Nature Is Overrated and I Will Die on That Hill...which Happens to Be Part of a Nature Trail

 

Pool

Floating on my back, an out of body experience

The water’s nice and warm, nothing too serious

Just me, the sunset, and my vast imagination

A perfect way to continue my mental vacation

I could travel through the ocean of twinkling stars

Forget the noisy highway and its polluting cars

I could pretend there are hands on my shoulders

Cupping, squeezing to keep me from getting colder

A sensual soundtrack to trigger my young thoughts

The smell of herbal tea boiling on the stovetop

For one night only, I have nothing to worry about

I could stay here forever, never once getting out

The water feels good against my aching muscles

Relaxation feels good after a day’s worth of hustle

I’ll swim a few laps in my own personal ocean

Marine life and crystals recharging my emotions

Baptism in sweetness, cure all of my diseases

Walk on the surface like a modern day Jesus

Part the seas with my hydromantic powers

Give watery life to the springtime flowers

If the phone rings, then I’ll refuse to answer

I wouldn’t even rise for the necromancer

Nothing can remove me from my sparkling sea

Nothing will qualify as a true emergency

The world can wait until my stress melts away

It’s not as though I won’t wake up the next day

Forget the afterlife, because this pool is heaven

It’s been that way for all of twenty-four-seven

When I rise in the sunlit dawn of morning

I shall return despite your deaf-ears warnings

You can call it hedonism until your throat is raw

But I give zero cares about your biblical laws

Being a grown man is intolerably overrated

It’s better to live life painless and sedated

The Last Aqua Man

***THE LAST AQUA MAN***

Remember a blog entry a few weeks ago about my childhood soccer team The Thunder Eagles? Well, that wasn’t just a fun story. It’s now an undeveloped idea for a novel somewhere down the line. The reason Silent Warrior resonated so well was because it was loosely based on real experiences I had. The Last Thunder Eagle, as it’s now called, will hopefully resonate as well since I used to be a sore loser. In some ways, I still am a sore loser and perhaps this novel idea is what will exorcise those demons forever. But that’s neither here nor there. I’ve already written the first chapter of Beautiful Monster and I intend to see that one through to the epilogue. Wish me luck!

But as long as I’m being inspired by stories from my past (that thankfully aren’t too traumatic), I might as well throw another one out there and see if it sticks. In the same way The Last Thunder Eagle is intended to be about soccer, The Last Aqua Man will be about swimming lessons, should it ever become a novel idea. When I was a kid, I already knew how to doggie paddle from point A to point B. But that just wasn’t enough for some reason, so my parents signed me up for swimming lessons at the community pool. Although I didn’t get hit with any soccer balls or knocked down, I still was not a happy camper.

There were six different levels of difficulty for these classes: Beginner’s Level Parts 1-4, Intermediate, and Advanced. During both rounds of swim lessons, I was placed in Beginner’s Level 4 and never passed to the next tier. One of the big reasons for this was because I hated sticking my head underwater without plugging my nose first. I hate water in my nose, I hate coughing it up, I hate blowing it out, and I hate water in my ears. I would have worn a pair of goggles that protected my nose, but the swim instructors wouldn’t let me use them. Instead they suggested that I hold my breath before sticking my head underwater. Didn’t work. I ended up feeling like a whitewashed version of Crazy K from Tales from the Hood. I know I make that reference a lot, but there aren’t a whole lot of movies out there where somebody shoves IV straws up another man’s nose, so that’s all I’ve got to work with.

During the second season of swim classes, one of our assignments was to dive right into the water, head first, arms extended. The first time I did this came without incident. In fact, my parents applauded me from the sidelines. And then with every successive time came more water in my nose and throat and not enough ways to expel it. After a while I just refused to dive and instead did a pencil jump while holding my nose shut. I already told you guys that I never passed either season of classes, but at this point I didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck. I was the Last Thunder Eagle and the Last Aqua Man all in one childhood. Sports really aren’t my thing after all. Hell, even gym class in general was an exhausting nightmare at times.

When I talked about The Thunder Eagles, I mentioned how soccer could be improved if hardcore violence was allowed. Well, I don’t think the same could be said for this blog entry. My misery was nobody else’s fault…this time. Nobody pushed me in the pool. Nobody tried to drown me. Nobody splashed me while I had my clothes on. Who was I going to beat the crap out of? The closest I could ever come to that would have to be literally cutting my nose off to spite my face. Yeah, that’s right! It’s my nose’s fault for allowing water to get in there in the first place. That’s not what noses are for! Isn’t that right, Melanie Good’s character from Die Watching? Now there’s a reference absolutely nobody is going to get…unless you’re into that sort of thing. Then again, “that sort of thing” is the only reason why I know that movie exists. How sad. How relentlessly sad.

So how exactly would The Last Aqua Man become a reasonable story? Would it be too similar to The Last Thunder Eagle? Am I just destined to write novels about sore losers my entire career? Mitch McLeod was a sore loser (when he did lose, which was not often). Mario Bryan was a sore loser. And now the main character from The Last Thunder Eagle, a ten-year-old named Alex Woodley, is going to be a REALLY sore loser. Brock Lesnar once said it best: in order to know how to win, you have to know how to lose. He was a sore loser in college and so am I in the real world.

