Corpsefire Doesn't Need Smiting, He Needs Dayquil

 

Tommy Vext, formerly of Bad Wolves

 

Ghost Story

I ate a can of spam and my heart went kerplunk

I hit the wooden floor with a heavy ass thunk

Final seconds of my life I saw my greatest hits

From a baby in a diaper to a corpse taking shits

The Rainbow Bridge had burst into flames

The ghosts of my pets with their human names

Possessed my dead body, turned me into a puppet

Now we’re going to have fun, because, fuck it

Kitties and doggies were my necromantic fuel

Now it’s time to get vengeance on a world so cruel

Visit puppy mills and set the little duppies free

Chew the breeders’ brains for all eternity

Visit every dog fighting circuit in the underground

Come on, tough guy, fight with me for five rounds

You might get away with an uppercut or two

But I clamp my broken teeth and start to chew

An abuser’s flesh tastes like T-bone steak

Drink a flood of blood the size of a lake

Rince and repeat until the bones are picked clean

A birthday buffet for the zombified fiend

The Rainbow Bridge is supplied with fresh souls

Every abuser’s death turns the flames ice cold

Ashes of the dead replenish the plant life

From dour to flowers, phytomantic power

Colors glow brightly across the fields

The souls of furry friends can finally heal

After I enjoyed my never-ending meals

I can finally rest in peace as part of the deal

Ghosts leave my body, the maggots take over

Until there’s nothing left but formaldehyde odor

The circle of life continues after death

Every living thing is now eating like a king

Sammy Marshall: Holy Warrior

Most of you know by now that I like to randomly choose my characters’ names. But in the case of playing Diablo II with my brother, cherry-picking was the better option. Otherwise, I would have ended up with a paladin named Sammy Marshall. Not happening. Sammy Marshall is the kind of guy who will organize a union strike. Or if you need a football coach, Sammy Marshall can do that too. But if you give him a footman’s mace and send him into the Den of Evil, he’s going to get his shit pushed in by Corpsefire the zombie boss. On normal difficulty, no less. It’s the same reason why nobody will believe that Meg Ryan’s character from When Harry Met Sally had mind-blowing sex with a guy named Sheldon. It’s also why The Bastion Booger never became WWF Champion. Or why Taserface was laughed out of every scene he was a part of in the movie Guardians of the Galaxy 2.

Symphony of Evil

Out of fettle, out of line

Out of metal, out of time

Sympathy unequal

Symphony of evil

Skeletons play their violins with bloody blades

Zombie-ogres beat tympanis with bloodlust rage

Ghosts play their flutes with their dying breaths

Gorgons play xylophones on ribs and chests

Warlocks bang cymbals over screaming heads

Necromantic conductor commands the undead

Mausoleum is the arena for this musical night

Audience to the left and demons to the right

Out of hell, they will climb

Out of spells, more they’ll find

History of sequels

Symphony of evil

The sirens sing their ear-splitting stories

Of tempted fools meeting ends so gory

Of greedy bastards who wanted more

Of rich politicians who waged the wars

Symphony of evil guided their words

Sleeping souls suffer hellfire burns

Let’s party like it’s whatever BC

Sell the whole thing on ten CD’s

Out of death, they rise again

Out of breath, though not the end

Misery of steeples

Symphony of evil

Did you enjoy your night of music?

Get Pinot Noir on your favorite tunic?

Choke on popcorn until you passed out?

Expecting a pop sensation cash cow?

You’ll have your own violin in due time

You’ll have your own lyrics to rhyme

You can join the symphony of evil

Sorry for the lack of heavenly appeal

Meat and Pudding

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zombieland

MOVIE TITLE: Zombieland
DIRECTOR: Ruben Fleischer
YEAR: 2009
GENRE: Zombie Apocalypse Comedy
RATING: R for violence and language
GRADE: Pass

As of the year I’m writing this review, which is 2020, the Corona Virus is sweeping the world and killing everyone it comes in contact with. This disease is bringing out the worst in humanity whether it’s violent rage (a la the Michigan anti-lockdown protestors) or deceptive behavior (a la Kenneth Copeland and Joel Osteen). If this mess keeps up, our world could very well come to an end. Wouldn’t you like a nice fun-filled movie to distract you from it all? That’s where Zombieland comes into play. I don’t want to say this movie was a prophecy back in 2009…but yeah, it was totally a prophecy. Granted, we haven’t gone full-zombie just yet, but the other ramifications have come to fruition thus far. Economic collapse, swindlers, incompetent leadership, and a bunch of cowboys playing with their shotguns. Yep. I’m sure this movie was just a coincidence at the time it was made.

