Be My Zealot

VERSE 1

Second chances just don’t feel right

You had so many, the count’s out of sight

More than a bastard should ever deserve

New high score, stroke yourself, you perv

The gates of heaven have a permanent lock

I’ve stuffed the key down the front of my jock

Bolt cutters won’t get you past the arches

Now you’re a target for angelic archers

 

PRE-CHORUS 1

You want forgiveness? This is all you have to do

 

CHORUS

Be my zealot

Be my fanatic

I’ll be your god

Your reason to panic

Give me your body

Give me your soul

Give me your mind

Absolute control

Be my zealot!

 

VERSE 2

You spent so long raping my eardrums

With punch-down humor, your favorite fun

You spent so long renting space in my head

You’ll pay that debt long after you’re dead

You spent so long ripping out my heart

Breaking it so many times, I don’t know where to start

You spent so long ignoring my demands

To stop the insanity, ‘cause I won’t let it stand

 

PRE-CHORUS 1

You want forgiveness? This is all you have to do

 

CHORUS

Be my zealot

Be my fanatic

I’ll be your god

Your reason to panic

Give me your body

Give me your soul

Give me your mind

Absolute control

Be my zealot!

 

BRIDGE

The day of your funeral has finally arrived

Nobody showed up, so there’re no tears to cry

I walk past the steel gates with a heavy bladder

Pull out my pecker, your grave gets the splatter

 

PRE-CHORUS 2

It’s too late for forgiveness, so now that you’re in hell

 

CHORUS

Be my zealot

Be my fanatic

I’ll be your god

Your reason to panic

Give me your body

Give me your soul

Give me your mind

Absolute control

Be my zealot!

Island Zealot

A mismatch from the very beginning

There never really was any winning

Nothing in common but our biology

Brought together through technology

I could show you my CD collection

The heaviest hard rock connection

I could show you my shelves of books

Obscure titles with exciting hooks

You could pet my elderly kitty cat

Earn head bumps and purrs just like that

We could talk about power to the people

And try to pretend everything is equal

We could play with my chest of Legos

Make them fight right from the get-go

I could write you a poem or story

That’ll leave your soul freely soaring

We could go for a walk to stuff our faces

With so much food from different places

But it was never really meant to be

I’m an island zealot, but what does it mean?

It means I’m the only one in this room

Who follows my own interests to my doom

I can’t share them with you, you don’t care

You cut me down with a confused stare

All you cared about was my profile picture

Could your shallow intentions get any sicker?

You’d leave me once the beauty fades away

I’m sorry, but I didn’t come here to play

My hair and eyes are my best features, I’m told

But a handsome profile doesn’t equal pure gold

I need someone to be my very best friend

Give it to me or this conversation will end

I don’t need new hobbies or interests, honey

Don’t need a billion dollars worth of hush money

I’m good enough to be my own fucking man

I’m sorry I don’t fit into your devious plans

Silent Warrior, Chapter 27

It took fifteen seconds of staring at his own Nikes, but Craig Dunham finally said what he needed to say: “Look, Scott…I’m probably the last person who should be asking you for help right now. You threw a garbage can at me only a few months before. Hell, you probably feel like doing even more than that, maybe deck me a good one on the chin. But…I didn’t ask for this appointment for nothing, I swear to god.”

Sitting in his comfy swivel chair with the ease and professionalism of a true counselor, Scott calmly said, “Listen, Craig, whatever happened between us in the past, it’s all over now. Things are different now, just like Miss Williams said they would be. I have a new job and you happen to be my first client. You’re here for a reason and I’d probably be right in thinking it has something to do with that scar on your hand.”

Craig sighed and lifted up his hooded sweatshirt to reveal he had even more scars than that. One on his belly, one on his ribs, and a couple of bruises on his chest. Scott hypnotically gazed at them in sympathy and replied with a whispery, “Holy shit. Those are fresh. Who did this to you?” No response. “Craig, if I’m going to help you, I need to know everything that happened. How did you get these bruises? Walking into a doorknob doesn’t do that to people and neither does falling down stairs.”

“Funny, because that’s what I’ve been telling people this whole time. Anytime I took off my shirt for gym class or football practice, they’d be as plain as day. I’d laugh about them with the guys, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling them everything. Oh, and I also said they’re from being tackled during games. I think that was what threw them off my trail.”

“Craig, you didn’t answer my question.”

“My dad did this,” said Craig with trembling lips, causing Scott to lean back in his chair with even more pathos in his eyes. “He, uh…he caught me listening to some…questionable music. Here, let me show you.” As Craig choked back tears, he pulled various CD’s out of his backpack, all of the cases cracked, all of the music preaching nonconformist values: Marilyn Manson, Rob Zombie, Motionless in White, and Ghost to name a few.

“Is your dad religious?”

“Oh, that’s putting it mildly. He makes the old testament look like a Disney movie.” Craig still refused to make eye contact with Scott. “The first time I heard about him talking about God and shit, I didn’t know what to make of it. And just for that little bit of doubt, he beat the shit out of me. I was only six years old then. That’s not some Freudian shit and I know it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done to people like you. It’s just that…” The tears slowly fell from his face and Scott was there to hand him tissues.

Scott leaned forward in his chair to further engage in his subject and placed folded steeple hands in his own lap. “Listen to me. I’m sure not many people are inclined to tell you this, but I’m going to tell it to you right now. Nobody…and I mean nobody…should ever use their religion or politics as a weapon against another human being. It’s not a dad’s job to beat the shit out of his kids over a minor disagreement. It’s not discipline. It’s barbarism. There’s nothing wrong with the music you’re listening to and there’s nothing wrong with questioning authority.”

With his lips trembling even harder, Craig wept, “What will the team think of me? They can’t see me crying like this.”

“Well, that’s funny, because I always thought the true definition of a friend is someone who is loyal to you until the end. It’s like Marilyn Manson always said: if you want to find out who your friends are, sink the ship. The first ones to jump are not your friends. If your football teammates make fun of you for being emotional, they’re not true friends. They’re bullies with a close connection to you. The reason you picked on other students so much was because of all these negative influences, and no, that’s not Freudian bullshit.”

Craig shrugged and said, “They’re the only friends I’ve ever had. I can’t just tell them to fuck off.”

“You know what’s worse than having no friends at all? Having shitty friends who bring you down just to build themselves up. I’m sure those kids have some deep-seeded issues just like you do, but until they come forward with open arms and open hearts, they don’t deserve you. If you want to cry your eyes out, you’re more than welcome to do so. Not only is this stigma of men not being able to cry bullshit, but you’re doing it in a safe place: my office. Nothing you do here will ever leave this room…except for one thing.” Scott handed Craig the phone cradle and nodded knowingly at him.

“You want me to call 9-1-1 on my dad? Are you crazy? The cops aren’t going to believe me. They don’t believe anybody who doesn’t have more DNA evidence than a CSI laboratory.”

“Your bruises and cuts are more than enough evidence to put your father away for a long time. And even if the cops don’t believe your side of the story, at least this police report will set everything in motion so that you don’t have to see him again. If there’s another family member or friend you can stay with, find them and pack your bags. The cops may be overly skeptical, but if you don’t try to at least reach out to them, this is going to continue and things will only get worse. Come on, Craig. Just try.”

After a while of staring at his counselor with dewy eyes, Craig took the phone cradle with a convulsing hand and slowly brought his fingers to the keypad. “Would you mind giving me some privacy, Scott? This is my first 9-1-1 call and I…I can’t explain it right now.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me, Craig. I’ve been there before. The first call is never easy. I know this, because I was the one who made the call when my own father died. You never forget your first time for a lot of things. If you want privacy, I’d be more than happy to step outside the office for a little while. Take as much time as you need and don’t leave out any important details.”

With one arm, Craig gave an awkward hug to Scott and thanked him over and over again for his help. Scott reluctantly returned the hug and stepped out of his digs to give Craig his due privacy. Once the door was closed, Scott rubbed his face and breathed sobering sighs. He almost didn’t see Adrienne standing in front of him with a brown paper sack and a smile on her face.

“I take it your new job’s getting pretty intense right now,” said Adrienne.

“It’s a lot to handle at once, but overall, I’m glad I took the job. I just need some time to recuperate after that, that’s all. Is that my lunch?”

“Sure is. You left it on the kitchen counter this morning. And no, there aren’t any worms or maggots in your lunch today. Instead, you’re getting a classic favorite: peanut butter and jelly. Not just any kind of P&J, but Concord grape jelly and crunchy peanut butter. Your favorite!”

“No way!” said Scott with a sudden burst of happiness. Sure enough, he pulled the sandwich out of the sack and there it was in all its glory: the ever important grape jam. “You’re the queen!” he said before kissing Adrienne on the cheek and hurriedly unwrapping the plastic from his sandwich.

“Let me know when you get off work and we’ll see a movie or something. See you soon!” smiled Adrienne before she waved and hopped off to her next class. She didn’t see it, but Scott waved right back at her in a hypnotically slow manner. She probably got the message by now.

Scott had a seat in one of the chairs outside his office and eyeballed the contents of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He even pulled the two pieces of sourdough bread apart to see if there really were worms crawling around in there. His smile slowly descended into a faraway introspective expression. He searched every corner of his sandwich, every squished grape, and every broken peanut in the peanut butter. It was as though he was a detective honoring a search warrant. But no. Not one worm, not one maggot, and not one sing-songy command from his now-known biological mother.