And that’s the thing about life itself: failure is inevitable, but it’s how we react to it that will determine future success. Some people will pick themselves up and dust themselves off to go to work the next day. Others will crumble under the pressure and give up altogether. There were some things in my life that were worth continuing and some that I gave up on. I gave up on playing the guitar because I couldn’t move my fingers quickly enough across the frets. I gave up on playing Street Fighter IV because Abel kept getting cheap victories over me. I gave up on playing Magic: the Gathering because it became more about capitalism rather than the love of the game.

But when it comes to my creative outlets, mental health, and physical health, those are things I will never compromise on. These three things can’t exist without each other. I write for a living. I work on other creative endeavors for the love of art. I need a clear mind to do those things. And as far as physical health goes, I know my bulging belly will tell you otherwise, but I’ve actually lost a lot of weight in the past few months. I eat only three meals a day without snacking on sugary foods, I walk long distances whenever it’s nice outside, and I drink a lot of unsweetened iced tea. A lot! I haven’t kept track of how much weight I’ve lost, but I know I must be doing something right, because I can make it up and down the stairs without being overly winded. I guess there is life beyond childhood soccer and swimming. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

ME: You know, Reina, there was once a time when I considered Squall Leonhart from Final Fantasy VIII to be my own personal hero. He had no emotional attachments, no unnecessary relationships, and he mastered the art of giving zero fucks.

REINA: So basically your hero was an angsty teenager?

ME: No, that’s not what he is!

REINA: He sounds like an angsty teenager, Garrison. I bet he listens to a lot of Linkin Park.

ME: Final Fantasy VIII came out a few years before the first Linkin Park album.

REINA: He still would have listened to them.

Xanax and Perrier

VERSE 1

My weirdest dreams are of school it seems

Naked in front of the students and deans

A grown adult fighting it out with teens

Doing crystal math until my eyes bleed

Dreading the day I receive my grades

Failing every class, I cannot be saved

There’s always next year, no question about

It’s hard to speak up when my teeth fall out

CHORUS

Xanax and Perrier to end my day

My oldest kitty is snoozing away

Eight hours until I feel the sun’s rays

Back to the theater, back to the craze

VERSE 2

My wildest dreams are of music and screams

Heavy metal menus in the strangest venues

Pantera tore it up in a grocery store

3DG in a lecture hall, I want more

Rammstein shot flames in a Chinese diner

Roger Waters at the Stonehenge, not bad, old-timer

Brit Floyd in a museum, not an easy feat

It’s hard to sing songs with loosening teeth

CHORUS

Xanax and Perrier to end my day

My oldest kitty is snoozing away

Eight hours until I feel the sun’s rays

Back to the theater, back to the craze

BRIDGE

Sometimes all I want is to go the fuck home

But these dreamy busses are so damn slow

The foot ferries splash as they’re about to crash

The airplanes race into outer fucking space

VERSE 3

My nerdy dreams make me want to cream

Comic book shops on every street block

Libraries with dark fantasy sweetness

My dream theater knows my favorite weakness

Seeing my notebooks being sold on the shelves

Seeing my novels being read by elves

Hearing my poems being read by pixies

My dreams come true whether it’s now or sixty

EXTENDED CHORUS

Xanax and Perrier to end my day

My oldest kitty is snoozing away

Eight hours until I feel the sun’s rays

Back to the theater, back to the craze

Every youngster has the right to dream

Every adult can set them free

Never give up, never let it die

Spread your dragon wings and fly

"A Nose For Justice" by Rita Mae Brown

BOOK TITLE: A Nose For Justice

AUTHOR: Rita Mae Brown

YEAR: 2010

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Cozy Mystery

GRADE: Pass

On a frosty winter in Reno, Nevada, former Wall Street executive Mags Rogers moves in with her great aunt Jeep Reed and brings along her wire-haired dachshund Baxter. During her stay, she becomes entangled in a mystery that involves blown up water pumps and dead bodies. Deputy Pete Meadows and his partner Lonnie investigate these strange events and unravel a conspiracy dealing with water rights, environmentalism, and land purchasing. The entire political landscape of Nevada is at stake and the killer must be found before everything descends into chaos.

As to be expected with a title like “A Nose For Justice”, you’re going to see some animal cuteness during your reading journey. I’ve already mentioned the little dachshund Baxter, but there’s also a bigger puppy-duppy named King, owned by Jeep Reed. The two dogs start off as distrustful strangers, but over time they form a much needed friendship in order to help unravel this water rights conspiracy. They run around together, they nibble on steak bones, they sleep by each other, and they even play in important role in the conclusion of the story, though I won’t give away how. While it’s true that the dogs aren’t seen as often as Pete Meadows and the Reed/Rogers family, you can’t help but want to reach through the pages and rub the dogs’ heads and bellies. They’ve certainly earned it.

The political and historical content is another upside to this story, though some reviewers argue that Miss Brown is too preachy. I don’t believe that’s the case. The lessons she teaches feel more like a college history class rather than a Sunday sermon. She reminds us all how precious water is and how it shouldn’t be squandered so easily. We think we’re going to have it forever, but in places like Nevada, characters in this book would commit acts of terrorism and murder for it, especially if money is involved. Extremism, big business, environmentalism, and even LGBT rights are among the topics discussed in this novel. These topics are handled with sensitivity and the points in favor or against them are made with the skill of a world class debater. You don’t have to agree with everything Rita Mae Brown’s characters talk about, but you’d better listen and give the author a chance.

