Crippled

“Where the hell is the goddamn delivery boy?” asked Joe Herzog as she laid in bed with ice on her swollen knee. The ice did a tremendous job of numbing her pain. Getting pissed off over a late breakfast burrito did not, as evidenced by her hissing noise. “Why does the damn tournament have to be a week away? This is horseshit! All that work for nothing!” She pounded her mattress and sent another jolt through her leg. “Damn it!”

Figuring it wasn’t a good idea to wait in bed for the delivery boy, Joe wrapped her knee in a heavy black bandage and hobbled out of the bedroom wearing just a white T-shirt and blue sleeping shorts. Every hop had her mumbling, “Ouch!” in a low, grumpy voice. Anybody who made it to the finals of a martial arts tournament only to go down with an injury would be grumpy as well.

Her tiny gnome body made looking at her hallway of trophies and medals a chore. Twisting her neck backwards just to look at second place accolades made her shake her head in disgust. “This is bullshit…this is fucking bullshit…” She resumed mumbling, “Ouch!” as she hobbled down the hall of shame and into the living room.

Resting across her tree stump table was a blue karate dress, one she wouldn’t be wearing again for a long time. Joe wiped away a singular tear with her finger before hobbling and cursing towards the table. “I should probably just set this damn thing on fire. Besides which, who the hell wears a dress into combat? It ain’t like…” She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror and frowned at what she perceived to be a lack of beauty. Joe sighed and sat down on her eiderdown couch. “I’ll get rid of that damn dress some other time. Goddamn knee injury…”

All Joe wanted to do was close her eyes and relax until her food got here. The throbbing and pulsating of her knee kept her eyes wide open no matter how comfortable she tried to make herself. And then…there was a knock on the door. More like a feverous pounding that got louder every time Joe tried to ignore it. “That better be my food or else I’m jamming this good for nothing leg up someone’s ass.”

The pounding of both Joe’s heart and front door resumed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” She hobbled over to the rune-covered entrance, where the pounding grated on her ears some more. “I said I’m coming, damn it! This better be good!” Reaching for the doorknob on her tippy-toes, she almost fell over as she swung the door wide open. “It’s about damn time! Uh-oh…”

It wasn’t a delivery boy. The only food this man was carrying was in his wide gut, about three hundred pounds worth. The scaly orange skin, the dragon-like face, the rotund frame, and the jeans held up by suspenders. A cold sweat broke out over Joe’s face as she fell backwards, giving her a better view of “The Chiropractor” Bargon Sevili. The moniker was silly to her until she remembered that amateur wrestling was his strong suit. She swallowed a lump and said, “Bargon…wha…what are you doing here? The finals aren’t until next week.”

Bargon leaned his drooling face down and said in a deep, raspy voice, “Yes, I know!” He slathered his tongue across his already slimy lips. “Sweet gee-nee girl! Lovable midget pie! Love muffin! Come here and let me…”

Joe screamed in terror before he could finish his cutesy-wutesy sentence. She scrambled to get back up on one leg, but kept falling over and sending more shockwaves through her crippled knee. Her clutches and whiny screams didn’t earn enough sympathy from Bargon to get him to wipe his smile off of his face. In fact, his deafening footsteps on the stone floor made Joe’s head throb worse than her knee.

Instead of trying to get up, Joe crawled across her filthy stone floor using just her elbows to drag her little body. Bargon took his sweet time in approaching his opponent, though the thudding of his boots didn’t help in giving Joe any comfort. She crawled so quickly that cuts and bruises formed on her arms. She swung her bedroom door open and crawled some more.

With adrenaline flooding her system like a biblical disaster, she endured even more scrapes as she hurried over to her wooden chest. She nearly popped her arm out of her socket reaching for the latch, but open it she did. Joe stood up on both legs, her sense of urgency allowing her to numb out her knee pain. The faster she dug through her belongings, the louder the footsteps pounded. Her hands shook as she fiddled with a metal object and some tiny shells.

She loaded the shells into her single barrel shotgun as fast as she could, though not without having to pick them up after dropping them repeatedly. “Guess who, sugar britches!” Bargon taunted in his saccharine ogre voice. Joe didn’t give a shit about her knee anymore. She stood terra firma in the center of her room locked and loaded, her bruised arms still trembling with fear.