The real test came when Scott took his first bite of sandwich. As he chewed, he rolled the food around in his tongue for yet another throughout inspection. Not one slime-covered creature swirled around in his mouth. In fact, the sandwich tasted as delicious as a P&J could be, probably because it was his personal favorite. Scott took another bite. And another. And another, until the whole thing was gone in record time. For even more reassurance, Scott lifted his T-shirt and saw that the skin was forming nicely over his previously exposed ribcage. If someone was looking for signs of an eating disorder or PTSD, they’d have to actually have the detective skills of someone honoring a search warrant.

Principal Williams made a throat clearing sound and Scott was immediately yanked out of his trance long enough for him to realize he’d been exposing his belly this entire time. Pulling his shirt down, he smiled and allowed redness to envelop his face. Principal Williams didn’t punish him for it, just smiled right back at him and said, “It’s good to have you on the team, Scott. Carry on.”

Not My God

VERSE 1

What kind of god would tell me to kill?

And send their families the funeral bill?

What kind of god would tell me to hate?

Believe every sinner gets a hellish fate?

What kind of god would promise me heaven?

Use fear as a conqueror, the ultimate weapon?

Never will I kneel down and pray to the skies

You’d never save me, not even if you tried

CHORUS

You’re not my god! You’re not my kind!

You’re not the answer that I have to find!

You’re not my king! You’re not my master!

You’re not my priest! You’re not my pastor!

You’re! Not! My! God!

VERSE 2

A prophet’s word is a false prediction

A prophet’s book is science fiction

A prophet’s orders fall on deaf ears

A prophet’s stuck in medieval years

CHORUS

You’re not my god! You’re not my kind!

You’re not the answer that I have to find!

You’re not my king! You’re not my master!

You’re not my priest! You’re not my pastor!

You’re! Not! My! God!

VERSE 3

A theomancer is a free man’s cancer

A theocrat lives off stolen cash

A theocosm has nothing in common

With our three worlds and our problems

The bottom level is home to the devil

I call bullshit so you should just quit

I don’t need your thoughts or prayers

In the fucking end, you just don’t care

EXTENDED CHORUS

You’re not my god! You’re not my kind!

You’re not the answer that I have to find!

You’re not my king! You’re not my master!

You’re not my priest! You’re not my pastor!

You’re not my savior! You’re not my flavor!

You won’t punish my sinful behavior!

I’m not your slave! I’m not your zealot!

My soul is not yours, you cannot sell it!

You’re! Not! My! God!

Demon Axe, Chapter 20

“The Holy Mountains? Are you fucking serious? That’s what Roger Zee calls these big ass piles of dirt and stone? Holy shit!” said Daniel Mercer with a scowl on his face and his arms folded while never letting go of his trustworthy microphone. Shawn Henry had his shotgun locked and loaded while Raven Triscloud had her blade within firm grasp. These were three badasses who were ready to do battle. Even though they had reached their final destination, they wondered what was taking so long for the battle to begin.

Raven explained, “The Holy Mountains as Roger called them were secret places where The Order of the Spider would torture prisoners. I guess he’s feeling nostalgic by bringing my father back here…if he is here at all. The Holy Mountains would be my first guess.”

“It’s almost as if he wants us to find him,” suggested Shawn. “Arrogant little punk. We’ll see how full of himself he is when I put one between his fucking eyes.”

“Just tread carefully, both of you,” warned Raven. “There’s a reason he chose this pile of rocks and dirt as Daniel so eloquently put it. We could we walking right into a trap for all we know. Then again, fighting Roger is a trap in and of itself. Trust me, I know.”

“I’ll take my chances with the Holy-Pile-of-Dog-Shit,” said Daniel. “Let’s get moving.”

The three renegades trekked slowly and carefully up the hillside, the steep angle putting a dull strain on their leg muscles. No traps so far, just piles of bones scattered across the hill whether they belonged to a human, elf, or animal. The stench of this place wasn’t any more pleasant. If a meat truck had crashed into a sewage treatment plant, that’s what the Holy Mountains would have smelled like with all of the dead carcasses lying around. All three warriors kept their noses in their shirts until they reached the top of the hill.

“That’s him! That’s my father!” exclaimed Raven. The three adventurers rushed over to his fallen body and checked to see if the old man was still alive. They all saw the same thing: a crown of thorns around his head and a neon glow in his eyeballs. They slowly edged away from Arthur Triscloud’s body, fearing the absolute worst scenario they could.

The old man rose to his feet like a zombie thirsting for a second life. His smile was contorted, his beard was covered in dirt and worms, his flesh was vein-covered and rotting. He spoke to his opponents in a low growl reminiscent of a demonic tiger. “Master Roger wants death…and I shall give him death!” The brainwashed Arthur unleashed a creepy laugh that only an insane asylum full of psychopaths could utter.

Raven didn’t even try to reason with her father; it would have been useless. Instead, she and Detective Henry stood their ground with battle born looks on their faces and their weapons ready. She said, “Daniel, you know exactly what to do to someone with a crown of thorns.”

“I’m on it, sugar tits,” said Daniel, who cleared his throat of all the snot and bile that the dusty air brought up within him. His mouth was centimeters away from the mouthpiece of the microphone. He was primed and ready to shout every heavy metal lyric he could muster into this deadly piece of musical equipment.

And then while everyone was too focused on Arthur Triscloud’s zombie form, two powerful hands grabbed Daniel around the ankles and dragged him roughly beneath the ground, causing him to drop his microphone in the process. While Raven was shouting for her boyfriend and reaching out her hand, Daniel’s body scraped across the jagged bones and rocks of the underground cavern.

Once he hit the ground, Daniel groaned and wrapped his arms around himself in agonizing pain. He was shrouded in darkness, but only until a familiar being lit a torch on the wall with the most hellish fire. With his retinas burning beneath the flames, the Lord of the Pit could barely make out the features of Roger Zee, same ugly face, same blood soaked uniform, same horrifying machete.

Daniel ignored the wicked smile Roger gave him and instead tried to reach over to retrieve his fallen microphone, to which the elf zealot stepped on his wrist and ground his boot into the fragile bone. Daniel shrieked in pain as he tried to rip his hand away from the heartless soldier.

Roger took his boot off voluntarily and grabbed Daniel by his shirt to hoist him off the ground. The zealot then slammed the heavy metal singer back first against the rocky wall multiple times before holding him in place by his jaw, which emitted quick and painful breaths.

“I bet you’re wondering why we called ourselves the Order of the Spider. Trap door references aside, it’s because we evoke fear in the hearts of everyone who crosses us. I can smell it coming off you for miles, my friend. It smells like a bucket of greasy fried chicken!” Roger emphasized that last word with another slam against the wall. “I bet you taste just like fried chicken too. You have every right in the world to be scared of me, Daniel. I’m going to have some fun with you, buddy. I could just as easily kill your ass right now with my lovely blade. But where’s the excitement in that? Huh?!”

“You know why you’re not killing me right now?” said Daniel through fast and raspy breaths. “Because you’re a fucking coward! Terrorists like you always are! You think you’re hot shit because you killed a crowd full of people, but you’re not different from the high school senior who took my lunch money on a regular basis! You’re a coward, Roger! A chicken shit coward!”

Roger slammed Daniel against the wall yet again and earned another painful cry from the Lord of the Pit. The elf leaned in closer and said, “Right, I’m the coward here. I’m the one shaking in my boots ready to piss myself at a moment’s notice. You sure do have your facts straight, don’t you, buddy.” Daniel hocked up a bloody wad of spit and launched it into Roger’s face, to which the elf smiled even more evilly and slammed Daniel against the wall multiple times. Every pound against the singer’s back was met with a tearful cry of brutal pain. He might have even heard a few pops here and there.

Roger continued to grin at his victim when he asked, “Do you like videogames, Daniel? Believe it or not, I liked them too when I was young. They give me some nice creative fuel. Society likes to blame youth violence on videogames and they’re only halfway right. The other half of it…it comes from within. Let’s see if you remember which videogame this comes from. Tiger Knee!”

The elf terrorist buried his rock-hard knee into Daniel’s ribs, cracking them like glass and forcing the singer to scream through coughed up blood. “Tiger Uppercut!” yelled Roger as he buried his clenched fist right into the other side of Daniel’s ribs, shattering them like china plates and getting even more blood to waterfall from the singer’s mouth.

The singer dropped to the ground and crawled like a snail across gravel toward his microphone, to which Roger just folded his arms and smiled some more. He even said, “What are you waiting for, Mr. Mercer? Isn’t that microphone supposed to be the answer to all of your problems? Didn’t King Triscloud give that to you specifically for slaying me?”

Daniel finally made it to the microphone, but not without scraping his chest across the bone-covered ground and developing rashes along the way. He grabbed a hold of the wall and gingerly pulled himself up, every ounce of effort sending a cataclysm of agony through his chest. Even standing upright felt like he swallowed the spiked ball on a morning star.

Roger mockingly held his ear up close to the singer and waved his fingers back and forth like a conductor. “Go ahead, Daniel. Serenade me with your sweet sound. I’m dying to hear that beautiful voices of yours.”

Daniel brought the mouthpiece to his lips and breathed heavily before trying to let out a death metal scream. One decibel of sound and the singer was on the ground clutching his broken ribs and screaming like hell (though the screaming actually made his pain worse). That was the elf and human kingdoms’ last hope in a crumbled heap on the ground looking as pathetic as a dead body.

