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IDK

We’re not damsels in distress. We’re not Mary-Sues and Gary-Stus. We’re not femme fatales. Whether we see each other this way or not, everybody in this lifetime is a three-dimensional character. One of the many things that make a character three-dimensional is a goal or an ambition, more than one, in fact. Why do you think we’re so prepared at job interviews whenever the boss man asks us where we see ourselves in ten years? It should be a piece of cake for me to know where I want to go with my writing career. I’m living in this body, so I know where all the brain neurons lead to. Therefore…my ultimate goal for my writing career is…uh…actually, it’s…(sigh)…

IDK, which either means I Don’t Know or I Decay, depending on how often you listen to Gemini Syndrome. As a burned out, low-energy sad sap, IDK is something I say quite often when confronted with questions ranging from the most difficult to bare-bones simplicity. “What are your plans for the day?” IDK. “Where’s your brother?” IDK. “How come you don’t know?” IDK. “What do you want to do with your writing career?” IDK. That last one is how we got to this essay. There are many reasons for wanting a writing career and all of them are valid. But the trick is finding which one suits you the best. I used to think I had a grip on it all, but then expectations vs. reality gave me the world’s hardest kick in the nuts. What once were good reasons for me don’t seem logical in today’s life, especially when factoring in mental health and financial resources.

So…what’s one common reason why people start a writing career? Fortune and fame? Sure, why not. If Stephen King can build an empire of cash, surely I could too. If JK Rowling can build a throne of bones that came from transgender people…wait a minute, bad example, never mind. Surely my skills could skyrocket me into the stratosphere and have me floating in space like Major Tom from a David Bowie song. Right? Well, I hate to burst your space man bubble helmet, but the authors who do go on to become legends are in a tiny minority. Everybody’s heard of Stephen King, but hardly anybody I talk to has heard of Brett Battles, a thriller author whose work inspired me to become a born-again bookworm. Brett Battles can crank out bangers, so why isn’t he Scrooge McDucking a pool of gold coins? Because meritocracy is a myth, that’s why.

But even if I could achieve worldwide fame where everybody knows my name like a Cheers character, not all of those people are going to love me or what I do. In fact, there are going to be a lot of trolls lurking in the shadows waiting to plant suicidal seeds in my head which eventually sprout into full-on schizophrenic hallucinations. There could be thousands of five-star reviews for one of my books, but if one hideous creep tells me I should get sodomized in prison, then my brain will self-destruct and spiral into ashes. Take that one bastard’s words and multiply them across billions of people. My head could explode just from the stress alone and so could my heart. Sensory overload isn’t good for an autistic brain with multiple mental illnesses. They call it meat with electricity inside for a reason, though it’s closer to soggy bacon or tapioca pudding.

And of course, that much fame surely has to come with billions of dollars, right? I should be able to buy Twitter with that much money and tell Elon Musk to eat a dick that looks like a space rocket. But when I think about it, do I really need that much money? Is it not enough just for me to live comfortably and occasionally travel so that I can see my online friends up close and in person? Do I really need five thousand yachts and eight hundred rocket ships that look like dildos? Do I really need a limousine when a normal car driven by one of my family members would do just fine? Do I really need to attend parties full of hookers and blow, double entendre definitely intended? What about the homeless population who are struggling to stay alive? Shouldn’t they be getting low-cost housing? Shouldn’t people in general eat three meals a day and not have to worry about whether they’ll be there or not? I don’t need to be a billionaire. Nobody does. I need for the world to be happy and healthy. I need for children to have their needs met without worrying about dying. Not really a controversial stance, is it?

Okay, so fame and fortune aren’t realistic expectations for me as an author. Maybe I should focus on the love of the craft or having a positive influence on my audience. But in order for those things to happen, I have to have a bigger audience than I do now, which means opening myself up to swarms of trolls who overrun me like little zerglings from Starcraft. But if I stay in the shadows, then my work will reach nobody at all and I’ll never know if I’m having a positive influence on my audience. Yes, I could create my art and not share it at all. I could do it all just for me. But what’s the point? What kind of permanence will it have if nobody knows about it but me? Where’s my digital footprint? Where’s my immortality? I don’t want to take my writing to the grave with me, because I don’t see the point in writing it in the first place if it doesn’t immortalize me in some way. I want it to be for something. I want to make a difference in this world. Otherwise, why am I here in the first place? No, zerglings, this isn’t an invite for you to swarm me with death threats and pictures of my house.