The minute Bargon kicked the door open and said, “Ta-da!”, Joe pulled the trigger. She needed this easy victory over someone who was supposed to wait until next week to fight her. She needed to be in first place for once in her life. But the shotgun jammed and blew her backwards, sending her crashing through her glass window and into the grass. Shards ripped at her flesh. Her arms were embedded with glass. Her knee pain flared up to infernal levels. Little droplets of blood stained the grass beneath her. She whined and cried like the second place loser she was.

Even on soft grass and dirt, Bargon’s footsteps grew more obnoxious the closer he got to his victim. He had to squeeze his wide ass through the broken window, but he arrived at his destination all the same. He held the shotgun over Joe’s blood-covered face and snapped it over his knee. He discarded the broken pieces and dusted his hands off like it was nothing. Leaning his head down so that he could be eye-level with Joe, he said, “Give me your knee, you sweet piece of pumpkin pie!”

“Oh god…Oh my god…Please, just get it over with. Anywhere but the knee. Literally anywhere else!”

Despite Joe’s pathetic begging, Bargon indeed grabbed her by the injured leg, causing her to cry out in agony. After picking off a few pieces of glass and getting even more ocular juices out of Joe, he asked, “Are you ready, little darling?”

“…As ready as I’ll ever be…” whimpered Joe as she covered her face with her scarred arms.

“Good, because this is going to hurt like a bitch!” Bargon made good on his promise. He yanked on the injured leg and had Joe yelling in a high pitched, demonic tone.

It did hurt like a bitch. It was the most agonizing thing Joe had been through. But the best part about it? It only hurt for a few seconds. And then the pain was gone. Was she in heaven? Was St. Peter already opening the pearly gates for her? No, she was still on planet earth outside her home. She uncovered her face and wiggled her leg. No pain. She knew the injury was still there, but she didn’t feel like dying afterwards. “You…you really are a chiropractor? Um…uh…thanks?”

Bargon grabbed Joe by her shirt and leaned in so that they were nose-to-nose. His breath radiated with skunk odors, probably due to him not brushing his fangs in a long time. “I don’t need your thanks, Joey-Bowie. All I need from you is to be one hundred percent in the finals next week. That way, when I beat the living piss out of you, there’ll be no excuses. No knee injuries, no glass shards, no bullshit. If you lose to me and get second place again, you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself. You got it?” He threw her against the grass and said, “See you next week, sugar plum” before blowing her a kiss and walking away.

Any gratitude Joe felt for her opponent twisted in the wind when she noticed a foil-wrapped burrito sticking out of his back pocket. “Hey! That’s my breakfast, you asshole!”

Bargon pulled the burrito out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and took a massive bite out of it. With a full mouth, he said, “It’s my breakfast now! Besides, if you want to beat me in the finals and be a winner for the first time in your mediocre career, you’ve got to eat better than this. You’re getting a little chunky around the belly. See you soon!”

As the demonic ogre walked away, Joe clenched her fists and stood up, her knee staying pain free the entire time. She wasn’t thinking about burning her karate dress anymore. She wasn’t looking at her second place accolades with scorn. After a morning like this one, Joe Herzog had all the motivation she could ever want. She would train as hard as she damn well could. She would pump more iron, run more laps, and beat the training bag like it owed her a breakfast burrito.

With her muscles bulging and the shaky adrenaline morphing into raw anger, Joe shouted out, “You should have killed me when you had the chance, you fat pig! I’m not just going to beat you in the finals! I’m going to destroy your career! You hear me, Bargon Sevili?! You’re a dead motherfucker!” Joe raised her fists to the sky and let out a primal scream to anyone who would listen, letting them know that motivation was not an issue anymore.

"Wrestling, Issue One" by What Culture

BOOK TITLE: Wrestling, Issue One

AUTHORS: What Culture Staff

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Pro-Wrestling Bookazine

GRADE: Mixed

The articles can be fascinating to any hardcore wrestling fan, but not if they suffer from the same typographical errors as the next volume in the series. Vince McMahon’s first name was spelled without an N, the word match had its A capitalized, the word to was all-caps for no apparent reason, need I name more? This wouldn’t be too big of an issue if the typos were few and far between, but they occur so frequently that I can’t give this bookazine a passing grade. A reputable editor with a fresh set of eyes could have easily pinpointed these glaring mistakes and polished this otherwise fine piece of reading material to higher standards.