Roger chuckled at his fallen foe and said, “Well, I’m sorry to hear that your pipes don’t work anymore. It’s kind of hard to have a career in heavy metal music when your ribs are all busted up like that. But don’t worry, Daniel. You still have other parts of your body that are functioning perfectly well. The question now becomes, which one functions better: your pretty little mouth or your sweet little anus?” The question was punctuated with the sound of Roger’s pants zipper coming undone. “Like I told you, I intend to have some fun with you, buddy. I’m going to have the best kind of fun there is. It’s the oldest profession in history and it’s going to be your new career. Open wide!”

“NO!!” shouted Daniel in a prolonged cry that further grinded his ribs like coffee beans.

Demon Axe, Chapter 19

The bindings on Arthur Triscloud’s wrists and ankles cut so deeply into him that it felt like it was being branded with an iron. Such slow agony didn’t weigh nearly as heavily on his mind as watching down below from his crucified position, where Roger Zee sharpened his bloodied machete with a whetstone. Arthur could hear the squawks of crows and ravens circling above him. Any minute now they would begin to peck his eyes out and leave him a violent mess. To die atop these holy mountains in such a cruel fashion burned a look of silent rage on Arthur’s face.

“I see the writing on the wall, my old friend,” said Arthur, which garnered no attention from Roger. “This is more than about rightwing politics for you. This runs much deeper. But that’s what I need help in understanding. Where did it all go wrong? What the hell has happened to you?! I once considered you to be a brother of mine! You were next in line for the throne! And then you threw it all away…for what?!”

Roger stopped sharpening his blade and cast a vicious gaze at his king. The zealot stood up and sheathed his weapon before speaking to his captive with venom in his voice. “The throne? Are you sure that title wasn’t reserved for that heavy metal goofball Daniel Mercer? I know all about your plans. I know what you want for this kingdom. For a man of such wisdom, you’ve sure made the dumbest decision of your life in choosing him over me. He can’t even govern his own mind, let alone an entire nation of people.”

“For his tortured state of mind, I blame you, Roger,” snapped Arthur. “You haven’t been the same ever since I’ve dissolved the Order of the Spider. You’re the last of that elite group and now you’ve brought shame with your countless murders. You can never go back to being that noble friend you once were. I broke up the Order of the Spider because you and your group couldn’t stop torturing your prisoners for information. I don’t care if the human kingdom destroys our entire race; torture is not acceptable, not in this nation, not in any other!”

“Is that what this is about?!” roared Roger as he unsheathed his blade once more. “You social justice warriors are all the same to me. You want solutions to the world’s problems, but when someone like me provides the best kind there is, you squeal like a bunch of pigs! And if you want to argue psychological triggers, try arguing with me about the consequences of breaking up the Order! Together, my men and I were an elite team of warriors! In the midst of war, you separated us! Every damn day I would get letters in the mail about one of my crew being slaughtered by those disgusting humans! They were more than just crew members! They were friends! Brothers! Family! I’d die alongside them if I could!”

A beat of uncomfortable silence was broken when Roger marched up to where Arthur was perched and grabbed him by the hair before pulling his face closer and saying in a demonic tone, “Look into my eyes, my lord! Tell me what you see! Do you see the strength of a thousand men or do you see someone who is broken beyond repair?!”

Arthur’s features softened even after having his hair pulled when he realized, “You have PTSD too, just like Daniel.”

“Every damn day it hurts, Arthur! Sometimes I wake up and I don’t know where the fuck I am! Sending those faggots and hippies to the depths of hell was the only way I could shut up the voices of my own men calling me a coward! Take a look into my eyes, my lord! Who’s screaming now?! Who the fuck is screaming now?!” shouted Roger.

Arthur’s teeth were gritted and his face was trembling with anger. “I don’t care how badly you hurt every night. I don’t care what kind of nightmares you wake up from. What you’re doing is wrong. It’s about as wrong as it gets! Torturing prisoners is not what we’re all about and neither is random murder! The sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner your own cohorts will give you peace!”

Roger held his blade to the king’s throat and a trickle of blood ran down the royalty’s neck. Arthur remained brave as he stared death in the face with a poisonous frown. “Go ahead and kill me! I’ve already made up my mind as to who’s taking over my throne! Daniel Mercer is more of a leader than you could ever be in your lifetime! He doesn’t need a machete to get his point across! He has something even more powerful than a blade or a gun: his voice.”

Roger pressed the blade to Arthur’s neck even further without killing him or drawing more blood. After a lengthy stare-down between the two with twitching faces and raging expressions, the zealot sheathed his weapon once more and slowly backed away before folding his arms. He then smiled and said, “Slashing your neck would be too easy. After what you’ve done to my men, you deserve a much slower death than that. I reckon those ravens and crows are getting hungry right about now. It wouldn’t be right of me to deny them a fresh meal.”

“Do your worst, you psychotic bastard,” spat Arthur. “Before the birds dine on my facial features, there’s something you need to know. You can’t win, Roger. Your quest of pain and agony is about to come crashing down around you. The elves and the humans will know peace once again.”

Roger chuckled and said, “Is that really the fantasy that keeps you going throughout your elder years? And here I thought the slow burn of old age would have erased that shit from your head a long time ago!”

“It’s not a fantasy, Roger. It’s the truth,” said the king. “While you were busy waging war with your own kind and committing all sorts of treasonous crimes, I’ve reached out to a few of my brand new friends. As it turns out, you’ve angered a lot of people with your heinous murders.”

“Of course I’ve angered people! At least now those media anchors have something worthwhile to talk about instead of some movie star taking a shit in public!”

“I’m afraid it’s much worse than that, Roger,” said Arthur with a half-smile. “You’ve pissed off…a lot of people. You’ve manipulated the police department from the inside and led many of those people to their deaths. You’ve slaughtered entire arenas full of people. You’ve taken folk heroes away from the public eye. You think their families and friends are going to be afraid of you forever? Fear can only work for so long before these “faggots and hippies” as you call them grow a solid steel spine. It’s over, Roger. It’s all over!”

“Ha!” shouted Roger. “You really think an army of nitwits is going to pose any kind of threat to me?! This whole campaign of mine was based on the idea of me slaughtering large numbers of people! Bring your cops, your bouncers, your social justice warriors, your fan boys, your fan girls, I will slay the shit out of each and every one of them! And the best part about all of this? Their blood will be on your hands, Arty-Boy! You called them over here, and now they’re going to look great lying face down in the mud!”

After the zealot let out a thunderous laughter, Arthur said, “Keep telling yourself that, you vile scum! Maybe if you say it long enough, the voices in your head will agree with you on something other than murder and torture!”

“Enough!” bellowed Roger, creating a chasm of silence between himself and the king of elves. “The more I think about it, the more I start to wonder if crucifying your pathetic ass is too good for you. Yes, I believe I’ve arrived at that point with you, my king. You’ve actually managed to be so annoying that the slowest of slow torture won’t be enough for you.”

Roger reached in his pocket and pulled out a magical crown of thorns not unlike the ones he placed on the heads of Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez prior to their deaths. Arthur gazed upon the unholy artifact with wide-eyed fear. “Those were supposed to be banned a long time ago! Why did you have one in your pocket?!”

“Once again, your false wisdom amazes me, my king. Just because there’s a law against something, doesn’t mean it’s not going to exist. If the human nation figured that out with guns, we’d have a lot less dead motherfuckers in the earthly realm. You see, my liege, before your little army of halfwits come riding into battle with their horses and their chariots, you and I are going to have some company in the form of your future king and his two protégés Bevis and Butthead. We’ll see how much your daughter loves you when you’re the one slinging the sword instead of me!”

Roger formed a slasher smile on his face as he slowly approached King Arthur Triscloud with the crown of thorns in hand. The elderly ruler struggled and thrashed in his bindings while yelling, “No!” repeatedly. The longest “No!” sounded off like a crack of lightning as Roger wrapped the magical thorns around the king’s head. Every barb and every spike seeped its way into the king’s brain until the last synaptic neuron became Roger’s personal puppet string. Arthur’s eyes glowed a brilliant fiery red while his new master cackled with delight.

Demon Axe, Chapter 16

Any dumb fuck could make the excuse that the Paulson City Police were just doing what they were told for the sake of their families. The news anchors could sanitize their sins with Lysol until the end of time. But what about those in uniform who actually bought into Roger Zee’s twisted logic? Like a certain orange politician, Roger Zee’s actions and words gave permission to commit violence in the name of the “greater good”. The corrupt cops who felt empowered by this dangerous thinking were the ones driving tanks and hummers through the elven world.

Gigantic tanks crushing innocent street dwellers underneath their bladed wheels. Cannons blasting buildings until they crumbled to the ground. Hummers with machineguns mounted on them unloading a blizzard of bullets upon elves who tried to run and hide. After hundreds of years of the elves rebuilding their homeland, it once again resembled an apocalyptic scenario. Rubble scattered all over the pavement. Broken and twisted elf corpses strewn across the road with their blood running down the sewer drains. Screams and cries of those who were barely surviving pierced the ears, but not the hearts of their human rivals. Mothers huddling with their children behind piles of broken buildings.