The final high point I want to talk about is the characters and how quirky and lovable they really are. Mags Rogers is a woman trying to get back on her own two feet and you genuinely want to root for her all the way. Jeep Reed is a salty, but warm-hearted war veteran with more wisdom in her pinky finger than most businessmen and politicians have in their whole bodies. Pete Meadows is a true professional when it comes to his work as a cop; he asks the right questions and evokes the right emotions from his interviewees. Pete even has a little bit of a crush on Mags and she feels the same way. At first they tiptoe around each other, but when they come together for the good of the case and for the sake of true romance, you genuinely feel the love. Even the minor characters are worth investing your emotions into since they’re friendly small town folks you’d want to have as neighbors. There are also characters you love to hate, but I’m here to pick the flowers, not the weeds.

If you’re looking for a well-orchestrated detective novel with a crafty mystery, poignant wisdom, and lovable puppy-dups, pick up a copy of “A Nose For Justice”. At first I was hesitant about reading this since the last Rita Mae Brown book I read (Wish You Were Here) made me feel old due to its small town stereotypes. A Nose For Justice might feel that way for the first few pages, but if patience is one of your virtues, then I encourage you to read on and enjoy this book for the well-written prose it is. A passing grade goes to this amazing author. Great work!

Fishing For Sharks

VERSE 1

You spit cobra venom all over the page

You breathe fire on those who dare rage

You shoot bullets at those who attack

Only to find a jagged blade in your back

CHORUS

You threw the lure and fished for sharks

Whose bites are far worse than their barks

They smell the blood, it’s what they love

Your lifeless corpse floats to the surface above

VERSE 2

Are you running with giants or fishing for sharks?

Are you creating drama or a dramatic story arc?

Are you setting the world on fire or burning bridges?

Answer wrongly and you’ll sleep with the fishes

CHORUS

You threw the lure and fished for sharks

Whose bites are far worse than their barks

They smell the blood, it’s what they love

Your lifeless corpse floats to the surface above

VERSE 3

Negativity will never lead to life longevity

Your world will soon crash down inevitably

Don’t bring a knife to a gun-slinging fight

Don’t bring hatred to an already hard life

CHORUS

You threw the lure and fished for sharks

Whose bites are far worse than their barks

They smell the blood, it’s what they love

Your lifeless corpse floats to the surface above

FINAL VERSE

When you sling shit, you’re only soiling yourself

When you throw a fit, you’re damaging your health

Change or die, there’s nothing in between them

Grow up, move on, or get ready to be condemned

You lose one fight and it’s just like Armageddon

You lose one debate and it’s far from heaven

Get your ass up and dust off your fucking clothes

Be the very last person that this world clearly loathes

Hero

VERSE 1

Screaming into a phone doesn’t make you a hero

Saying otherwise means your IQ is a solid zero

Any coward can offend from miles away

Any moron can change his face and name

But in order to have a solid steel spinal cord

You’ve got to be prepared for a fistfight war

You hide behind lawyers and sympathetic judges

And wonder why the public holds violent grudges

CHORUS 1

I see no bravery among you criminals

Your valor is at the very best minimal

Lock your asses up and throw away the key

Even heroes know when it’s time to flee

VERSE 2

Blasting a sound cannon at a crowd of protesters

Ensures your status as the corporate protectors

You represent the evil you’re trying to fight

You make the streets dangerous to walk at night

The irony is killing me like a rubber bullet

We’re buried underneath mountains of bullshit

Karma is a bitch and she’ll smack you like a pimp

Until your Burger King body is broken and limp

CHORUS 1

I see no bravery among you criminals

Your valor is at the very best minimal

Lock your asses up and throw away the key

Even heroes know when it’s time to flee

VERSE 3

It’s the same old shit, but on a different day

The power hungry don’t know when to pay

They don’t know when to shut their mouths

They hide from justice like a frightened mouse

Prison is a bitch and so are you, my friend

You’ll one day know what it’s like to bend

If it takes forever, we’ll fight forever

We’ll bring the thunder and stormy weather

CHORUS 2

I see no bravery among you thieves

I see no end for the ones who greave

You steal life like a home invader

And turn the innocent into gladiators

You want a battle? Here’s a war

Justice and honor are what we fight for

We don’t need machineguns and tanks

To our strongest voices, we give our thanks

Distractions From Eating

***DISTRACTIONS FROM EATING***

I have my creative work to thank for a lot of things in my life whether it’s easing schizophrenic symptoms, getting my voice out there, or just having some good old fashioned imaginative fun. Now I have another thing I can thank my art for: distracting me from overeating. As many of you know, I’ve struggled with my weight for a good portion of my adult life. I’ve tried the Atkins Diet and was successful with it, but only temporarily. My main problem was that I was always bored and overeating was my favorite source of fun. It didn’t matter if it was McDonald’s, candy bars, soda, or pizza; if I was bored and junk food was available to me, I would wolf it down and feel like shit afterwards.

