and Torger had an argument about him being there, which resulted in Shelly grabbing Torger’s groin and squeezing his testicles as hard as she could. Ouch! Chapter four will be told through the point of view of Tarja Rikkinen as she tries to convince Orpheus Rinehart to allow her to retrieve Windham. But first…she has to get through the drooling zombie rednecks known as the Savage Brothers, Christian and Kody. If those aren’t some serious douchey white guy names, I don’t know what else to say.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I was blue and lonely. I couldn’t sleep a wink. I could only get unconscious if I’d had too much to drink. There was somehow something wrong somewhere. Each day seemed gray and dead. The seeds of desperation were growing in my head. I needed inspiration. A brand new start in life. Somewhere to place affection. But I didn’t want a wife. And then by lucky chance I saw in a special magazine an ad that was unusual, the like I’d never seen. “Experience something different with our new imported toy. She’s loving, warm, inflatable, and a guarantee of joy.” She came all wrapped in cardboard, all pink and shriveled down. A breath of air was all she needed to help her lose that frown. I took her to the bedroom and pumped her with some life. And later in a moment, that girl became my wife. And so I sit her in the corner and sometimes stroke her hair. And when I’m feeling naughty, I blow her up with air. She’s cuddly and she’s bouncy. She’s like a rubber ball. I bounce her in the kitchen and I bounce her in the hall. And now my life is different since Sally came my way. I wake up in the morning and have her on a tray. She’s everything they said she was. I wear a permanent grin. And I only have to worry in case my girl wears thin.”

-The Police reciting poetry from “Be My Girl, Sally”-

***POST-SCRIPT**

Maybe if Windham is getting over his trauma and still feels frisky, he can order his own Sally in the mail and bypass Tarja and Shelly altogether! Come to think of it, I should order a Sally doll too! Hehe!

Spooky Scary Writing Tag: Beautiful Monster

***SPOOKY SCARY WRITING TAG: BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

This is a tag stolen from Jenna Moreci, which was in turn stolen from Emma Fink, both of which are author-tubers. Because Halloween is upon us, it’s only right that I answer these questions about Beautiful Monster with creature themes attached to each question. And just for the sake of keeping things updated, I will not be referring to the first draft version of Beautiful Monster that’s already online. To put it as nicely as I possibly can, the first draft of my baby is a drive-by abortion. Windham comes off as a whiny emo teenager, Tarja is manipulative as hell, and the evil characters have no reason for being evil. I have a much better version of Beautiful Monster all planned out and I will be referring to that as well as Savage Beatings, the prequel exclusive to the Still Standing anti-bullying anthology. So…here goes nothing!

1. Ghost: Have you ever originally put a character/scene/theme in the book and then later taken it out?

I’ll eventually have to do that with the mushroom scene in the original. After some deliberation with the lovely Marie Krepps, it turns out people who eat psychedelic mushrooms don’t act anywhere near as crazy as Windham did. To put it as gently as I can, Windham was a fucking fruitcake with the way he flapped his arms, laughed like a maniac, and danced around like a ballerina, all while hallucinating. This time around, he’ll have to resort to medicinal leaves designed to relax his mind. Maybe he’ll have a conversation with Mageta the lion god, but he definitely won’t turn into a basket case.

2. Bat: Most misunderstood character in your WIP?

I’d have to go with Windham Xavier. Even though he was raised in a liberal environment where emotions are openly celebrated, he keeps a lot of his troubles on the inside. He’ll keep even more to himself after he eventually flees from Shelly’s castle. Bringing up torturous memories is a death sentence for anybody with PTSD, especially if that mental condition was caused by being repeatedly raped for a week straight. I’ve even flirted with the idea of giving Windham Stockholm Syndrome once I write out the third draft, but nothing is set in stone yet.

3. Jack-O-Lantern: What’s your most common source of inspiration to write?

For Beautiful Monster specifically, I have three different sources of inspiration. The first is an episode of the 1990’s horror TV show Millennium entitled “A Room with No View”. That episode explores the idea of beautiful women kidnapping men and seducing them into danger. That woman was the demonic shape-shifter Lucy Butler and my character Shelly Atwood is basically a bootleg of her. As for the title of my story, that came from an Otherwise song called “Beautiful Monster”, which talks about being in an abusive relationship and not having the courage to leave. The third source of inspiration came to me during a Pop Evil concert back in February of 2018. Black Map opened for them and during their set, a cute stocky black woman tried dancing with me and I was too nervous to engage her. I eventually walked away from her when she shoved another concertgoer with her elbow. Needless to say, she embarrassed the shit out of me and I was angry about it for the next two days. Three sources of inspiration for one novel. There you have it!