The war machines were tromping their way across the wreckage and bloodied bodies with the intention of storming King Arthur Triscloud’s castle. The finest of elven architecture was ready to be violated with fiery cannonballs and armor-piercing bullets the size of crowbars. As more women and children gathered around the castle to shed their tears, their sorrows were met with laughter and mockery from the cops who were itching to settle the score between man and elf.

“This is not your land!” shouted a familiar female voice, putting an end to the hyena laughter. With rows upon rows of elven soldiers with swords marching behind her, Princess Raven Triscloud pointed her own blade at her world’s attackers while giving an oratory worthy of a certain Lord’s heavy metal performance.

With muscles twitching and raw anger in her voice, Raven shouted, “Whatever fake reminiscence Roger Zee is feeding you, it will be your downfall! Up until this moment, my elven race has never been a threat to human democracy! We just wanted to live peacefully and rebuild what your people have taken down with brute force! Anybody who says otherwise is dabbling in revisionist history! Your news anchors and your politicians have built the human empire on fear! You want something to be afraid of?! I’ll give it to you! Charge!”

The elven soldiers led by Raven rushed into battle with swords and shields raised while the human forces readied their machineguns and tank cannons. They unleashed a tidal wave of bullets across the elven warriors, but the indigenous race’s oversized shields deflected the ammunition off to the sides, where they bounced off rubble piles with audible pings. The elves stayed light on their feet as they dodged and weaved out of range of the cops’ high velocity cannons.

As soon as Raven and her soldiers bolted within range, the massive slaughter became a melee between swords and batons. Elves jammed elongated blades through their opponents’ black hearts and chopped off limbs, causing the human forces to bleed buckets all over the broken city streets. Likewise, cops rained down heavy clubs across the elves’ skulls until the fantasy race’s brains were splashed off the concrete.

Raven, being the most skilled fighter of her army, ran around to various human soldiers and slashed their throats, gutted their stomachs, and chopped off heads. She was often ganged up on by three, four, or five cops at a time, but for every baton strike, she rolled and flipped out of the way. While she was on the ground, she threw a circular slash and chopped off her opponents’ feet, causing them to scream like children and cuss like sailors as they bled profusely.

And then Raven noticed out of the corner of her eye that a tank cannon was aiming right for her. “Shit!” she yelled before cart-wheeling out of range. The cannon fired and blew concrete shrapnel all over her friends, making them easier targets for baton beatings over the head and across the ribs. At the threat of another cannon blast, Raven backed up into an alleyway to avoid more shrapnel. She needed time to rethink her strategy, but her friends were dying out there. “If only there was some way to disable those tanks,” she said to herself.

“I wouldn’t count on it if I was you,” said a haunting elf voice. Raven gasped and slowly turned around to face her new opponent. Out of the shadows came Roger Zee with his machete in hand and a shit-eating grin across his ugly face. “Haven’t you gotten tired of watching your loved ones die? Daniel Mercer certainly has. So much so that I doubt he’ll want to interfere in elf politics ever again,” mocked Roger.

“You bastard!” shouted Raven before engaging the terrorist in hand-to-hand combat. The two elves clanged and banged swords with enough volume to drown out the sounds of war going on in the background. They even managed to make dents in each other’s blades, though Raven’s were much deeper and nastier than Roger’s. The terrorist went for a slash to the throat only for Raven to duck underneath and bull rush her opponent against a brick wall.

Holding the blade to Roger’s neck, Raven angrily whispered, “You are a disgrace to your people, Roger. I’m going to enjoy taking your fucking head off!” She would have if a cannon blast didn’t take a chunk out of a nearby building and rock her off balance. Roger threw a palm strike to Raven’s gut and kicked her in the face, flipping her in the air and causing her to land on her chest. She spit out blood and nursed her numb face.

Roger arrogantly whistled as he picked up his machete and danced like a fruitcake to his fallen opponent. Raven slowly made it to her hands and knees, but Roger held the blade to the back of her neck and said, “Revisionist history my ass, Raven! The only traitor to the crown I see around here is your deadbeat father!”

The insult pumped adrenaline through Raven’s system as she grabbed Roger’s feet and pulled him to the ground, making him drop his weapon. Raven took this time to stagger to her feet while Roger nipped up like an athlete. From that point it was martial arts warfare. The female warrior threw punches and kicks around the head and ribs of her opponent, all of those attacks being blocked or dodged by Roger. The zealot grabbed one of Raven’s punches and squeezed on her wrist so tightly that she crumbled to her knees. He said, “That dig about your father? That wasn’t an alternative fact. It was a hard fact!”

Raven threw another punch, but Roger caught that one as well before throwing her overhead and slamming her on her back. From there the former Order of the Spider soldier dropped repeated elbows on her chest and ribs, causing her to cough up even more blood than before. She tried throwing her legs up to back him off, but she was so weak that it resembled drunken choreography.

Roger knelt down and held his blade to Raven’s throat, to which she said, “Go ahead! Finish me off! I’d rather die than live your dystopia!”

The terrorist chuckled, “As much as I’d love to finish you off right now, there’s a war going on around us in case you hadn’t noticed.” To prove his point, another chunk of rubble flew across the battlefield, dusting Raven and Roger with large pebbles. Roger stood up, grinned, and said, “Besides, you’re not the one that I came here for. Any minute now…”

“You scoundrel!” shouted an elderly male voice. Raven’s puffy vision was able to make out the features of her father as he dashed into battle and threw wild slashes at Roger. The terrorist dodged each slash with athletic grace before kneeing the king in the stomach and hoisting Arthur on his shoulder.

“Put him down!” demanded Raven as she coughed up more blood. Her rage fell on deaf ears as Roger retreated from the bloody battle going on around them. The Princess held out her hand in a weak attempt to save her father, but after a short while of seeing his pained face, Roger took him away into the violent morning.

Tears built up in Raven’s swelling eyes, but she had no outlet for her sorrow other than beating the ground with her aching fists. She tried getting up, but the pain surged through her bones and watered her down to a crawl across the concrete. She pulled with the last of her remaining strength and then closed her eyes in defeat. The human and elven worlds belonged to Roger Zee.

Her dreams, however, belonged only to her. As the sounds of battle were dying all around her, she envisioned Daniel Mercer with his magical microphone serenading a raucous crowd. He had his skeleton makeup on and everything. He even played with his former band mates: Vulture Man on guitars, Pig Man on bass, and G-Pac on drums.

Even though Daniel was screaming angry lyrics, he seemed happy and loved in a place like this. This was his natural habitat and Roger would never be able to take that away from him no matter how much land he ruled over. Raven would have smiled at this moment, but her mouth was bloody and it hurt to do so. “Find me, Daniel,” she whispered. “Find me again.”

Zealot

VERSE 1

Holding peaceful protesters hostage

Grinding individuality into sausage

Never knowing what will cause it

Bigoted tendencies out of the closet

A zealot in the worst sense of the word

Keeping the masses caged like birds

Clipping their wings so they can’t fly

Slashing their throats, they can’t say bye

CHORUS

I don’t believe in you or your ideas

I don’t believe in your verbal diarrhea

I don’t believe in the life of a zealot

I don’t feel the least bit fucking jealous

VERSE 2

Keeping their eyes glued to the TV

Keeping your words far from PG

Keeping your presence hypnotic

Keeping your bombs atomic

When you offend, it’s for the ratings

When you pick fights, it’s race baiting

The midnight slot is too good for you

Shoot the TV with a shotgun boom

CHORUS

I don’t believe in you or your ideas

I don’t believe in your verbal diarrhea

I don’t believe in the life of a zealot

I don’t feel the least bit fucking jealous

BRIDGE

The violence, the riots, they’re all your fault

The hoax, the jokes, in the wound goes the salt

The rebels, the devils, they’ve got your balls

The hellions, the zealots, they all must fall

VERSE 3

At the end of the day, was it all worth it?

Did you achieve your ultimate purpose?

Did you get everything handed to you?

Did you get revenge on the ones you sued?

All you created was a world of dead shit

Flames and infernos are eternally lit

Did this to yourself with your puppeteer’s help

Let’s pull your string and hear you yell

EXTENDED CHORUS

I don’t believe in you or your ideas

I don’t believe in your verbal diarrhea

I don’t believe in the life of a zealot

I don’t feel the least bit fucking jealous

I don’t believe the blind leading the blind

I don’t believe it is heaven that I’ll find

I don’t believe in the life of an assassin

I don’t believe in politics for ransom

Demon Axe, Chapter 12

For Daniel Mercer and his rock and roll crew, time moved slowly and painfully in the confines of their dark holding cell. Pain and disgust were etched on their faces as they ate spoiled bologna sandwiches compliments of the state. Tarantula Man held his sandwich meat and stared at it like it actually was a poisonous arachnid in his hand. His Islamic diet would never allow him to eat such rancid garbage, so he flushed his food down the toilet in the center of the cell and sat back down on the graffiti-covered bench.

The cell had been deathly silent for what seemed like hours (even though only one hour had passed). Every member of Demon Death Juice along with the two pro-wrestlers sat with a miserable and pathetic hunched over posture. As Bear Man tried to stomach the abomination he was feasting on, he piped up, “I know we’re prisoners who’ve been stripped of our freedom, but do we at least have the right to some mustard?!”

For Daniel, it wouldn’t have mattered if his sandwich was covered in an entire bottle of condiments. He took a bite out of the center and gagged so badly that he doubled over. He spit out what appeared to be a dead mouse, complete with teeth marks and sloppy guts.