If you think creating believable characters is hard to do within a silly comedy, just take a look at who we’ve got in this particular movie. Columbus wants to find a sense of family whether his biological one still exists or not. Tallahassee wants to munch on Twinkies because he appreciates the little things in life. And he just wants to kill zombies left and right. Cutthroat sisters Wichita and Little Rock want to steal as many resources as they can so that they can party it up at an amusement park in California. What do you notice from all of these character descriptions? They’re motivations. They have something that they’re willing to kill zombies for. Therefore, this is a character-driven zombie story. Didn’t think that was possible, did you? Notice how they’re not scrambling to save the entire world from the zombie apocalypse. They just want to cling onto a sense of normalcy no matter how small or temporary that may be. Isn’t that what we’re doing now with the Corona Virus: looking for something to comfort us? Totally not a prophecy.

I have one tiny little critique for this movie. Why would Columbus continue to trust Wichita and Little Rock after they’ve betrayed him and Tallahassee over and over again? They’re grifters. Deception is all they’re known for. Do they stop grifting by the end of the movie? Who knows? That’s not just me refusing to give spoilers; I actually want to know the answer to that. I guess this could all go back to Columbus wanting a sense of family in his life, so he keeps hoping and praying that the sisters change their ways just for him. Then again, Wichita was a femme fatale and part of that moniker is being seductive, either through attractiveness or just playing mind games. Columbus always wanted to brush a woman’s hair behind her ears. If that’s the case, then this whole movie is just him thinking below his belt. Wichita could burn down an orphanage and Columbus would still want to give her infinite chances. Yes, this is a comedy movie. Yes, Columbus is a dorky college kid. But…come on.

You want clever dialogue from every character involved? You want bloody action and excitement? You want a lesson on how to make believable characters? Ask and you shall receive it all in the form of Zombieland. You’ll get more than a few chuckles here and there. You’ll get a few life lessons that may come in handy as the age of Corona Virus progresses onward. You’ll love Woody Harrelson’s performance as the gun-toting cowboy Tallahassee. You’ll love Jesse Eisenberg’s performance as the spineless dork Columbus. Try not to think too hard about Columbus trusting people a little too easily, especially if they’re overly attractive. This was an enjoyable movie for me and for that reason I’m giving it four out of five stars.

Zombie Sex

VERSE 1

We need to talk about aliens and lizard men

I don’t even believe nor will I try to pretend

We need to talk about your conspiracy theories

And how you should save them for stories and queries

You can play with my brain like a lump of clay

Just kidding, little lady, there ain’t no fucking way

You believe in the strange, but not a witch’s hex

It was all supposed to lead up to zombie sex

Come here, baby

Zombie sex

VERSE 2

We need to talk about guns and the ammo inside them

And how you wear a big ass trench coat to hide them

Who exactly are you defending your white ass from?

If you need some gas money, I can loan you some

You can spray paint my brains all over the sidewalk

Just kidding, sweetheart, put away the body chalk

You can shoot like a cowboy sheriff named Tex

But I won’t give into your calls for zombie sex

Come here, lovely

Zombie sex

VERSE 3

We need to talk about the k-pop you blast from your speakers

And the trippy techno beats you play for the tweekers

And the hip-hop bass shattering my bedroom windows

If you explode my brain, that would make you a widow

Burn me a copy of what you’ll put on the loop

Just kidding, baby cakes, I like heavy metal groups

You can blow my eardrums on records and tape decks

I won’t change my tastes for a night of zombie sex

Come here, angel

Zombie sex

FINAL VERSE

I march to the beat of my own two bass drums

I won’t conform to you, do you think I’m dumb?

A real lady wouldn’t ask her man to change

Even if it means the love is far out of range

I don’t have the body of an incubus seducer

I just have the mind of a creative producer

When you take that away, what will you take next?

An hour of my time for vanilla zombie sex?