Are there any reasons left? Did I cover them all? There could be more, but I don’t have access to them right now. I could take a quick trip to Google and find more, but we’d be here forever and a day and I don’t have that much time in my schedule. But even if the answers were readily available to me, I’d still give my typical IDK answer, which either means I Don’t Know or I Decay, depending on how badly my mind is rotting on any given day. I don’t know what I want to do with my writing career. There are pros and cons to every available reason. There is no one size fits all plan for me. But does this mean I want to give up and do something else for the rest of my life? Hell no. I want to continue. I want to keep shouting into the void with my literary skills. Even if the entire internet hates my guts because of a cave painting I created in 7 Million BC, fuck it, I’ll continue my career anyways.

But is it okay for me to have an aimless direction? Is it okay for me to be completely rudderless and constantly in zombie mode looking for the next brain to munch on? Is it okay to prioritize my mental health over fame and fortune? Is it okay to ignore the marketing part of my job knowing that the abyss will never respond to me in a meaningful way? Where do I go from here? I could just finish writing my current novel, but even once it’s over, then what? Do I write another hoping that one will rejuvenate my career? Do I write another poetry collection? Another short story collection? Do I just keep writing and writing in hopes that something will change? Do I even want things to change? Will I be happier when things change or will I stagnate some more? Say it with me now: IDK. Does it mean I Don’t Know or I Decay? Yes. Abso-fucking-lutely yes.

Rest in Power, Gay Reynolds

 His driver’s license said Gabriel, he went by Gay

He’d do anything and anyone to get his fat payday

He had the 70’s moustache and a tray full of ash

Viagra and cocaine tucked inside his private stash

Eight hours of on-camera sex was what he had

A waterfall climax until his pecker looked so sad

For god knows how much money, the gig wasn’t bad

No longer will he miss a payment on his bachelor pad

Couldn’t find this kind of cheddar jockeying a cash box

Couldn’t find all these greenbacks curing smallpox

Would end up on the streets if he went to school to teach

Couldn’t cut it as a field hand picking every last peach

But the biggest price he paid when he got himself laid

Was some protests on his lawn and some online shade

More DM’s in his inbox than he could possibly delete

Asking for a free fuck, on their marriages they cheat

Every judgmental eye stares some daggers in his soul

They know about every hole, terrorism is their goal

A Molotov bomb thrown through his front window

Before they even get a chance to try to fucking know

What his struggles really are, explosives in his car

Blowing every little piece of him fifty feet apart

Why all of the hate for a guy trying to get by?

Couldn’t win against capitalism even if he tried

No love from the police, not a desist or a cease

Not even a bodyguard with a wild pay increase

The world learned to hate, so they sealed his fate

Could’ve been a porno legend, could’ve been great

Everybody mocks what they don’t understand

Rest in Power, Gay Reynolds, in the Promised Land

Never did he know that he left behind a daughter

Mother was a fellow actress also led to slaughter

A kid in foster care never stood a chance there

I wouldn’t blame her if she was constantly scared

Calling out for her parents but the bullies answer

Wishing her to have a malignant form of cancer

Who is anybody to point and laugh and judge?

Roles were reversed? Life would be just as tough

"In the Presence of Knowing" by Valarie Savage Kinney

BOOK TITLE: In the Presence of Knowing

AUTHOR: Valarie Savage Kinney

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Urban Fantasy

GRADE: Extra Credit

When her alcoholic ex-boyfriend Vince beats her while she’s pregnant, Keisha runs away from home and into the safety of her best friend Layla. Layla helps her get a job at the Windy Springs renaissance faire, a seasonal home for trolls, faeries, gnomes, witches, and other magical creatures that oftentimes blur the lines between fantasy and reality. During one of her treks into the forest, Keisha meets a troll named Gibble (real name Rogan O’Connor) and the two of them form a protective and healthy friendship with each other, something Keisha needed in her life ever since splitting from Vince. Speak of the devil, he’s still out there somewhere and could show up any minute to finish the beating he started at the beginning of the story.