“Oh god, dear god…” Daniel kept repeating to himself as he held his stomach and rushed over to the toilet. He vomited so hard that it sounded like he was laying down vocals for the first Demon Death Juice album. Another stream of masticated mush came up. And another. And another. Everybody sharing his cell looked on with horror before throwing their sandwiches on the floor in rebellion.

The Lord of the Pit wiped his mouth on his bare arm before slowly standing up and approaching the bars with a predator’s pace. He grabbed hold of them and yelled out to whoever would listen, “Whoever’s keeping us here has a shit load of explaining to do! You arrested us for no fucking reason and feed us these god awful sandwiches like we’re a bunch of goddamn dogs! We’ve been sitting on our asses for who knows how long, so whoever’s out there, you’d better get your ass over here and tell me what the hell’s going on!”

Daniel’s sentiments were echoed by his rock and roll troupe, all five of them sitting up and roaring like animals. They sat back down again at the shrill sound of metal banging on metal. Even the high and mighty Lord of the Pit backed away to the center of the room. The clanging and banging turned into something sharp being scraped across the bars. The prisoners winced and held their ears at the awful shriek.

The sharp metal object stopped at the entrance to the holding cell, where an oil lantern was lit and revealed a green-skinned man holding a machete and wearing a black monk’s robe, complete with a hood shrouding his face. The prisoner’s nerves were jittery and wild as Daniel said, “No way. You can’t be!” The robed figure flipped his hood back and revealed the sinister mug of Roger Zee, elven terrorist. His sharp-toothed grin sent chills up everyone’s spines. Even Daniel was struggling to say, “I’ll be damned” behind his quivering lips.

“Don’t act like you’ve never seen one of my kind before, Mr. Mercer,” said Roger in his grating voice. “I bet you’re wondering what the hell I’ve been doing this past month. I sure as hell wasn’t taking a nap. I also didn’t spend my time behind a computer raving like a teenaged lunatic. On the contrary, I’ve spent my last month of inactivity…getting to know some people around here.”

Daniel crossed his arms and said, “Let me guess: you’re the one who’s got Detective Henry’s balls in your pocket.”

“Not just his balls, my friend,” said Roger with a wag of his long-nailed finger. “The whole department. I’ve got more balls in my pocket than a game of billiards. Everybody in this god forsaken precinct has something to protect, something to hide, something to lose. I had no idea your city cops had so much to cover up. Racial profiling, racketeering, extortion, political embezzlement, this shit goes on forever. But then again, they can’t all be criminals who are willing to give me their puppet strings over some blackmail, right? Well, not all of them. But enough. Most of them are just hardworking family men who don’t want to see their precious demon seeds get hurt. I’ve got enough connections to take over this entire city if I wanted to.”

“All this just to bring things back to the good old days, huh?” said Daniel with a condescending smirk. “Well, the good old days weren’t all that good! In your so called golden age, bigotry was considered normal, death was the status quo, and beating your wife was an act of discipline. You want to bring that shit back to life? Not on my watch, motherfucker!”

Roger bent backwards and chuckled before saying, “And how is that any different than today’s world? Huh? Bigotry is still normal, death is even more normal, and beating your wife is still a shit load of fun! I’m not really changing much with my so called acts of terrorism. All I’m doing is speeding up the inevitable. Surely, your friend Tarantula Man knows something about this.”

Without his stage mask, Tarantula Man’s white hot angry expression could be seen from the moon. He approached the bars with breakneck speed and barked, “Don’t you ever talk about my religion that way! I am nothing like what you hear in your little bubble! I’m going to raise my kids to be respectful even when scumbags like you are hastening the inevitable as you say!”

Roger held his lantern and machete-holding hands up in defense and sarcastically apologized with, “Whoa, whoa, easy there, big man! I believe you when you say you’re going to raise your children right! Okay?” The elf leaned so close to Tarantula Man’s face that they were touching noses. “After all, if they don’t act proper, you can always strap a suicide vest on them.”

The Muslim rocker took a swing through the bars and got his arm chopped off at the elbow for his efforts. He howled in miserable bloody pain as he stumbled backwards on his ass with Bear Man and Lady Killer tending to his wound.

“Anybody else want to try that shit with me?! Anybody?!” Roger proudly challenged.

Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez, the two beefy wrestlers slowly stood up and took their places next to Daniel, who also had his muscles bulging and pulsating like blood bombs ready to blow. Sonia stared a fireball through Roger as she said, “If you still think beating women is a shit load of fun, let’s see you try that on me, bitch!”

“You don’t have your stupid little crowns anymore, amigo,” said Johnny while punching the bars. “Besides, it’s hard for someone like you to wear a crown with your brains leaking all over the fucking floor!”

“You fucked with my friends one too many times,” said Daniel, who was trembling with rage and ready to snap someone’s head off. “Up until now, I’ve been backing away from you anytime I had an opening. You chopped off my new friend’s arm. He’s never going to play guitar again because of you. And you, you’re never going to eat solid food again because your fucking teeth are going down your goddamn throat!”

Roger Zee laughed like a banshee and blew out the oil lantern, covering the holding cell in shadows once again. Daniel and his wrestler friends didn’t need the light to know where the elf was. They could smell his dick-licking breath from a mile away. The door opened so slowly that the hinges could be heard creaking and grinding.

Johnny, Sonia, and Daniel came out of the gates swinging like wild brawlers. They were certain their savage punches hit their marks, because they could feel the slimy flesh between their knuckles and fingers. Daniel even pierced his knuckle on one of Roger’s sharp fangs, causing a liberal amount of blood to flow from his hand. He didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck.

His veins were ready to blow like dynamite and he wouldn’t stop punching until he heard Roger let out a pathetic squeal of pain. “Ouch…ouch…no more…please…” Each cry for help was getting more sarcastic and it all crescendoed with evil hyena laughter that had everyone in the cell on edge. “My turn!” Roger shouted before the sounds of skin, organs, and bones being slashed pierced Daniel’s ears, causing the traumatized rocker to shriek a prolonged, “No!” and huddle to the ground in tears.

The oil lantern was alight once more and Roger waved the device around the cell to show Daniel that he was right to be traumatized and frightened. Pieces of his band mates and friends were scattered all over the cell with blood drenching the floor. Their faces were hardly recognizable with smashed skulls and popped out eyeballs. Daniel’s tears flooded down his face as he saw that his last circle of friends had left his earth forever.

He truly was all alone in this world. Every time he brought the metal scene back to life, it was taken away from him again. Every time he tried to have a positive thought, it was slashed to pieces. Every time he tried to live his life again, his happiness was ripped away from him like a teddy bear in a crying child’s arms.

Roger set the lantern down and petted Daniel’s hair in mock comfort while silently shushing him and whispering “sweet sounds” to him. “There, there, my little child. All is not lost. You can call me your friend anytime you want. You know what friends do when one of them is feeling down? We have some fun together. Good…old fashioned…medieval…fun!”

The lantern was blown out yet again and Daniel felt himself being dragged by his follicles across the bloody floor. He wished he had drowned in his own tears and in his fallen friends’ blood, for it would have been a friendlier ending to his story than whatever was about to happen to him next. “Just kill me already!” he pleaded. “Kill me, damn it!”

Conforming to Society

***CONFORMING TO SOCIETY***

I can’t remember who exactly said it, but I read a Wikipedia article where the lead singer of a punk band talked about the necessity of conforming to society in order to fulfill responsibilities. In other words, doing what you’re told will give you worth in the eyes of your boss even if you don’t agree with your orders.

However, there’s a huge difference between doing what you’re told to earn a paycheck and changing your mindset to contour to the boss’s beliefs. When teenagers work at McDonald’s, they’re not doing it because they’re zealots of fast food. They’re doing it because they want money for an X-Box or a new car. Conformity takes place in the mind, not in the body. No sane human being would ever bomb a Burger King or spray poisonous gas in a Wendy’s in the righteous name of McDonald’s.

Money isn’t everything, but it is something. We all have to have it in some form or another, whether we’re keeping a roof over our heads or finding entertainment. Sometimes you have to do things for money that you never thought possible. But does that mean you’re a puppet for whoever you work for? No. Does it mean you have to give up on your original dreams? No.

If your boss does something morally corrupt, you could just as easily look for another job behind his back. If you need time to work on your dreams, wait until you get home. Even if you work seven days a week, you can use at least a modicum of your free time to work on other projects. Yes, you’ll be tired at the end of the day, but if you set aside time for yourself, it can be achieved.

What you do in your private life and what you believe in your own mind are nobody else’s business but your own. Your mind is a personal haven where you can say or do whatever you want. You can have violent fantasies, sexual fantasies, adventures, and other trains of thought without invasion. Yes, people will try to invade your private sanctuary with insults and abuse, which is why it’s important to maintain your individuality and suppress thoughts of conforming to your haters. Being an individual is a skill, but as long as you remember who you are and why you do what you do, it can be done.

I’m currently reading another one of Andy Peloquin’s books and it’s called “Child of the Night Guild”. The opening scenes depict a cruel drill instructor named Master Velvet trying to force small children to obey him at all times by starving them, beating them, and screaming at them. While the children do bend to his will, I’ll bet you anything that somewhere in their minds they’re thinking about kicking this guy in the nuts. He controls them by changing their birth names to numbers, but other than lost memories, I still wonder why these kids don’t just gang up on Master Velvet and beat him into powder.