Typos aside, the articles were actually fun to read, with the glaring exception of WWE vs. Internet Fans. To me, that just sounded like a bitter old man ranting and raving about the inevitable emergence of the internet, as if this new technology is somehow to blame for wrestling being as bad as it can be sometimes. It seems uncharacteristic of What Culture’s writing staff to put out such an article considering they themselves are wrestling critics and employ a mostly millennial workforce. Maybe this particular article author was an outsider from the beginning, I don’t know.

But enough about the negativity. Let’s talk about my two favorite articles in this whole bookazine. Let’s begin with Britney Pillman’s story about how her father, Brian, died of a heart attack while preparing for a WWF pay-per-view. To hear the author describe Britney’s pain as she grew up with a drug-addicted stepmother and without a loving father, it tugs at the heartstrings and makes the reader want to legitimately root for her life to improve. While Britney is in a better place since the tragic incident, she did miss out on royalty payments from the WWF that instead went to the drug-addicted stepmother Melanie Pillman. I wouldn’t wish such poverty and heartache on my worst enemy. We’ve all had to deal with toxic people at one point or another, but I think any reader can agree that Britney and her siblings need a permanent vacation from them. That’s what the author of the article did for me as a reader: put me in the role of cheerleader.

And of course, Adam Blampied’s undying creativity will always be my favorite part of What Culture’s past. Although his recent sex scandal puts me in a tough position with regards to his fandom, I can at least enjoy his vision for how he would book Rey Mysterio’s first World Championship run in WWE. No more will the lovable luchador be jobbed out to everybody and their uncle. He’ll win matches by the skin of his teeth, like a true underdog hero is supposed to. He’ll have credible opponents to put him over the moon. He’ll have blood-curdling storylines that aren’t nearly as despicable with Eddie Guerrero’s legacy as real life was. If Rey Mysterio had been booked under Adam Blampied’s guidance, I would have been a bigger believer in this ultimate underdog. But as it is…

The negatives of this bookazine shouldn’t turn you away from what is ultimately a fun read for all wrestling fans. Typos are easy to fix and even if they wanted to keep the anti-internet fan article, readers could just skip over it. There’s a top 100 wrestling match list,  a fantasy world cup tournament, a nice juxtaposition between Bray Wyatt and his eerie theme song, too many wonderful articles to name. Though not perfect, this work of nonfiction will get a respectable mixed grade out of me.

Psycho Crusher

VERSE 1

My psycho power knows no limits

Wreck your ass within just a minute

Steal your soul in a ritual so dark

Your new nickname is The Human Scar

CHORUS

Psycho Crusher! X4

VERSE 2

Throw your fireballs all you desire

Throw your lightning kicks until you tire

A hundred hand slap could finish any fight

But victory is mine even if only for tonight

Meet me in Thailand for the final round

Throw punches so hard, they shake the ground

This world is mine to conquer and rule

You’re a worthy opponent, but a blind fool

CHORUS

Psycho Crusher! X4

M. BISON QUOTE

Get lost! You can’t compare with my powers!

VERSE 3

You trained your ass off to get to this point

But in the end, your battle cries are white noise

Your hurricane kicks are just cheap ass tricks

Your dragon punches make me fucking sick

You never stood a chance in my tournament

You plead for mercy without earning it

Better luck next time, you second rate hack

Try again when you’re not lying on your back

CHORUS

Psycho Crusher! X4

M. BISON QUOTE

Anyone who opposes me must be destroyed!

"Double Whammy" by Carl Hiaasen

BOOK TITLE: Double Whammy

AUTHOR: Carl Hiaasen

YEAR: 1987

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Environmental Thriller

GRADE: Pass

In the always wacky state of Florida, RJ Decker is a private investigator trying to make ends meet and his latest assignment fetches a high price. He’s assigned by an arrogant sports fisherman named Dennis Gault to catch his rival Dickie Lockhart cheating in a high stakes fishing tournament. What seems like an easy assignment quickly escalates into a murder conspiracy involving a psychotic eco-terrorist, a seductive blackmailer, and a shady televangelist to name a few. Nobody is safe from this chaotic form of storytelling and that’s the way Carl Hiaasen likes it.