One of the main reasons why I decided to give this book a full five stars was because of how much I loved the relationship between Keisha and Rogan. Their friendship development moves along too fast for some people’s comfort, but none of it feels forced or hokey. These two are perfect for each other. They use their demons to become better people instead of bitter and angry like Vince. Whenever they do get into an argument or two, it makes them stronger and better able to face adversity. They share secrets with each other not out of obligation, but because it’s what they genuinely want. If two people are this good for each other, who cares how fast everything moves? If anything, the readers will want them to get together sooner. While Keisha doesn’t have the martial arts know-how that Rogan does, I still consider these two to be equals in other areas of their relationship. Those are the best kinds of couples, the ones whose love you can believe in.

While Keisha can fend off her demons long enough to be in a healthy relationship with Rogan, she still has those demons in the first place and it shows in her thought processes. Her self-punishment is incredibly realistic of someone who’s been in a previously abusive relationship. Her anxiety and possible PTSD are written in a way that makes me believe the author had some kind of experience with these mental illnesses. Her constant worry over her child is nerve-wracking to read about at times, but it goes to show how much of a loving mother she’ll eventually become when the baby is born. Keisha is a top example of a flawed character whose weaknesses don’t ruin the character development or make them unlikable. Other authors could learn something from this. I know I did.

And then we have the renaissance faire, which aside from the evil witch Cordelia sounds like a fun place to spend a day or even work at. Whether it’s the comedic and lighthearted aura of the trolls and gnomes, the eccentricity of the pirates, the class and elegance of the faeries, or anything else that has to do with the fantasy genre, I’m giving my due props to the author for her undying creativity and passion for putting together this world. People come to medieval conventions to get away from the harsh realities of real life. They can be anything they want and be welcomed with open arms. The sense of community among the workers along with their hatred for mediocre conformity makes this tale of escaping abuse that much easier to digest. These people aren’t just coworkers or friends to Keisha. They’re family. They protect each other physically and creatively. That’s a healthy family dynamic everyone deserves to have.

This was a short and easy piece of reading made easier by Valarie Savage Kinney’s undying creativity and passion for what she writes about. She preaches anti-conformity online quite often and practices it to the fullest extent. We all deserve a chance to expand our imaginations beyond the ordinary and Valarie makes us feel safe enough to do that through her writing and online presence. An extra credit grade goes to this wonderful book, the first in a series and boy, what a beginning it was! She’ll no doubt carry this momentum into the rest of the Windy Springs novels.

Deviant Artists

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Swear Words

Many told Bernard Hamm that he would never amount to anything. They told him he would die in his twenties due to his obesity. They told him he was too lazy to get anything done. And yet, here he was sitting at a booth at the Paulson City Public Library signing copies of his debut fantasy novel “Memento Mori”. The crowd was modest in size, but Bernard didn’t mind. The fact that he got his novel out there said something to all of his haters: that he was here to stay despite being over three hundred pounds.

Mr. Hamm looked the part of a professional author in his beige polo shirt, black slacks, and thick-rimmed glasses. He also felt like one when his massive autographing hand was getting tired. He gripped his wrist and rolled his hand around as if that would give him any circulation. He had to put his exhausted paw to use once again when he wagged a finger at a teenaged girl trying to take pictures of him, to which she apologized and walked off.

One person Bernard kept his eye on was a caramel-skinned man with puffy black hair and a white tank top. The familiar figure kept looking at his dying cell phone and cursing loudly, to which the librarians had to shush him. Bernard shook his head and continued singing autographs until the last of the small crowd had dispersed for the day. The tubby author clutched his wrist and rolled his hand around some more. He even opened and closed his fingers while the puffy-haired gentleman asked the clerk loudly for internet access.

Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Bernard kept his eyes down and fiddled with his hands some more, a sure sign that anxiety was building within him. Maybe it was time to get the hell out of this library for the day. But first, Bernard cracked both of his wrists and popped his fingers, as if this would alleviate some of his nervousness. He also took deep breaths due to his heart racing inside his massive body. Just get up and walk casually out the door.

“Barney-Boy? Is that you, buddy?” said the loudmouth from across the library. The shit-eating grin on his face put a saggy frown on Bernard’s. “Remember me, big man?” said the man as he approached the author’s booth. “It’s your boy, Diego Martinez! We used to go to school together! Holy shit, man! You ain’t changed one bit, buddy!”

“Some things never do,” said Bernard with his chin shamefully tucked against his chest.

“Holy shit, I gotta get a picture of this. This is gonna go live, man! You’re gonna be famous!” said Diego as he pulled out his cell phone. “I still got some juice left. How did that happen? Let’s snap a few of these bad boys!”

“Put the phone away, Diego. I don’t allow pictures at my book signings,” said Bernard with a lack of conviction, still keeping the shameful look on his pudgy face.

“Hey, it’s a free country, man. I’ll take a picture of whatever I want. Besides, you want people to buy whatever the fuck you wrote, right? Well, you gotta put yourself out there, big man,” said Diego before snapping the first few pictures and yelling “OH!”

“Put the goddamn phone away and stop taking pictures of me! Don’t you have any respect for privacy?” said Bernard as his tone grew more aggressive with his sausage fingers clenched.

“Man, you ain’t gonna get no sales sitting behind a booth all day. Trust me, buddy, you need those sales for some kind of gym membership or something,” said Diego while snapping more pictures.

Bernard’s chubby cheeks were burning bright pink. His short fingernails dug into his palms. Sweat poured from his face like a rainstorm with plenty of thunderclouds. “I’m going to count to five. If you don’t put that goddamn phone away, I’m going to bend you over this booth and shove it up your ass!”

“Man, why the fuck do you care about stupid shit like that? That bullying business was a long time ago. Ain’t nobody gonna care if you’re a big guy. Your doctor might, but I don’t think anyone else will. Seriously, man, I’m doing you a favor. You need some motivation or something,” said Diego while once again snapping photos with the frequency of a machinegun.

“That’s it!” shouted Bernard as he bulldozed the booth and charged at Diego, who was too busy playing the role of paparazzi to notice the three hundred pound juggernaut was ready to strike. Diego snapped out of his Face Book-addicted trance long enough to feel boa constrictor fingers around his throat.

Everyone around the library went from anxious ignorance to fleeing panic, screaming as they ran away rather than doing something to help Diego. The librarian behind the desk fumbled with the phone cradle as she punched three familiar numbers. Her speech was reduced to stuttering gibberish as she fearfully related the incident over the phone.

As the purple-faced Diego was on his knees trying to pry Bernard’s fingers loose, the heavy hitter bellowed, “I told you not to take any fucking pictures, you stupid son of a bitch! I don’t like being fat! I don’t like being bullied online! I don’t like…!”

The fading Diego used the last of his strength to uppercut Bernard in the balls, forcing him to release the chokehold and stumble on the ground holding his family jewels. The wannabe photographer rolled on his side and coughed up a conservative amount of blood before taking labored breaths in and out that felt like swallowing knives.

As soon as he got an adequate amount of oxygen in his lungs, Diego pointed his finger at the downed Bernard and said, “You know what? I tried to help you! I tried to put the good word out there! I tried to help you get some motivation to get your fat ass off the couch! Now I’m gonna sue your ass!” He pointed at the shivering librarian and said, “You’re gonna be my witness!”

The librarian crouched down on the floor in the fetal positions and stuttered, “I…I can’t do that, Mr. Martinez. I…I just…I can’t!”