Say whatever you will about my skill level with drawing pictures or my frequency of cat pictures, but alongside my writing, reading, and editing, they’ve been welcome distractions from overeating. And whenever I posted a piece of art to my social media accounts, I would scroll through my pictures and admire my handiwork, not because I’m an arrogant jerk, but because I don’t have to think about eating. Even when I’m watching What Culture’s WWE videos or Last Week Tonight with John Oliver episodes on You Tube, I’m doing something other than stuffing my face. Living in a boring place like Port Orchard, it’s easy to give into your food-related vices since there are restaurants, grocery stores, and convenience stores pretty much everywhere you go.

Ever since I’ve been occupying my mind in even the smallest ways, I’ve been eating less frequently and looking better in the mirror as a result. If I ever did get bored enough to eat, I’d usually drink a bottle of distilled water instead and piss away the pounds. I drank a lot of water and ate minimally while I was in Hawaii and have already noticed changes in my body. When I first flew from Seattle to Kauai, I would need a seatbelt extender. When I returned home to Sea-Tac, the airplane seatbelts fit perfectly fine. I’ve also noticed that I’m getting full off of less food and I’m not huffing and puffing when I return home from my walks.

Obviously, I’m still a heavy guy and there are times where I occasionally grab a bag of Mickey D’s or a Pizza Hut pizza. I am by no means a weight loss guru or a super athlete. However, I’m not the only one who says that overeating can be triggered by moments of extreme boredom. Scientific studies, gym teachers, food documentaries, I’ve heard them all echo these sentiments. While I understand that what works for one person won’t necessarily work for the other, I can say with confidence that little distractions are helping me lose weight. It may be a slow process and I may have miles to go, but the thing about losing weight is that you feel the effects right away. Your mood improves, you have more energy, and you look at yourself in the mirror with less judgment.

But of course, there are days when I don’t feel like working on creative endeavors. Today was one of those days. My guess is that I’m still in recovery mode from these past few days of housework and remodeling and that’s why my brain doesn’t want to cooperate with me. Hell, I had to go to the chiropractor yesterday after lifting a whole bunch of heavy furniture. I had a shelf break because it carried a shit ton of CD’s. Dale wasn’t happy about that since he’s in no way a musical person. He doesn’t understand the beauty of David Draiman’s golden voice or Dimebag Darrell Abbot’s shredding guitars. All that aside, I was definitely in need of some recuperation. I’m a fragile introvert after all.

Even with all of this mental exhaustion working against me, I managed to only eat two meals and I got full after both of them. They weren’t even big meals, at least not compared to what I ate before. My afternoon snack consisted of three plums. My first official meal was at 5:00 at night and it was a baked potato with no toppings, a portion of spam, and a banana. At 8:45, I ordered a sandwich and breadsticks from Domino’s Pizza, both of which aren’t even close to being as fattening as a full pizza. I have no plans to end the night with more food.

I may have to spend some more time in recovery mode tomorrow and the next few days because that’s when my family and I are going to paint my bedroom walls light blue. We might do one or two walls one day and do the rest of it over the course of Monday and Tuesday. I won’t have to do a whole lot to disconnected my electronics since they’re all hooked up to a power strip. We’re not going to move out my furniture for the painting process; we’re just going to scoot it over a few feet. God, I love my wooden floors! I would have never been able to scoot things over on a dust-collecting carpet.

I hope all of my readers are doing okay considering what a wild and crazy October it has been. Halloween is coming up soon and for any metal heads who live near the Tacoma Dome, Five Finger Death Punch and Shinedown are going to perform there on November 5^th with Sixx AM and As Lions opening for them. November is also National Novel Writing Month. Last year I completed the first drafts of my Poison Tongue Tales stories. This year I’m going to storm through all 17 remaining chapters of Demon Axe. I’m also going to use some of those days to compete in the WSS contests like I normally do.

We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

One of the best things about being in recovery mode is that I still have enough mental energy to pump out a drawing or two. Although to be honest, I’ve gotten a little bit rusty with my latest effort, a picture of Detective Shawn Henry from Demon Axe. I’ll do better next time when the time comes to draw Edge Spider, the drug dealing gangster from the Poison Tongue Tales 2 cyberpunk story The Audiomancer. One of the pieces of advice I constantly receive from Angie at the WSS is to write about villains who are sane-minded since they’re scarier than the wild and crazy ones. I hope I achieved that with Edge Spider.

***VIDEOGAME DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

MIKE HAGGAR: Hello? Mayor Haggar here.

DAMNED: Hehehe! Mr. Haggar, I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe you know who I am. Don’t hang up! We have an important business proposition for you: your daughter for your cooperation. Plus, we’ll throw in a monthly bonus to your salary.

MIKE HAGGAR: What?! What’s happened to Jessica?! Who is this?!

DAMNED: Not so fast, Mike. Turn on your TV.

MIKE HAGGAR: You son of a…what have you done with her?!

DAMNED: Nothing yet, but we’d enjoy the opportunity. Listen to reason, man. Why make your job difficult? Just let us do as we please like the mayor before you did! Agh-hahahahaha!!

-Final Fight-

The Hydromancer

Clint Magnus barreled through the forest like a stampede of buffalos. His metal boots pounded into the ground with resounding thuds. His exhaling released clouds of steam into the chilly morning air. His ribs and legs felt like they were on fire. His tongue was drier than desert air. But if he stopped now, that twenty grand bounty was as good as gone.