There’s no rule that says you have to like what you do for a living or like who’s in charge. There’s also no rule that says you can’t use your employment as a stepping stone for bigger and better things. You can work at a convenience store, pay your bills, and set aside some money to publish that next great novel of yours. It doesn’t happen right away and your soul will feel crushed from time to time, but it can be done. Everyone tells you how hard it is to be an artist, but nobody tells you how hard it is NOT to be an artist. Think of all your favorite authors, actors, and musicians and what they had to go through to get to where they are today. And yet, they managed to achieve their dreams.

Putting on a grocery store apron doesn’t make you a zealot any more than earning a paycheck makes you a conformist. Do what you need to do to survive and then be yourself when you come back to your private life. If you like wearing rock band T-shirts, put one on when you get home. If you like watching Real Time with Bill Maher even though your boss likes watching The O’Reilly Factor, watch Bill Maher’s show when you get home.

If you need help remembering who you are, surround yourself with friends and family who believe in you. You might have to search far and wide to find these people, but it’s worth it. It might even be as easy as doing an internet search. Someone out there loves you for who you are. Not everybody wants you to change into something you’re not. No, you don’t have to conform to society in order to survive. Society isn’t always going to be your friend. Only people who love and respect you can be part of your own society. Do what makes you happy and be with people who will make you happy. You deserve the best, always.

***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER 11***

I somehow have the feeling that there should be a transition chapter between 10 and 11. But as it is, when chapter 10 ends with a bonfire argument, chapter 11 begins with a heavy metal concert at another venue. Daniel Mercer instantly forms a new band with members of I Am Death and Juice and they miraculously know how to play Demon Axe songs. Monk robes, scary masks, and crazy stage names aside, the new band won’t be called Demon Axe. It’ll be a combination of those three bands: Demon Death Juice. Again, these things happen instantaneously even though concerts sometimes take weeks or even months to book in advance, not to mention hours of practice the bands have to go through to get their songs right. Do we have time for rational solutions to the transition problem? Could months pass without another terrorist attack from Roger Zee? I need to sit on this one for a while before I write the damn thing.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Uneven tits aside, I’d say that Raven Triscloud turned out well. Now it’s time to draw a villain since a hero was featured in the last picture. That’s how I’m going to pump out Dark Fantasy Warriors: hero, villain, hero, villain, hero, villain. This time, we’ve got Carla Madder, the razor-toothed, overweight madam from the Poison Tongue Tales 2 story “Shield Me”. This woman could easily be the most frightening character I have and that’s saying something considering most of my villains are psychotic necrophiles who rape and murder without mercy.

***MIXED-MARTIAL ARTS QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Love me or hate me, just debate me.”

-Ronda Rousey-

***POST-SCRIPT***

I just found out that Ronda Rousey lost to Amanda Nunes at UFC 207 via TKO in under a minute. That makes me sad. It also makes me wonder where she’ll go from here now that she lost two title matches in a row. The last time she lost a UFC fight was when she dropped the Women’s Bantamweight Championship against Holly Holm. She considered suicide after that match. After her first stare down with Nunes, she needed to be consoled. If I could hug Ronda right now, I would.

Demon Axe, Chapter 8

Right under their noses. It was a cliché expression, but one that couldn’t have been more true for Daniel and Raven. The portal to the elven world was right under the destroyed bronze statue of King Arthur Triscloud himself. Most audience members and even the bands themselves thought this was just a pretty decoration. Seeing sacrilegious treatment of her father’s centerpiece brought a scowl to Raven’s face. She nevertheless took Daniel’s hand like they were going on a date, to which the Lord of the Pit was sweating bullets. The elf warrior drew her blade, stuck it in the statue’s receptacle, and opened a beautifully-colored blue portal that sucked the two of them in.

Traveling through this portal was like floating in zero gravity. It relaxed Daniel’s stressed out body while Raven remained stoic and brave during transit. Seeing such vibrant shades of blue and being able to taste them reminded Daniel of that acid flashback he had been promised earlier. He even saw a purple breeze blowing through this dark blue netherworld, which left him in an even bigger state of awe. Waves and shapes assaulted his mind and left him feeling peaceful, no trace of trauma or heartache to speak of.

When the duo finally crossed over to the elven world, Daniel still believed he was high on drugs. Just like the portal, the skies were lovely shades of dark blue and purple. The ivory white buildings were twisted like lovely seashells. The roads were paved with silver. The trees and foliage in between buildings and roads were strewn with vibrant, rainbow-like colors. Elf children played in the streets with so much happiness. Elf adults went about their business whether it was blacksmithing, selling fruits and vegetables, or grooming cuddly creatures like horses, cats, and dogs.

“Tell me again how your world was conquered and devastated by the humans,” said Daniel sarcastically.

“Trust me, Daniel, it took us a long time to relocate and rebuild after such an atrocity. The only reason the elven world looks this good is because we managed to hide ourselves for so long. By getting his views on television, Roger Zee has done more harm than good when it comes to us staying hidden in the underground,” said Raven. She took Daniel’s hand once more and said, “Come on. Let’s go see the king.”

As the two of them walked down the street together, this very much was feeling like a date to the heavy metal singer. Sure, they hardly knew each other, but the life of a rock star always meant fast relationships and even faster women. Under ordinary circumstances, Daniel wouldn’t have been so sweaty and jittery. But this was an elf woman. This was the kind of woman he fantasized about when playing D&D as a teenager. He never in his wildest dreams imagined it would come to fruition. But what was he thinking? He was getting too far ahead of himself.

The king’s castle was even lovelier to look at than the rest of the city and that was saying something. Crystalline light blue walls, a golden arch holding the double doors together, the spiral-like towers on all four corners, the emerald dragon statue staring down at the city with a wizened gaze, a castle truly fit for an elven king. The two leather armor-wearing, poleax-wielding guards nodded at Raven before letting her and Daniel inside.

The stained glass decorations, the diamond-like dragon heads on the walls, the soft red carpeted floors (which were comfortable enough to sleep on), all of these led the way to King Arthur Triscloud’s throne in the back of the castle. He was a marvel to behold with his lavish red robes, golden crown encrusted with amethysts, spectacles resting comfortably on the bridge of his nose, his massive blade by his side, wrinkled skin, and lengthy white beard hanging down his chin. His smile was warmer than a tropical breeze when he greeted his daughter and her new charge.

“Thank you for bringing this young man into our world, dearest daughter,” said King Triscloud. “The two of you look like you’ve been through some battles together. But it’s nothing our healers and witchdoctor’s can’t fix.” From out of the shadows, two healers dressed in silky white robes approached Raven and Daniel with baskets of herbs, leaves, and oils. They removed their makeshift bandages and allowed the healers to close their wounds with pasted leaves. The sting of the liquid forced Daniel to wince and drop an F-bomb, but his wounds were sealed over nicely, as well as Raven’s.

“Listen, Mr. Triscloud,” said Daniel. “Your daughter here tells me that she brought me here because you think I’m actually capable of taking down this Roger Zee asshole who’s been cutting up people left and right. Here you are with this army of elves, most of them at least partially trained in combat, yet you want me, a guy with no fighting experience, to do battle with this lunatic. I’ve tried to explain this to Raven here, but she won’t budge. Please talk some sense into your own flesh and blood.” That last remark earned him a backhanded smack in the arm from Raven.

King Triscloud chuckled heartily before saying, “Yes, we do have some of the finest warriors at our disposal, but violence alone is not enough to bring down Roger. He was part of an elite group of soldiers known as The Order of the Spider. Most of these warriors died in our conflict with the humans. Roger survived. Over time he became bitter and disgusted with society in general. He blames humans for desecrating our holy grounds, but at the same time, he blames us for perceived softness and commitment to sinful magic. I trusted him with my life. In turn, he became just as hostile as our invaders.”

“Well, it is nice to know that he’s doing this for a reason and not just because he’s a random asshole,” said Daniel with his hands on his hips. “But what does that have to do with me? What did I do to him that was so disrespectful to his rightwing craziness?”

“He hates artistic endeavors. Your music and your homage to dark magic are both symbols of individuality. Roger wants the world to conform to one nation. He’s no different from any extremist you see on your television sets. Individuality and free thought are both poison to a conformist society. That’s why Roger wants to hunt you down. That’s why you are the only one who can stop him. You’re not going to stop him with fighting skills alone. You’re going to do it through your creativity,” said Arthur.

Daniel made a flat tire noise and shook his head before saying, “You do realize that music doesn’t actually do anything, right? It’s nice to listen to and it gets a lot of people through their days, but how is any of this supposed to stop a guy with a fucking machete?”

“I’m glad you asked, Mr. Mercer,” said Arthur. “In your escape from Roger’s mass murders, you left behind something of value to you and your cause.”

“Oh, now you’re mocking me for leaving my band mates to get slaughtered by this moron?”

“No, no! That’s not what I meant at all!” said the king as he held up his hands defensively. “I’m talking about something entirely different. You want to use music as a weapon? Now you can.” From his robes, Arthur pulled out the battleaxe microphone that Daniel used during the concert. It was now glowing with a golden aura, had crosses and symbols engraved on it, and had the faces of the slain Demon Axe members infused into the blade.