One thing I will always love about Mr. Hiaasen’s books is how reliable he is when it comes to delivering the goods. I haven’t read a bad Hiaasen book yet and Double Whammy is no exception to the rule. It’s especially refreshing to read considering a previous book I read from another author was so god awful that I couldn’t make it past the halfway mark. There are plenty of aspects to choose from when it comes to liking a Hiaasen book: extensive knowledge of the law, colorful characters, satisfying comeuppances, or just being hooked until the very end (not unlike the twenty-plus pound bass the fishermen in this tournament are trying to catch).

When it comes to colorful characters, there are none more colorful than Clinton Tyree a.k.a. Skink. This former governor of Florida wanted to run his state the honest way, which meant refusing money from special interest groups and never selling out his democratic beliefs. And then he was forced out of office by his corrupt opponents and went delightfully insane. Now a drifting eco-terrorist, he runs around in a shower cap and rain suit looking for creative ways to dismantle his opponents. If this already sounds like a wonderfully-written profile to you, you’re in luck, because Skink is a recurring character throughout most of Carl Hiaasen’s catalogue.

And of course, wherever there’s Skink, black highway patrolman Jim Tile isn’t far behind. Don’t worry, because Jim Tile and Skink are actually close friends who help each other out for the common good. Mr. Tile takes a lot of racially-charged abuse from the people he pulls over on the highway, yet he maintains his cool and serious demeanor through it all. He doesn’t use force unless it’s absolutely necessary, in which case, his amateur wrestling background will come in handy for turning a racist redneck’s arm into a wet noodle. To be honest, we need more cops like Jim Tile and less murderers like Darren Wilson. If black readers ever need a hero to look up to, they can always rely on Jim Tile to be their role model.

Thank you, Carl Hiaasen, for bringing me another fantastic crime novel and thank you for being a constant influence on my own writing. There’s a reason why you’re one of my favorites. In fact, there are many reasons, but I won’t name them all lest this brief review turn into a novel itself (and not a novel as entertaining as Double Whammy). I’ve made it a personal goal of mine to read through Mr. Hiaasen’s entire catalogue. I’ve already blitzed through over half of it, so getting through the rest is going to be easy-breezy-lemon-squeezy. A passing grade will go to this delightful and fun novel!

"The Savior's Champion" by Jenna Moreci

BOOK TITLE: The Savior’s Champion

AUTHOR: Jenna Moreci

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Dark Fantasy

GRADE: Extra Credit

In a medieval tournament to crown The Savior’s husband, twenty men must venture through trap-infested tunnels, complete blood-curdling challenges, and even fight each other to the death until one man is left standing. Muscle-bound mercenaries, arrogant royals, and imaginative artists are among these twenty competitors. Tobias Kaya, a sugar mill worker and former painter, only wants to be a part of this tournament so that he can earn enough money for his impoverished family and handicapped sister. He gives less than a damn about The Savior and instead forms a secretive romance with a healer girl named Leila. Their relationship could lead to charges of blasphemy and possibly execution. After all the violence and trauma the tournament has to offer, Tobias’s love for Leila is the most real thing to him.

I must say, it has been years since a book hit me so hard in the feels that I thought I’d fall to pieces right then and there. Every emotion Tobias went through in this heinous tournament, I felt a hundred fold. The trauma of his friends being savagely murdered, the heartbreak of his arguments with Leila, the warm fuzziness of their passionate loving moments, the tears that fell down both of their cheeks, they all solidified what would become my Tobias-Bias. I connected with his anger, sadness, and passion like no other character. I came very close to crying myself at times, but if I won’t reveal the events that made me do so, because that would unveil too many spoilers. As a reader, you want Tobias to succeed and be happy despite all the misery and bloodshed the tournament brings.

And then you have characters in this story who deserve all the venomous hate you’ve got bottled up in your heart. The Sovereign, Brontes, will get under your skin quicker than a jagged dagger with his humiliating and loathsome treatment of Tobias. The Sovereign’s favorite muscle-bound competitors, Kaleo, Drake, and Antaeus, will have you wishing over and over again for somebody to throw them screaming form a helicopter. And Flynn? Well, he comes off as a harmless arrogant jerk at first, but as the story progresses, you’ll want to strap him to a chair and beat him with hammers. This isn’t just mild annoyance you’ll have with the villains of the story. You’ll be seething with rage at them. You’ll see red 24/7. You’ll drool like a rabid wolverine. You’ll wish you could kill them yourself. These kinds of villains are the most effective and I commend Jenna Moreci for making me want to punch them endlessly in the face.