The bounty hunter could smell the fear emanating from Fatima Rose. It was a sweeter scent than any perfume and gave Clint a massive boost of energy. He was so close that any minute during this chase he could grab a hold of that wet raven hair and have her to himself. The sweat pouring off of the witch’s body as she ran smelled like sweet autumn rain. Clint continued to dash after the witchcraft practitioner until he was fingertips away from clutching that heavenly neck of hers.

Clint was so distracted by this maiden’s terrified charm that he didn’t realize until falling face first that she had led him to the river. The bounty hunter’s heavy breathing caused him to suck water through his nostrils before pulling his head out and coughing up a storm. He shivered from the sudden cold splash like he was trapped in a meat locker.

While on his knees catching his breath and coughing out the water from his lungs, he saw Fatima lying on the other side of the river breathing heavily and holding her ribs. She looked so beautiful to him in her vulnerable state. Her wet green dress clung to her body like a chilling, frostbitten embrace. She was so exhausted that Clint could just scoop her up and take her to the authorities anytime he wanted.

When the middle-aged cowboy stood up and brushed his damp gray hair back, however, he saw two fountains of water bursting up from the river on either side of him. Another one formed behind him and another in front. Clint Magnus danced around in fear and shivered for a different reason than being soaked.

The bounty hunter could see Fatima’s hands raised from her sides while she was still laying down. They were clouded with a blue and purple mist of energy while her eyes glowed a brilliant and hauntingly beautiful neon green. The hydromancer levitated to her feet and gazed at her assailant with scorn and power.

“You…you really are a witch!” said a shaky Clint Magnus while pointing his wrinkled finger at her.

“Witch?” asked Fatima. “And what exactly is a witch? Is it supposed to be one of your disgusting slurs? Is it a label you put on anybody you disagree with? Or do you just reserve it for someone you want to exploit for money? I know this is a post-apocalyptic nightmare for all of us, but you, sir, are out of excuses!”

The four fountain bursts of water grew taller as Fatima’s energy-covered hands rose over her head. “Oh, shit!” said Clint to himself before the rising water came crashing down over his head, pinning him to the river bed and drowning him as well. He struggled and flailed in the raging waters to where his face was turning purple.

The water torture was mercifully over when Fatima swept her hands to the side and cast the freezing liquid away from Clint, who was hacking and wheezing while pathetically on his knees. “Get up, you fool!” ordered Fatima. “You’re supposed to be a goddamn bounty hunter, not a fucking amateur.”

Huffing and puffing, Clint Magnus slowly made it to his feet while his teeth clicked together from the hard convulsing. As soon as he got his bearings, he pulled out his Desert Eagle pistol and said, “I’ve had just about enough of your bullshit, lady!” When he pulled the trigger, only sand and rocks came out of the barrel.

“Well, look at that! Your pistol’s shooting blanks. Your wife must be so disappointed in you right now. So disappointed that she’ll run off with another man while you’re busy chasing little old me,” taunted Fatima while she giggled.

“That’s grounds for getting your neck snapped, little girl,” growled Clint. “What the fuck do you know about my family? I have to support them every damn day in this screwed up world! Chasing you was all about the money. It was never personal. But if you’d rather mock my family instead of supporting them, that’s fine, I’ll beat your ass anyways!”

“And I’m sure you’ll make an excellent role model for your children one day,” said Fatima sarcastically. “While turning me in will ensure that your family gets paid, you’re also teaching them how to label others. That’s how we got into this post-apocalyptic mess in the first place: by judging each other and slapping labels on our neighbors. And what do your politicians do when they can’t play nicely? They don’t work things out. They drop bombs on each other. Is that what your children are going to grow up to be: bomb-dropping politicians?”

“My children have a better future than that!” shouted Clint.

“Your children have no future at all!” retorted Fatima. As the uncomfortable silence took over, Clint hung his head in sorrow while the hydromancer maintained her authoritative gaze upon him. “Then again, nobody has a future around here. They call it Armageddon for a reason: because it’s all over. As long as we continue to cast hatred on each other, we will never, and I mean NEVER, rebuild to what we once were.”

Clint kept his chin tucked to his chest as he contemplated this harsh talking point. There were even hints of tears in his eyes, which caused Fatima’s deadly stare to soften. The bounty hunter picked his head up and said, “So that’s your solution? We just throw down our weapons and love each other? That hippie-dippie shit sounds good on paper, but how many assholes out there actually want to do that? You can’t make them be nice people!”

“What about you, cowboy?” asked Fatima with her finger pointed at him. “Can you be convinced to carry a message of love across the world? Can one act of kindness spread into several others? Or do you just want to shoot people for the rest of your life and collect your blood money?”

Another beat of uncomfortable silence washed over the scene. Clint had a decision to make. Would he continue to perpetuate the hateful sins of the apocalypse or will he show them that they are all capable of change? He shook his head and said, “You are so full of shit, lady. You are so full of disgusting shit!”

Clint quickly pulled a knife from his belt and chucked it into Fatima’s shoulder, causing her to drop to her knees and scream demonically in pain. The bounty hunter had a ghoulish grin on his face as he slowly approached the wounded witch. He even cracked his knuckles, wrists, and neck for dramatic effect.