The Lord of the Pit gazed at his microphone with wide eyes, like he had just eaten a bag of psychedelic mushrooms. He slowly approached the king, who held out the microphone in the palms of both hands for Daniel to take. The singer stood back and swung the makeshift axe around, which left a trail of gold dust in its wake. Just when it looked like he was completely hypnotized by this artifact, he said, “Wait a minute,” and tried to use the plastic blade as a weapon on his wrist. No cuts. No wounds. No nothing. Just gold dust. Lots of lots of gold dust.

“Okay, you do realize that this microphone is just a prop and isn’t a real weapon, right? How the hell do you expect me to slash the shit out of Roger Zee with a piece of fucking plastic? His machete, on the other hand, is very fucking real! I might as well have gotten my microphone from Toys R Us!” shouted Daniel.

“Mr. Mercer, that’s not how you use the microphone,” explained Arthur.

“Oh really? Then what am I supposed to do with it? Sprinkle a whole bunch of fairy dust on him? Is he allergic to fairy dust now? Does he have any other allergies I should be aware of? Peanuts? Plants? Animal fur? Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Raven pleaded, “Daniel, just let him explain what it’s for and then…”

“Explain?!” roared Daniel. “What is there to explain?! It’s a fucking toy! Your wise, loving, all-powerful king gave me a fucking toy to do battle with a goddamn zealot! Anything else would have been better! A lead pipe, a BB gun, even a fucking pocket knife would have been better than this toy! I told you time and time again, Raven, Demon Axe’s gimmick is just that: a gimmick! Dark magic is about as fake as Hollywood tits! It was a motivational tactic, that’s all it was!” He turned to Arthur and shouted, “Thanks for sending me up shits creek without a fucking paddle! You’re a great politician! Hell, you can’t be any worse than that idiot with the fake hair! Fuck this, I’m out of here! Thanks for bringing my toy back!”

Daniel marched out of the castle with Raven following closely behind and pleading with him to stay. Arthur could be heard in the background grunting, “You stupid, selfish, silly man!” The Lord of the Pit ignored him and continued storming through the elven world. With any luck, he could pawn his microphone and travel somewhere that wasn’t infected with terrorism or extreme violence of any kind. He’d have to do some research and apply for a visa, but even living in the dankest, darkest parts of Africa was better than fighting Roger Zee with a piece of glowing plastic.

Demon Axe, Chapter 6

Paperwork: the biggest reason why Detective Shawn Henry had kinks in his neck and back the size of potatoes. He sat at his desk with his head slouched over and his shoulders sagging. The dark circles under his eyes made him look like he was in a brutal boxing match; in this case, he went all twelve rounds with Mr. Sandman. The other cops at the station had gone home for the evening to their spouses and children. Shawn scribbled a pen across a mountain of paper while on autopilot. As he let out a cyclone of a yawn, the lights above him dimmed out and all he could rely on was his desk lamp.

So many dead bodies left behind by Roger Zee in the past few days, so many papers to fill out. Shawn put the pen down for a moment and let out another grizzly yawn before standing up and stretching his limbs out. He briefly held onto his tailbone and shifted his legs around to get some blood pumping back into them. It was during this moment of intense relief that he eyeballed a picture of his wife and daughter sitting in a golden frame on his desk. Seeing their sunlit faces brought a small grin to his own. “Don’t worry, papa’s going to be home soon,” Shawn said to the two members of the Henry Clan.

“I wouldn’t count on that if I were you,” said a raspy voice before a dagger was thrown into the picture, shattering the glass and knocking the frame to the floor. Shawn turned around with his fists clenched at his sides and a venomous stare saturating the shadowed frame of Roger Zee. With the other cops gone for the day, this was a strictly private conversation between the long arm of the law and the machete that wanted to chop it off. Roger showed off his razor sharp pearly whites in a sadistic grin underneath the glow of a fiery torch he held in one hand.

Shawn made a quick grab for the gun at his side, but Roger threw another knife and shattered the weapon as easily as the picture frame’s glass cover. Detective Henry let out a sharp hiss as a gash opened where his gun used to be. He pressed some of the paperwork against the wound and the bleeding was slowly stopping.

“Is there another magic trick you’d like to try?” asked Roger with sarcastic politeness. “Perhaps a shotgun? A knife? Your own shoes? Please, go ahead and keep delaying the inevitable. I love screwing around when there’s an important business matter to be discussed. It really throws a nice twist on the whole thing.”

In a wolf’s growl accompanied by heavy breathing, Shawn said, “The only business you have in my precinct is in a holding cell waiting for a fucking trial! You’re in no condition to be negotiating with me, you bloodthirsty freak! If I have to die fighting for what I believe in, then so be it! Kill me now and get it over with!”

Roger chuckled while slowly advancing toward his “business partner”. He waved the flaming torch around like he was getting ready to perform a pyromantic ritual. “Die for what you believe in? And what exactly do you believe in, Detective? Oppressing races? Claiming land as your own? Destroying longstanding traditions? By pursuing this case against me, you’re doing all of those things. And somehow, your media circus has labeled me the zealot.”

“So that’s what this is about?” asked Shawn. “You’re mad because somebody built an outdoor arena over your so-called sacred land? You would kill hundreds of people over something stupid like that?”

“This is more than a battle over some silly heavy metal venue,” explained Roger, waving the torch dangerously close to nearby desks. “This is about respect. This is about principles, honor, and tradition, something your human race knows nothing about. You allow those people to play obnoxious and offensive music after our land is long forgotten about. You’re spitting on the graves of those who came before you. Then again, your kind isn’t really a stranger to taking things that don’t belong to them. History tells that story over and over again.”

With one hand waving in confusion, Shawn said, “Well, what are you waiting for? You’ve got the machete. You’ve got the torch. What am I going to do: run away? Perform sick kung fu moves on you? Seriously, why are you making me wait for my own demise?!”

Roger laughed evilly and spun around with the flame, causing Shawn to almost fall on his desk in anticipation of being burned. The elf said, “You? No, this isn’t about you, Detective. You’re merely a cog in the machine. I want the whole damn machine. Listen carefully, my friend. What I’m about to propose to you will be the difference between a free country and a dystopian hellhole.”

Roger leaned his face close to Shawn’s and ejected foul breath as he said, “I want access to all of your police resources. I want your computers, your weapons, your military equipment, and even a few of your fellow cops’ cooperation. In return, your family and friends, each and every one of them, will live happily in my new world while everyone else burns down.”

Shawn tensed his muscles and shoved Roger back a few steps before asking, “What have you done with them? Where’s my family?! They better be alive or I’m putting your head on a fucking spear, bitch!”

Roger slapped his opponent across the face and knocked him to the floor, leaving him fading in and out of blackness. A burning red impression was left on the cop’s face and his eyes felt like they were going to burst out of his head. “Believe it or not, that slap I just gave you is the least of your worries. Your family is being kept in a safe place of my choosing. You can have them back as soon as you give me everything I want whenever I want it.”

The elf kneeled next to Shawn and stroked his thinning brown hair in the most sarcastic gesture of gentleness imaginable. “And when you get them back, be sure to give them all the psychological counseling you can afford with a cop’s salary….because some thoughts were never meant to be forgotten. They don’t just fly away like little birdies. They don’t soar through the clouds with heavenly angels. The kind of memories I gave them…are forever!”

With the last of his fading strength, Shawn reached his hand up and wrapped his beefy fingers around Roger’s throat, though any indication of the elf’s pain was once again masked by sarcastic gestures. The elf flicked the cop’s hand off of him like an annoying fly and said, “I expected much more strength from a guy who just learned that his family…well, there’s really no nice way to say this…actually, I don’t really have to say anything. The trauma speaks for itself!”

“When I regain consciousness…” said Shawn with a throaty voice. “I’m going to torture the shit out of you…I’ll make water boarding feel like a sponge bath….I’ll make electrocution feel like a back rub…and if you think heavy metal music is offensive to you now…wait until you hear it on full blast…twenty-four hours a day…seven days a week…until you go bat shit crazy! Then again…you’re already a nut job! Take your rightwing splooge and go to hell!” That last sentence was punctuated with bloody spit in Roger’s face.

The zealot smiled as he wiped the red saliva off of his face with his two forefingers. “I’m going to be the bigger man and let that go. After all, it’s what tyrants like you expect from your people: peacefulness in the face of military force. You can get that kind of cooperation from a lot of people. But from me, you’ll only get violence, hatred, and your own personal hell! I’ll give you some time to think about our little deal. Take as much time as you’d like. It’s not like your family is depending on you.”

Roger stood up and looked around at the police station with amazement on his flame-lit face. “Of course, if you’d rather I burn your police resources to the ground with you at the forefront, then I’d hate to waste this lovely torch. Pyromancy was once an ancient form of magic with sagely wisdom behind every flickering flame. Now you and your moronic race have made a mockery of our mysticism by inventing flamethrowers and drone bombs. You’ve used our own powers against us and expect us to be peaceful about it. Like I said earlier, you have some time to think about our deal. Go home. Get some sleep. Then again, your traumatized wife and daughter have a better chance of dreaming of unicorns and rainbows than you do. Toodles!”

The nationalist blew out the torch and little more could be heard than light footsteps pattering out the back exit of the precinct. It didn’t matter if there was a glowing light or not, because Shawn’s vision was already darker than the inside of a coffin. Tears welled up in his stinging eyes and aggravated the burn on his cheek from Roger’s slap. In Shawn’s mind, it mattered not if the building was full of cops or not: he was screwed.