What else could be said about this wonderfully-crafted piece of fiction? The traps in the underground tunnels are creatively put together, that’s for sure. The spider trap reminded me of the tarantula scene from Something Wicked This Way Comes. The fanged pigs served as the perfect form of mockery, which will make you want to strangle the Sovereign even more. And when Tobias goes through these blood-spraying traps, you’ll feel those too along with his colorful palette of emotions. These are the kinds of traps that would make the creators of the Saw franchise jealous. Jenna Moreci left no stone unturned with these obstacles and for that she should be commended.

The Savior’s Champion is bloody. It is heartbreaking. It is tearful. It is well-written. But most of all, it’s proof that independently published authors are not to be laughed at. Other self-published authors such as myself should look up to Jenna Moreci as a beacon of hope and a role model for what a professional author should be. I’m so confident in her abilities as an author that I wouldn’t doubt the idea of a movie deal coming her way soon. “The Savior’s Champion. Rated R. Starts Friday at a theater near you.” An extra credit grade will go to this beautifully-crafted novel that hit me in the feels harder than any one of Kaleo’s right hooks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to look for someone to give me a hug. I need one!

Lionize

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Lionize Entertainment’s fiftieth anniversary of the Lion Cup Tournament! My name is Andrea Lovell and I am the CEO of Lionize Entertainment! We’re going to have a fucking fun night of blood and death tonight!”

Hearing his boss echo those words throughout a coliseum full of roaring fans made Dargoth Destroyer sick to his stomach and set his aching brain on fire. The barbarian warrior firmly believed Andrea only had her job because she looked like a million bucks in a short skirt and high heels. She was easy to fantasize about, but hard to love.

Dargoth was too busy loving his own wife and kids back home. He loved them so much that he would rip the limbs off of any opponent who dared stand in the way of a paycheck and beat them to death like little bitches. With his wrecking ball muscles and volcanic temper, he could do just that to pretty much anybody.

Then again, so could Dargoth’s opponent for the evening, Zeal Cottonwood. The rotten-smelling, blue skinned zombie towered over the barbarian with a skyscraper height and muscles that might as well be registered as deadly weapons (even the small and insignificant ones). Zeal stared down into Dargoth’s eyes with neon-colored madness and smiled with rusty-nail teeth.

The barbarian, having already had visions of blood and brutality locked forever in his brain, refused to give even an inch of trembling to this undead beast with greasy long hair. The two opponents were so laser-focused into each other’s menacing eyeballs that they tuned out the crowd and Andrea Lovell’s nails-on-a-chalkboard voice completely.

It wasn’t until Miss Lovell, who sat at her golden throne in a skybox above the coliseum, snapped into the microphone, “HEY!” that the two combatants gave her their undying attention with wicked glares. “Are you two ready to put on a hell of a show for these rowdy animals?! Give ‘em hell!” Rowdy animals became the understatement of the year when the beer-drinking, T-shirt and jeans wearing crowd’s cheers bored into the combatants’ eardrums like a power drill. Even Zeal Cottonwood couldn’t help but grunt lightly at the sudden explosion of volume.

“Ready to get your ass whipped, little buddy?” growled Zeal in a monstrous tone. He leaned his sour milk-fragranced face in closer and whispered, “Between you and me, I wouldn’t worry too much about that wife of yours. I hear she’s banging the shit out of a hotter version of you. That lucrative contract of yours is going up her nose and in her G-spots!”

Zeal’s demonic cackle prompted the angrily trembling Dargoth to head butt his opponent in the nose. Both men clutched their noggins in pain and groaned minimally, but Dargoth was the only one between the two who staggered after such a brutal move. Zeal chuckled, “Is that all you got, little man? No wonder your wife’s sleeping around. That spaghetti dick of yours couldn’t satisfy a bitch like her anyways!”

Dargoth’s fiery adrenaline was smothered in kerosene, causing the hefty barbarian to spear tackle Zeal’s gut so hard that the seven-foot zombie flipped in the air like a pancake and flattened to the ground like one too. The barbarian’s muscles tightened as tough as steel with every brick-like punch he threw at the zombie’s already decrepit face. Teeth flew everywhere, pimples popped like grenades, blood splattered across the dirt floor, but through it all, Zeal never lost his smile and Dargoth’s hands reddened with electrified pain.