He held his hands out in an attempt to grab Fatima by the throat and choke her, but the hydromancer still had one good arm and used it to work her magic. The river turned into a violent whirlpool that sucked Clint Magnus into the center. He flailed his arms and kicked his legs like a small child, but it was hardly any resistance against the much stronger waters. The river rose and Clint’s head sunk beneath the freezing liquid. He swam and stroked as hard as he could, but soon enough, his eyes would close and body would go limp. His last few bubbles of breath reached the surface and popped just as quickly as his life faded out.

Clint bathed in darkness with nothing but his final thoughts. He saw his wife’s beautiful face and gorgeous brown locks while she donned her favorite while dress. He saw his two toddler sons clinging to their mother’s legs and bouncing up and down while waiting for daddy to come home. Daddy would be coming home soon, Clint kept telling himself. But those twenty thousand credits were out of reach the minute he drowned in Fatima’s watery magic.

And then the cowboy coughed up another puddle of icy water while shivering some more. He slowly opened his eyes and found that he was lying alongside the river while holding a shining blue pendant with a note attached to it. Clint took a few more deep breaths before rolling over onto his knees and letting his eyes adjust to the fading light of the day.

The note read, “Water is something we all need in this dying world. Your family can’t drink money, but they can drink clean and healthy water thanks to this pendant I’ve left with you. The pendant is charged with hydromantic powers. Use it on any source of water and it will multiply and purify it for drinking. Neither you nor your family will ever go thirsty again. One act of kindness can soften the heart of even the coldest people. I hope it softened yours as well. Don’t give up on humanity just yet. Yours forever, Fatima Rose. P.S.: Don’t worry about my shoulder wound. I’ve suffered worse wounds from worse people.”

Clint stared at the pendant in his wrinkly hand and began to shed tears over the marble orb. “Thank you, Fatima,” he sobbed silently. “Thank you for everything!” He spent the last few moments of the day crying to himself, something his “manly” stereotype wouldn’t allow him to do for the longest time. Getting it all out felt as good as a nice chug of clean drinking water.

Wasteland

Sweat poured down Faye Blood’s dark skin like a desert rain. Her fiery red hair was pasted to her forehead like horse glue. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her baggy white pants were draining even more sweat her already exhausted legs. Her orange monk’s sash clung to her upper body like a wrestler’s bear hug. Then again, all of this was to be expected from wandering the wastelands with a short supply of water and a hunched over body. The sun’s rays punished Faye’s body to where everything hurt. And to think, this much foot travel was all in the name of making a pilgrimage.

Pilgrimage? What kind of cruel and sadistic god would ever encourage his followers to walk aimlessly through these unforgiving sands? Couldn’t said deity at least have the decency to splurge for some camels? What about barrels of ice cold water and buckets of dry rations, was that asking too much as well? Faye would be lying if she said these thoughts hadn’t crossed her mind at least one time. But as quick as they haunted her, she pushed them back out of devotion to Salaam, the God of Benevolence. Her religious zeal trumped any complaints she had about doing this much exercise in one day.

The things Faye Blood would do at that moment for even a teardrops of fresh, nearly frozen water. She could strangle somebody. She could disembowel them. She could commit genocide and completely ruin her zealous track record with Salaam. An hour of zombie-like walking later and she would have two reasons for sudden violence. Just to make sure it wasn’t a mirage, Faye rubbed her eyes with balled up fists. With clear vision, no, this wasn’t a heatstroke-induced illusion.

What Faye saw at that moment could have been described as sensually pornographic, even from her outside perspective. A blue tent had been pitched and judging from the shadows of the two occupants, a man and a woman, there was some serious hanky-panky going on in there. The dominant male rained kisses upon his lovely female and touched her in places that made her squeal with delight and giggle with pleasure.

She didn’t have a whole lot to puke up, but if Faye did, she would spill her breakfast, lunch, and dinner all over the desert ground. Public display of affection was more disgusting to her than a battlefield full of dead bodies. To make matters worse, the male in the tent opened what looked like a bottle of water and was pouring it all over the female’s chest and face, causing her to arch up in orgasmic ecstasy.

Now Faye was pissed off. That was valuable water that could have gone to anybody dying of thirst in this god forsaken land. Instead it was being used for a cheap aphrodisiac between two equally cheap people. The monk’s fists were clinched and her muscles were tensed. Any tiredness she felt beforehand was replaced with energetic rage. Adrenaline pumped through her veins like the river she so desperately wanted to drink from.

The religious warrior stomped over to the tent and jerked it open with one frustrated rip. The lusty couple jumped backwards in surprise and scrambled to put their clothes back on. All the male had to put back on was a black mesh tank top while the female had a black leather breastplate. Their lower halves were completely covered with black baggy pants and black combat boots.

Faye actually allowed these two the time they needed to dress just by standing there in her muscle-tensing pose with the ripped tent still in her balled up fists. She couldn’t stand looking at them half-naked anymore. She didn’t care how smooth and toned their “sexy” bodies were or how lovely their long hair looked. Faye was thirsty. Whether she was thirsty for water or blood was a question that couldn’t be answered just by looking at her viciously angry pose.