In a way, he was glad no more human lives had to be sacrificed during Roger’s stealthy path to Detective Henry. It was only a modicum of relief for the now numb-minded cop. He still felt like screaming. He still wanted to murder and torture Roger Zee in the worst way. He was helpless to do either, so he blacked out into a dream that was definitely not about unicorns and rainbows.

Demon Axe, Chapter 5

“Why the fuck am I even arguing with a fucking cosplayer?” Daniel asked himself. “Fuck this shit, I need something to drink. Something strong. Something badass. Something that’s going to make my head explode.” The Lord of the Pit stomped off to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. The sounds of various items being tossed around in search of clothing could be heard well beyond the thickness of the door.

Raven grimaced in anger and marched to Daniel’s bedroom door before pounding on it with the force of a heavyweight boxer’s punch. “What do you mean you need something to drink?!” She shouted. “Do you actually think that liquid poison is going to help you?! Why the hell would somebody want to drink something that makes them stupid?! It makes no goddamn sense!”

Daniel opened his newly cracked door now dressed in ratty blue jean shorts, a red Pantera T-shirt, a stained leather jacket, and combat boots. “Just for the record, Raven, if that is your real fucking name, I’m already fucked up in the head to where I can’t even get a good night’s sleep. It’s not like one or two beers is going to make too much of a difference. If I’m going to be a lazy piece of shit, I might as well smell like liquid heaven. Get out of my way.”

The booming sound of glass shattering echoed throughout Daniel’s home. Raven immediately drew her blade while Daniel looked around with wide paranoid eyes. “What the hell was that? I haven’t even had a drop of beer yet and already I’m hearing things.”

“You’re not drunk or stoned, Daniel,” said Raven. “We need to get the hell out of here and fast. I believe I’ve been followed.”

“Yeah, that’s right, lead the big bad guys right to my house. That’s some five-star general shit right there,” said Daniel. Raven grabbed him by the hand and despite slurring protests from the rock star, dragged him down the hall towards the garage. “What the hell is chasing us, anyways?!” Daniel whined.

The elusive twosome barged through the garage door and hurriedly got inside the Demon Axe tour van, Daniel in the driver’s seat and Raven in the passenger’s. The Lord of the Pit fumbled to get the keys out of his shorts pocket while the elf warrior screamed, “Hurry! Get this thing started and let’s get out of here!”

The bomb-like sounds of pounding on the steel garage door nearly gave Daniel a heart attack as he clutched his chest and dropped the keys down the side of his seat. Raven cursed incessantly while digging around for the fallen keys, Daniel nothing more than a scared little mouse. The pounding continued until crater-sized dents formed in the door. The Lord of the Pit’s apoplexy nearly hit its climax when the garage door was ripped off and standing there were the brainwashed wrestlers Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez, both of them with fists at their sides, muscles tensed, and angry breathing filling the garage like dragon smoke.

Not taking into account the crowns of thorns on the minions’ heads, Daniel’s mind-blowing fear fizzled into light laughter, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Holy shit, man!” he chuckled. “We’re being kidnapped by a couple of wrestling badasses! I love these guys! Maybe we can do a little autograph exchange or something!”

Raven smacked Daniel upside the head and brought him out of his fan-boy trance. She shoved the keys into the ignition and barked, “Drive, damn it!” As the heavy metal icon twisted the keys, the engine to the tour van was sputtering and blasting, like it hadn’t been driven in years. Johnny and Sonia slowly approached the lame duck vehicle with their muscular arms in the air and their claws extended. “Hurry, Daniel! Move it!”

“I’m trying to move, damn it!” shouted Daniel, still twisting the key as hard as he could. By this time the two brainwashed wrestlers began scratching the windshield of the fan and flicking glass shards into Raven and Daniel’s faces. Raven covered up with her arms while Daniel continued working on the ignition. After a few small cuts formed on Raven’s arms and Daniel’s face, Johnny Vega punched through the windshield and unleashed a blizzard of glass upon the driver and passenger.

Then and only then did the tour van purr to life. The two occupants were bleeding mildly from these small gashes, but Raven, being the solid warrior she was, swung her blade at the attackers and backed them off. Daniel slammed his foot on the accelerator and blazed down the street at nearly top speed. Johnny and Sonia sidestepped the vehicular onslaught, but grabbed a hold of the sides of the van and sunk their claws into the metal.

The neighborhood was empty of other drivers, so Daniel let out a heavy metal growl and swerved from side to side in an attempt to shake off his assailants. Their bodies flapped in the wind like flags of patriotism for their leader’s elven nation, but they refused to let go. Johnny, who had occupied the left side of the van, crawled and scratched his way toward Daniel’s window only to be slammed against a light post and bounced off of the street, causing the giant wrestler to roll and stumble on the sidewalk. The light post came crashing down on top of him and pinned the seven-footer on his back.

Daniel let out a victorious, “Woo-hoo!” only to have Raven’s window bashed in by Sonia’s legs, which then wrapped around the elf warrior’s neck and squeezed like a hangman’s noose. Her face turned several shades of purple and she even dropped her blade on the floor. Daniel smiled at the incident and maneuvered the van to the side where Sonia bounced head first off of a steel mail box. The MMA enthusiast let go of the chokehold and rolled down the sidewalk unconscious and defeated. Meanwhile, Raven clutched her own throat and coughed violently before sucking in sweet precious air.

“Are you alright, baby girl? I hope I didn’t rough you up too badly,” said Daniel in a celebratory tone.

After a few hard breaths of fresh oxygen, Raven said, “Don’t ever call me baby girl again.”

The van found a clear path to the highway and pulled over so that Daniel and Raven could assess their wounds. They ended up wrapping Demon Axe T-shirts (that were being sold as merchandise) around their cuts since the van wasn’t equipped with a first aid kit. Daniel and Raven sat together in the back of the van during this medical jury rigging and stared out into the rising sun. Their hunched over postures and heavy breathing suggested extreme tiredness for what they had just gone through.

“Here’s what I don’t understand about you, Raven,” said Daniel. “You’re an elf from another world, just like this Roger Zee douche-canoe is, yet you talk just like a normal human being, no different from what I’d hear on the streets.”

“It wasn’t always that way, Daniel,” said Raven as she placed a hand on his wounded shoulder. “Whenever one nation conquers another, the losing side always takes the language of their captors. Your people are freaking out over the appearance of elf terrorists, yet they do not know that the governments of the world have been in on this all along. I bet this narrative sounds familiar, especially as it relates to your native captors. You know the ones.”

“I never said I believed in all that Manifest Destiny bullshit,” said Daniel. “I don’t approve of any of this political violence no matter who it’s happening to. With that being said, I can understand why Roger Zee would be pissed off. It still doesn’t change the fact that he killed a bunch of innocent people to get his message across. Those concertgoers didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t know what was happening. They just bought tickets thinking they were going to see some kick-ass heavy metal.”

“Truth be told, none of my people can understand Roger’s zealous ways. Yes, we’re upset at the way human governments have treated us, but we would never authorize the killing of innocents. Then again, how can some of those people be innocent when they’re just as scared of us as the pundits and politicians they blindly follow?”

Daniel placed his slashed up arm around Raven and said, “Not all of us are conformist sheep. But I will admit, enough of us are. As long as there are people in power who pull the puppet strings, there will always be puppets willing to dance along with them. I tried to convey that warning to my fans by having an all-Muslim and all-LGBT band open for us at the night of the concert. Some people got it, others didn’t. Some people just don’t want to see the light.”

Raven got down from the van and turned to face Daniel with a serious expression on her face. “I understand how powerful your music is. You can evoke all kinds of emotions with the heaviest chord or the wildest scream. But as powerful as your music is, Roger’s blade is that much more dangerous.”

“I see where you’re getting at,” nodded Daniel. “Trust me, my love for music is as dead as my band mates. I can’t even picture going on without them. They were like brothers to me. It’s part of the reason why I’m so fucked in the head right now.”

“There are other ways in which you can redeem yourself and fight for a noble cause, Daniel. But in order to do so, you have to listen closely to what I have to say. A lot of bad memories are going to come flooding back, but it’s for the good of the cause. We have to return to the scene of the concert,” said Raven.

“What? Are you crazy? There’s no chance in hell I’m going back there! I’m not exactly looking forward to seeing my friends’ heads rolling around on the ground with their spinal cords still intact!”

“I know that!” snapped Raven before returning to a lulling voice. “I know. That’s why I want to accompany you. I can keep you safe from anything Roger throws at us. I know I looked pretty weak back there while we were on the road, but I swear I’ll be ready next time.”

Daniel sighed, shook his head, and leaned his face down to hold the bridge of his nose. He took some more heavy sighs before lifting his head back up and saying, “You’d better be right about this. I’ll slash my own fucking throat before I get locked up in a loony bin. I like drugs, just not those ones.”

Raven placed both hands on either one of Daniel’s shoulders and said, “Trust me, my friend: this whole journey is going to feel like you’re on psychedelic drugs. Like I said, elves take the language of their conquerors. That means we have the same technology and urban development that you guys do. It’s just that in the elven world, things are slightly different. Just different enough to make you believe that you’re on LSD.”

“I would kill for some acid right now,” said Daniel with a flat tire noise and a small grin.