4. Zombie: Preferred form of writerly fuel? Coffee, tea, etc.

Since I can’t have caffeine due to my schizophrenia and coffee tastes like shit, I’m going with Well-Rested Herbal Tea from Trader Joe’s. I like my tea ice cold and unsweetened. Plus, this particular brand of tea is peppermint-flavored. I can’t say I’ve ever fallen asleep because of drinking this tea, but I like it nonetheless. It’s satisfying to drink and it’s good for me.

5. Vampire: Cheesiest trope that made it into your novel?

The romance between Windham and Tarja would qualify, although in the third draft, they’re going to take things slowly. Windham was just raped for a whole week, so romance is not on his list of top priorities. He also doesn’t want to be touched by anybody. This time around, I’m going to have Tarja respect his boundaries instead of being nosy and manipulative. They can bond over other things aside from sexual attraction. They both love animals. They both love art. They’re both politically liberal. They both want to retire from Shadow Asylum someday. And best of all, they both are good enough fighters to have each other’s backs during the worst of times.

6. Spider: What’s a character in your WIP that’s fine from afar, but you would NOT want to interact with if they ever got close?

This one’s a no-brainer: Shelly Atwood. She constantly looks like sex on a stick and that’s part of the reason she’s so successful at luring slaves into captivity. But make no mistake about it: she’s a businesswoman and a politician above all else. She doesn’t love you. She wants to make money off of you and she does that by selling you to horny clients. Sex slavery is her queendom’s national product. Some countries have tourism. Others have crops. She has fuckery.

7. Frankenstein’s Monster: Ever combined two characters into one/split one character into two?

The closest example I can come up with is the mercenary twin brothers Christian and Kody Savage. Aside from their facial tattoos, there’s not a whole lot of distinction between them. They’re both silent. They’re both brutal in combat. They drool and groan like wild animals. Basically, they’re not the kind of people you want to fuck with. In fact, if they do come up to you, run as fast as you fucking can!

8. Skeleton: Best tips for adding in character baggage without info-dumping?

Although I’m not an expert in this particular topic, what I like to do is use flashbacks. The original version of Beautiful Monster utilizes this technique for the first ten chapters as the story bounces between Windham’s captivity and him traveling with Tarja back to Shadow Asylum headquarters. I’m not so sure I can get away with that in the new version of the story, but for what it’s worth, I’d do it if the opportunity presented itself again.

9. Cat: What’s a polarizing writing/bookish opinion that you have?

Head-hopping is perfectly acceptable. I know it’s considered a literary sin, but if movies and TV shows can get away with it, authors should too. I didn’t hear any complaints during that episode of Seinfeld where Elaine and Keith Hernandez were having inner thoughts together after their date. In fact, the two of them kiss and Elaine thinks, “Who does this guy think he is?” and Keith thinks, “I’m Keith Hernandez.” Then again, Seinfeld might not be the best example due to its status as a sitcom. I know Carl Hiaasen head-hops and he’s one of my strongest influences.

10. Demon: Most frequent writing distraction?

Sleepiness brought on by a combination of mental illness, being overweight, and having sleep apnea. When I’m feeling too sleepy, I can’t concentrate and therefore will put out a shitty product. You guys deserve better than a shitty product despite the fact that all first drafts are shitty by their very nature. Imagine if I wrote Beautiful Monster with a constantly tired mind. It would go from being a drive-by abortion to a…uh…what’s worse than a drive-by abortion? Anybody? Help me out here.

That’s all I’ve got for you today. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Something about the way that she makes me hate myself. I could run away, but I don’t want no one else. Something about the way that she tears me up inside. Is it wrong that I love it when I know she’ll bleed me dry? So say what you want. It’s already done. It’s Russian Roulette and love is the gun. You don’t know her, you don’t know her like I do. Looking like an angel so divine, but you can see the devil in those eyes. She’s a monster by my side, baby. She’s taking me six feet down tonight, ‘cause dancing with the devil gets me high. She’s a monster. My beautiful monster. I don’t want to be saved.”

-Otherwise singing “Beautiful Monster”-