“I could snap both of your necks right now and nobody would even try to find you two nitwits,” said Faye through gritted teeth. “If you’re not going to use that water intelligently, then at least give it to someone who will. Show me where you keep your jugs of water and I’ll be on my way.”

The male paramour, identified as Marco Torres, drew a rather long blade from its leather sheath and said in a smooth Spanish accent, “Hold on a second, babe. Who the hell do you think you are interrupting a beautiful thing like lovemaking?”

“Trust me, macho-nacho,” said Faye. “There’s nothing beautiful about wasting water just so your little harlot over here can have a fifteen-hour orgasm.”

The female paramour, identified as Rook Maxwell, drew a claymore from its sheath and heaved up a metal tower shield before saying, “Now sugar bear, if it’s water that you want, you don’t have to threaten to rip our heads off. By all means, you can have as much as you want. You’re not getting it from those jugs, though. This kind of water comes from spending seven minutes in heaven with the two of us!”

Faye instantly knew where the source of “water” was supposed to be and screamed in disgust while covering her ears with her palms. She then sang an agonized, tone-deaf version of “La-la-la-la-la!” before Marco and Rook got annoyed and lunged at her full force.

The two lovers swung their respective blades full force and made heavy “woosh” noises as Faye Blood cart wheeled and back flipped out of the way of these deadly strikes. With two people attacking her at once, Faye couldn’t find a split second of offence and spent most of this battle acrobatically dodging attacks. If she kept moving around this quickly for much longer, she would have another reason to collapse in exhaustion other than her desert travels.

As Faye continued to tuck, roll, flip, and fly out of the way of Marco and Rook’s tireless slashes, the monk noticed how they were concentrating only on the upper half of her body. Therefore, Faye did the splits and went down low with five knuckles of death right into Marco’s testicles.

The Spanish thug doubled over and howled in a raspy voice before dropping to his knees and rolling around on the ground. With him dispatched of, it was only Rook Maxwell swinging her heavy blade at Faye Blood, who continued to flip and fly around the battlefield to avoid getting struck.

Evasion was much easier for Faye with one opponent, but not for long. Rook pointed her lengthy hunk of metal at her opponent and shot little black energy grenades that exploded into smoke. Faye could try to run, but the thick smoke enveloped her and she soon found herself on her knees hacking and wheezing, much worse off than being dehydrated in the desert.

Rook sauntered over to her vulnerable victim with a kinky smile and a clear path through all of her magical smoke. Faye was passing in and out of consciousness by the time Rook waved her sword and blew her own smoke away. The dark paladin held her blade against Faye’s coughing and bloody mouth with the intent to make the final kill.

“Look at it this way, sweetheart: at least now you won’t have to worry about dying of dehydration. I plan on making this as quick as possible, but only because I really like you,” said Rook.

She slowly positioned the blade to Faye’s throat when the monk shakily and languidly made it to her feet. Rook thought this was some kind of last ditch effort, a second wind maybe. But all Faye had to come back with was vomiting in the dark paladin’s face. Blood, ashes, and desert sand filled her stomach with enough contents to make the projectile vomit that much more disgusting.

All of that biological slop was enough to deter Rook Maxwell from carrying out a murder, however. She danced around and clutched her “beautiful” face as the stomach acids burned her eyeballs. Some of it even managed to go down her throat, so she was choking as well.

They weren’t dead, but Faye was satisfied with her combat results long enough to spot jugs of water with her blurry vision. “Must…have…water…” she said over and over again to herself when she crawled on her hands and knees over to the leather skins. She pulled the cork from one of them and chugged like it was her last chance at fresh water. And oh, did it taste fresh. It was like a waterfall of icy coldness soothing her throat and energizing her stomach. Chills went up and down her flesh as she gulped some more. This was heaven to Faye Blood. Pure, wonderful, lovely heaven.

“Thank you, Salaam. Thank you so much!” she said in a prayer position. But soon all of that heavenly coldness turned to drugged dizziness. Her vision was blurry and everything around her was spinning into darkness. The cool sensation was turning to uncomfortable warmth and sweat. Before long, Faye Blood passed out with her face buried in the sand.

It must have been hours before the monk awakened. When she did, she felt so weak and crippled that even opening her eyes took a lot of physical and mental energy out of her. All she could see was Marco Torres’s blurry face looking down on her while he stroked her sweaty hair. Every word he said to her from that point on had a little bit of an echo behind it with some reverberation off the walls of the tent.

“You feel that, my love?” asked Marco in a sensual voice. “That wasn’t water you drank. That was a cask of Salaam’s most magical wine. Granted, it was laced with other lovely drugs, but hey, you wanted to make your pilgrimage to the heavenly lands and now you’re here.”

“Wha…wha…what the fu…”

“Shh-shh-shh! There’s no need for talking, my sweet. Just relax and let Salaam’s holy cocktail wash over you. You often wondered what exactly it was you were traveling to. And this is it, my love. Your priests sent you on this mission to find me. I am Marco Esteban Torres. Rook Maxwell was one of my wives. But she won’t be joining us tonight. Salaam has taken her to a better place. But you, Faye Blood, will make a suitable replacement for my lost fifteenth wife. Welcome to the good life, sweetheart. This is the true definition of Salaam’s Heaven.”