Diego leapt to his feet and sucked down a whirlwind of precious oxygen. “You saw what that fat fucker did to me! You’d better cooperate! I’ll sue this whole damn library if I have to! What’re you guys good for anyways?!” He slowly stalked the cowering librarian like a tiger on a wounded animal. “You think either you or this fat bastard over here are gonna get famous with books?! Nobody cares about books no more! I came in here to get some free internet and you’re gonna give it to me, bitch!”

Bernard held onto a nearby bookshelf to try and pull himself to his feet, but he kept his legs crossed due to the searing pain in his balls. He fell over on his side and watched Diego hold a hand up like he was going to slap the librarian for not doing her job. Mr. Martinez shouted, “Come on, little lady! Be a woman! Do what I tell you!”

Bernard got on his hands and knees in another attempt to pull himself up, but he fell over once again, the pain in his groin too much. Diego’s shouting turned into a cacophony of gibberish, which meant the corpulent author was fading into darkness. He heard the sound of skin slapping skin and that was enough to wake him up in a burning rage.

He slowly stood up while trying to ignore the pain in his nuts. Diego was a blur from where he was standing, but he was enough of a clear shape for Bernard to unleash his pent up anger. So many times he’d been called out for being fat. So many times he was called a loser. So many girls refused to go on dates with him. Those that did ended up doing it on a dare. And now this piece of shit known as Diego Martinez was going to bring those nightmares back to life like a necromantic apocalypse.

Bernard grabbed a hardcover book off of the shelf and tried to focus his eyes on Diego, who was screaming more gibberish and slapping the librarian in short bursts. The good thing about being this massive was that it gave Bernard a liberal amount of strength. He raised the book over his head while the pain in his nuts got hotter. Even with a testicle injury, Bernard threw the hardcover book and dropped to his knees in pain.

He heard a loud thud before his vision became somewhat dark. The last thing he remembered hearing was the sound of a body dropping on the floor. Even with blurry eyes opening halfway, that hairdo of Diego Martinez was unmistakable. Even little spots of red danced across Bernard’s eyes.

The hardcover book found its mark: right in the back of Diego’s head. Why lift weights when the strength was already there? Why change who he was when his inner strength was more impressive than his physical strength? Bernard would have loved to tell Diego that, but both men were too unconscious to have a real conversation.

The next couple of days were a blur for Bernard Hamm. He spent some of that time in the hospital and was too sedated to remember it all. He stayed at home recuperating and dreaded getting out of bed one morning because his computer was right there. With computers came internet service. With internet service came trolls. With trolls came pictures snapped by Diego’s phone.

Bernard’s stomach was in more knots than a hangman’s rope, which he was certain he needed once this day was over. How many days had it been since the incident in the library? Two? Three? Seven? Surely that amount of time was long enough for a few fat pictures to circulate.

The author slumped out of bed, but slowly, not only to help him recover, but also to delay having to see the inevitable. He sat down at his desk with ease and powered on his computer. As the machine was booting up, so was the cold feeling in his veins and the ill feeling in his stomach. He broke out in an icy sweat and took note of his rapidly beating heart. And then the computer was fully functional.

Bernard took labored breaths before opening Google Chrome and checking his Amazon page. Sure enough, the trolls had come out from under their bridges. One-star reviews, fat jokes until the end of time, and Photoshopped pictures of Bernard as Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars. Tears welled up in the author’s eyes as he grabbed a nearby tissue and blew his wide nose.

What he saw next brought even more waterfalls to his sore eyes: five-star reviews to counteract the one-star hits, book sales doubling, and comments about Bernard Hamm’s heroism in the library when he knocked out Diego Martinez long enough for the cops to take the obnoxious punk to jail.

Bernard’s chest was soaked with tears and snot. He couldn’t blow his nose fast enough to keep all of the emotion from flowing out of him. For every Diego Martinez in this world, there was an angel from the heavens. For every anti-fat bigot, there was a beautiful soul. For every poorly-spelled message on an internet board, there was a copy of “Memento Mori” sitting on a bookshelf waiting to be read. For the first time in Bernard Hamm’s life, he was free.