Zeal Cottonwood pushed Dargoth Destroyer in the air with his booted feet and nipped up in time to catch the smaller warrior in a military press. The audience “oooed” and “ahhed” like a herd of sheep while Zeal did strength training repetitions with Dargoth’s 300 lb. body. The barbarian tried to rake and punch at his opponent’s eyes, but the zombie wouldn’t relent. He tossed the smaller opponent across the dirt arena and caused him to bounce up and down along the way, forming bruises the size and disgustingness of rotten tomatoes.

Everything in Dargoth’s body felt as though he had been stepped on by Godzilla and rubbed across the asphalt. Yet the mental images of his beautiful wife and his two sweethearted daughters sent a rush of hot lava through his veins. This kind of money would keep them fed forever.

It would give the daughters an education they wouldn’t have dreamed of having in the ghetto neighborhood. It would give his wife a life of happiness and stability. If he didn’t get up and fight at this very moment, they would think of him as a failure and they’d most likely die from hunger in such a downtrodden economy. It was such a distasteful way to make money, but in Dargoth’s mind, there was no such thing as too much hard work.

By the time the barbarian heaved his clumsy ass off the ground, he peered up through bloodshot, dirt-covered eyes to find Zeal had a live chainsaw roaring to life in his hands. There were weapons scattered everywhere on the bloodstained ground from staves to swords to axes. Dargoth picked up an axe in his sore hands and then in a surprise move broke it over his knee to send a message: “Weapons are for pussies! If you want to fight like a pussy, I’ll treat you like one, Zeal! Come on, bitch!”

The gargantuan zombie rushed towards Dargoth swinging his power tool like a deranged samurai while Dargoth egged him on with a “come at me” hand gesture. The chainsaw blazed and buzzed all around the barbarian while the muscly warrior dodged and cartwheeled to safety despite losing a lock of his own sweaty hair.

Dargoth saw his opening when he ducked a decapitation attempt and went for a hard uppercut to the jaw. Zeal staggered backwards in dizziness and dropped his weapon. The barbarian continued to pummel his opponent with hard-hitting, rapid fire strikes that connected with thuds, cracks, and explosions. The primitive warrior tucked his head underneath Zeal’s crotch and hoisted the hefty warrior on his shoulders before slamming him down on his back with a shotgun blast thud. Even more cracks and bursts echoed throughout the arena as did the obnoxious cheers of both the audience and Andrea Lovell, who sat at her throne mockingly clapping for her independent contractor. “Finish him, Dargoth! Finish him now, you sick son of a bitch!”

The barbarian stared at the scantily clad, leggy CEO with cyanide in his eyes and iron in his gritted teeth. Winning the Lion Cup Tournament would guarantee him all the money he wanted for his family, but he would still be locked in a contract that put him in danger with every match. His body ached twenty-four-seven. He threw up his meals nightly. If he got the chance to go home at all, he would look like a monster to his family and scare them off. Maybe Zeal’s harsh rumors of infidelity would be completely justifiable at that point (if they were true). Surely, there had to be other ways of making lucrative money with his skills. Maybe there was…

Dargoth’s iron will wouldn’t be broken. One more death to go. Just one more. His target was in plain sight. The Lion Cup and everything that came with it would be his forever. He glanced at the live chainsaw and heaved the heavy machinery over his head with the intent to rip and shred. The audience roared and bellowed for Zeal’s bloody and disgusting death. He was just laying there ready to be dissected. Dargoth smiled a sadistic smile and approached Zeal with slow movements while the zombie rolled around and groaned in horrific pain. And then…the barbarian tossed the chainsaw like a boomerang.

But instead of grinding zombie meat, he chucked the whirring blade at Andrea Lovell so many feet in the air. The CEO gasped in horror before tucking and rolling out of the blade’s path. The audience gasped as well at the sight of the chainsaw embedded in the golden throne still buzzing.

After straightening her hair and fixing her skirt, Andrea stood back up with a queen’s posture and glared with hellish hatred at the menacing barbarian. She picked up the microphone and sneered, “So that’s how you plan on getting out of your contract, huh? By killing me?” Dargoth nodded and the audience booed him with plenty of bass in their voices.

The CEO scolded, “It’s a good thing your children are being well-educated with all of this money, because their daddy is the biggest dumb shit to step in my coliseum! Sure, you can kill me and rob me of the rest of your earnings, but you won’t be solving a damn thing, my friend. Ever heard the phrase power vacuum? Without me, all of your worst enemies will be gunning for my position. If you thought fighting to the death for my entertainment was bad, try fighting for the power I wield on a day-to-day basis. You already know what ISIS looks like. Try and picture the Lionize Entertainment version of ISIS! My corporation will last until the end of time, but your misery will be forever, just like your contract! You didn’t think this one through very well, did you?!”