The setup to be Marco Torres’ wife was sealed with a passionate kiss between himself and an unwilling, yet unresponsive Faye Blood. The monk would soon find out what had happened to her this whole time. And when she did, it was doubtful she would be so zealous to her religion anymore. “Fuck you, Salaam. Fuck you badly!” said Faye in her own mind.

Clair Deus

NAME: Clair Deus

AGE: 24

OCCUPATION: Witch Hunter

CANON: None

Back in the years 2007 and 2008, whenever I was strapped for fantasy movie script ideas, I would come up with multiple lists of 100 original characters and randomly select from those lists to determine which ones would be in the same story. The list items would have a name, a race, and a class. That’s it. No back story, no psychology, no flaws, just the basics. The good stuff would be developed as I wrote the script. Unfortunately, Clair Deus, Human Witch Hunter, was never randomly chosen for a script, so she stayed on the list she was a part of indefinitely.

But the more I thought about the potential Clair Deus had, the more I began to develop her for no real reason inside my own head. I always envisioned her as a medieval dark fantasy version of Kate Beckinsale’s character from the Underworld saga. The few differences were, Clair had gothic makeup on her face and used crossbows and magic wands instead of guns and knives. Not much original thought put into Clair’s character, I agree.

It was the characters closest to her on the list that allowed me to develop her even further. Many of those extra characters had “mancer” in their class title. “Mancer” is a Greek suffix that signifies the person has magical powers in the prefix of his choosing. For example, a pyromancer works with fire, because pyro is a prefix for fire. A cryomancer uses ice, a hydromancer uses water, an electromancer uses lightning, and of course, we all know after playing Diablo II for half of our lives that necromancers deal in death. With so many people surrounding Clair Deus’ spot on the list with “mancer” in their job titles, you’d think she would have plenty of “witches” to choose from when she goes hunting for evil bastards.

All of these possibilities flowing through my head made me wonder why I couldn’t just cherry pick characters from these lists and do whatever the hell I goddamn want. I favor random selection for a number of reasons. One, it’s an exercise in discipline. If I force myself to conform my story to the selections I’ve made, I will have established myself as a disciplined writer who didn’t let his only form of controlled chaos get too overwhelming. Two, if I randomly select from whatever list I’m working with, I’m giving every list item an equal chance of being chosen. When everything has an equal chance and there’s no favoritism of any kind, that would be the equivalent of parents raising multiple children. I treat list items like I would treat my own children if I wanted any: with justice and fairness.

Although I use randomness every day whenever I’m working creatively (in fact, I use it to choose blog topics as well), Clair Deus will have to settle for being an unemployed character on Garrison’s Library. But if she stayed there indefinitely, it would defeat the purpose of having old characters’ biographies on my blog in the first place. I want to use Clair in a dark fantasy story someday. The question is, how big of a role will she play (if any at all) and will she have enough flaws to make her a believable character rather than a Mary-Sue badass? That’s the problem I’ve faced in the past with a lot of my dark fantasy characters: they were too perfect for their own good. Nobody likes perfection, because life is far from perfect. Although we should all strive to be better people, we will never be perfect, which is what makes real life such an interesting story. Shouldn’t Clair Deus’ story reflect that kind of creativity? And before you ask, no, Clair’s last name isn’t a recycling of Deus Shadowheart’s first name. The two characters are unrelated.

"Skin Tight" by Carl Hiaasen

To use a phrase that will eventually become commonplace on this blog, Carl Hiaasen has done it again. His dialogue is witty, his villains are giggly, and his pace is breakneck. What more could one ask for when reading an environmental thriller? In the case of “Skin Tight”, somebody wants Mick Stranahan, a former police officer, dead. After disposing of a hit man with a swordfish, he goes on an investigative journey to find out just who paid him off. Along the way, he meets a TV personality with more vanity than credibility, a seven-foot bouncer who looks like a giant Rice Krispies treat, and an ambulance-chasing lawyer with sleazy intentions. The biggest threat to his life is Dr. Rudy Graveline, an incompetent plastic surgeon who has been sued more times than he cares to remember. Mick knows something that Rudy wants him to keep quiet about, albeit within the comfort of a casket: a plastic surgery fuck-up that reeks of homicide, particularly as it relates to a nose job done on Victoria Barletta, a college coed. Putting all of these crazy characters in the same place at the same time can only mean one thing: chaos. Lots and lots of chaos. If you think being trapped in a prison cell with these people is bad enough, try the entire state of Florida. Murder and corruption are common themes within this story. So common that most of these assassination attempts are on Mick’s life. You talk about some fast-paced action? You’ve got it, buddy! Even when things are cooling off for just a little while, they quickly pick right back up where the high-octane action left off. The lengthy conversations alone are enough to keep the reader on the edge of his seat. This story along with Hiaasen’s other works should be the standard bearers of what good fiction is. If you think the only fun you could have while reading is being on Twitter or Face Book, pick up “Skin Tight” and you’ll be instantly converted. It’s because of the fast-paced action that I’ve decided to label Mr. Hiaasen as a profound influence on my own writing. There’s a reason he’s so prolific. For a 375-page reason, buy “Skin Tight” and read the damn thing. Enough said.

　

***TWEET OF THE DAY***

I don’t have bad taste in jokes. I just like jokes that are in bad taste.

-Me-