Dargoth clenched his fists so tightly that his bloody fingernails dug into his palms and he didn’t give a shit about the pain. He didn’t want to admit it, but she was right: cutting off the head of the snake would create a hydra, not a corpse. A contractual slave like him couldn’t even dream of the power it took to run a whole corporation. What havoc had he brought upon himself? What danger did he put his beloved family in?

As he contemplated the consequences of his “easy way out”, Dargoth felt a tight presence squeeze around his torso until his body was pencil thin. His head turned purple, his veins grew to the size of tunnels, and his ribs were cracking like Rice Crispies. He peeked up and saw that Zeal Cottonwood was the one squeezing like a motherfucker, much to Andrea’s laughing delight. She even chimed in, “Squeeze harder! Pop him like a pimple! Make him suffer!”

Listening to that wasp-like voice sent Dargoth into rampage mode when he stomped on Zeal’s foot with the force of a jackhammer and head butted him in the jaw. The barbarian staggered around in dizziness and rasped for oxygen, but the zombie had released his grip and stumbled backwards himself.

As soon as Dargoth’s lungs no longer felt like he swallowed a battleaxe, Zeal went for an overhead strike. Dargoth ducked underneath and transitioned behind the zombie with an arm choke. The barbarian squeezed with enough force to pop more pimples and blood vessels on Zeal’s face. He even loosened a few rotten teeth. But the minute the zombie’s eyeballs popped out of his head, his brains leaked onto the floor and he was limp as Dargoth’s “spaghetti dick”.

As soon as Zeal plopped over dead, Dargoth Destroyer raised his fists to the sky to declare victory. The audience roared like jungle cats in approval and high fived each other while chanting Dargoth’s name. Even Andrea gave him a little golf clap while saying into the microphone, “I hope your wife is watching!”

Indeed she was watching. From the comfort of her soft, silky-sheeted bed, Mrs. Destroyer watched the violence with a satisfied, teary-eyed smile on her face. “Thank you so much, my dear! Thank you!” The other man who was grateful unwrapped the towel from his muscular waist and climbed into bed with her with a silver tray of cocaine in his hands. The wife smiled lovingly at her paramour before rolling up a dollar bill and snorting sweet candy right up her slender nose. The paramour snorted some too before the lovers got it on underneath the sheets.

Little did they know that from the crack of their bedroom door, two teary-eyed girls watched the whole thing. The daughters hugged each other tightly and smeared their salty eye fluids across their Winnie the Pooh pajama sleeves. “I miss daddy,” one of them whispered to the other while a night of hot cocaine-laced sex was unfolding before them.

"Nature of the Beast" by Adam Mansbach

BOOK TITLE: Nature of the Beast
AUTHOR: Adam Mansbach
YEAR: 2012
GENRE: Graphic Novel
SUBGENRE: Science Fiction
GRADE: Mixed


Single father, alligator wrestler, and all-around tough guy Bruno Bolo enters a tournament pitting himself against the deadliest animals from around the world from sharks to gorillas to polar bears to whatever else can snap a normal man’s spine in half within seconds. He thinks he’s going to earn a million dollars for his victory, but the tournament is really part of a conspiracy to determine who fights the alien invaders who want to bring the apocalypse to earth. Bruno is already a Gary-Stu-esque superman, but after being sprayed with angry hormones, he’s pretty much unstoppable.

Just like with any science-fiction, fantasy, or superhero graphic novel, badass violence is a must. Bruno and the wild animals he fights not only bring the violence, they leave blood bombs behind them. If you’re a fan of hardcore action, you’re going to get it with this graphic novel, no question about it.

I personally don’t care if Bruno comes off as a Gary-Stu. As a child, I played videogames where Gary-Stu’s were the main characters (Ryu from Street Fighter, the barbarian from Diablo II, Gorge from Unreal Championship, etc.) Yes, I know it’s intended to be a literary slur, but I’m allowed to enjoy a little hardcore violence every now and then. I still enjoy it to this day when I’m watching WWE and Roman Reigns is punching everyone’s lights out.

Here’s what I do take issue with: the animal aspect. I have dogs and cats around my home and they’re all as sweet as can be. While it is true that the animals in Nature of the Beast are a lot scarier than my dogs and cats, it doesn’t take away from them being innocent animals. These animals didn’t choose to be fighters in a tournament; they were raised that way by the scientists behind the scenes. Hell, there was even a scene where one of the scientists sprayed the anger hormones in a pit bull’s face. The dog went from being a smiling puppy-dup to a raging lunatic within seconds of being sprayed.

Bottom line: forcing “scary” animals to fight each other is no different from forcing dogs and roosters to do the same. At least when it happens in the wild, the animal is protecting something precious of theirs. What do they have to fight for in an arena under the watch of scientists? Fame? Fortune? Sadistic urges? I’ll get off my soapbox now.

This book gets mixed reception from me, or for those of you on Good Reads, 3 out of 5 stars. When you make your own conscience decision to buy this graphic novel (and it is your own choice in the end), you have to find a balance within your mind between the badass action and the sympathy for animals. You might like the bloody violence and give this thing a full five stars. You might be the future president of the ASPCA and give this book one star. You might be a fence-rider like me who finds validity in both sides of the spectrum. Or if you want to avoid this debate altogether, buy a copy of Adam Mansbach’s “Go the Fuck to Sleep” instead. I have a niece and that book made me giggle.

　

***MOVIE QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“It’s not every day you see a horse with two rear-ends!”

-Aladdin from “Aladdin”-

Lego Ogre with a Tooth Hammer

Toys continue to be a part of my life even now that I’m well into adulthood and technically “too old” for them. While I don’t actually get them out and play with them like I did as a kid, I do have aspirations of using them as characters in either my short stories or my novels. My Lego ogre with a tooth hammer isn’t any different. He may look like dots and studs to you, but to me, he’s a hulking, destructive, demonic, badass fucking giant with a spike hammer that can drive telephone poles into the ground like nails. You’re damn right he’s going to be a villain one day.

I found this devilish beauty while vacationing in Canada as part of my WWU graduation celebration. Canada is already a lovely country to live in, but add to that a toy store with an affinity for Legos and I’m in heaven. The Lego set itself was $50 and came from the Creator series. If you’re not familiar it, every set in that series can be one of three different things. In the case of the one I bought, it could have been either an Asian dragon, a European dragon, or the one I chose, a big fucking ogre with a mountain-crushing hammer. Guess which one I chose.

I don’t have an official first and last name for this character, but he was at one point a protagonist in the first act of an all-dialogue novel called Toy Story Extreme. At the time, his name was Jinn Malakian and he was a finalist in a fighting tournament that took place all over Port Orchard, Washington from my bedroom to Quizno’s to the convenience store. The whole point of Jinn’s character was that he was being forced to fight for his master’s sick pleasure (at the risk of being sold to Goodwill or Ross). The master eventually went to jail for vandalizing all of the “battlefields” and Jinn Malakian quietly disappeared from the story.

As an artist, I’m my own worst critic. Nobody will ever be more critical of me than I am of me. You can thank Dave Batista for that sound byte. It’s because of my self-toughness that Toy Story Extreme will never be allowed to see publication on my Smash Words, Amazon, or Lulu accounts. The all-dialogue format sounds good on paper, but when my bread and butter happens to be hyperbolic descriptions mostly used by WWE commentators, then the novel suffers horribly, so much so it’s irreparable.

Because of a foolish writing style on my part, the ogre formerly known as Jinn Malakian is unemployed yet again. He’s my favorite toy. I’d even dare say he’s the face of whatever story he’s a part of (despite that face being hideous to look at with the elongated teeth and dense jawbone). In a strange way, I see a little bit of Diablo 2’s barbarian class in my Lego ogre. They’re both vicious, raging warriors who prefer the thrill of toe-to-toe combat over cowardly striking from afar.

Then again, anybody who went up against this monster could be considered a coward. An intelligent and wise coward, but a coward nonetheless. Someday he’ll be part of a story. I’m even considering using him in my current dark fantasy novel Fireball Nightmare, the same novel that stars Deus Shadowheart and Dr. Scott Cain. That’s how much he means to me.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“If I hadn’t left the WWE, nobody would know who John Cena was. He would have been buying boxes of Fruity Pebbles and eating them at home instead of getting paid to eat them.”

-Brock Lesnar-