No way, baby

No zombie sex this time

No way, sweetheart

No tradeoff for my mind

Covered in Blood

I walk into battle covered in blood

Smelling like ashes, smelling like rum

Looking like the deep fried walking dead

Looking for relief from what’s in my head

I see you on the other side of the street

You could be a mirage from the heat

Or you could be laughing like a jackass

Earning your place among the maggots

I take a bite out of your delicious throat

More pig’s blood to cover me like a coat

Rip out your heart, hell, your whole ribcage

You scream like you’re three years of age

You’ve got some serious pipes for a wimp

Are you sure you don’t belong to a pimp?

If you can feel the pain, you’re still alive

Let’s turn up that shit to a hundred and five

Slurping down your brain through the sockets

Make you fuck your eyes with your own rocket

Pull out intestines and watch the shit flow

Share your corpse with the ravens and crows

The funny thing about this nutritious meal

I get dessert as part of the dinner deal

Who will suffice? Your daughter or wife?

Hell, they left your ass for a much better life

I’ll save my coupons for another day

More satisfying than Mickey D’s anyway

The king of burgers has nothing on this

Sweeter than the redheaded Wendy’s kiss

Pay you tomorrow for a carcass today

My belly is stuffed with violent decay

I burp like a fifteen megaton blast

Nickelodeon slime pouring from my ass

Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight

Try to make it fun, put up a better fight

Staying In Bed

To hell with being dutiful

Staying in bed is beautiful

A purring kitty on my chest

He agrees that it’s time to rest

Piano music calms me down

Hypnotized by the gentle sound

Cold breeze blowing outside

Under the blankets is where I hide

Back to work on another day

Couldn’t motivate myself anyway

Stare at the ceiling, think about life

Share my bed with an imaginary wife

Watch movies playing in my head

They don’t make a lick of sense

Heater blasting on a winter night

Makes resisting sleep an uphill fight

But I can’t stay here forever and ever

Despite the drop in barometric pressure

Another day waits on the other side

That way you can’t say I never tried

Still walking around like the undead

Not a whole lot going on in my head

A few more hours until it gets dark

Until rainwater floods the public park

Until the moon shines down upon us all

Until face down on the bed is where I fall

Disconnect my telephone line

Tomorrow everything will be just fine

Like it is almost every damn day

No sense in asking me if I’m okay

Masticators of the Universe

“Eat well, my pretties. Dinner is on me,” said Lara Spider with a grin as her tarantulas munched on potato chips like wild dogs. She could understand the trepidation of the fellow customers around her in the Brew Pub that night. Grown men inching away from her. Grown women twisting their faces in disgust. To be honest, the solitude was alright with her. If it meant no sloppy jowled, beer breathed man was going to hit on her in public, so be it. She even kissed one of her tarantulas and said, “I love you all so dearly.”

Lara didn’t even feel bad about her appearance that evening, nor should she ever have to be. A pretty pink dress made from the finest layers of silk, high heeled shoes that she slid her bare feet in and out of, and flowing chocolate colored hair that looked as delicious as the actual dessert. But once those spiders crawled around her table, she felt safe enough to be bare naked if she wanted to be, which she didn’t. “Looks like it’s just us tonight,” she said with a dainty smile.

The tarantulas scurried and sprawled into her dress once everyone the sounds of vomit-like coughing and snot gurgling erupted over the pub. “Oh no, not him again,” whispered Lara. Such wishful thinking never came to light. Bursting through the front door smelling like blood-flavored whiskey and pus-scented perfume was Tor Vemola, the bastard son of the once prominent celebrity family, the Vemola Dynasty. His blond hair covered in sewage, his blue skin ripped and shredded, his clothes disheveled and moldy, if he wasn’t royalty, he could have easily passed as a bum on the streets. “At least the bums need the money more than he does,” Lara thought to herself.

Those disgusted sentiments echoed among the pub customers, each of them backing away and holding napkins over their mouths and noises, making just as sickening noises as Tor did before skulking in the establishment. “Bunch of fucking drama queens! Har-har-har!” snorted Tor before gagging on his own snot yet again.

The young barmaid slowly approached him and struggled to get her words out as her lips trembled. “Um…what can I…get you…today?”

“I want two big fat breasts!” bellowed Tor, which caused everyone’s eyes to shoot up in horror.

“Um…pardon me?” squeaked the barmaid.

“You heard me! I said I want two big fat chicken breasts! I’m an American, I can eat big fat breasts if I want!”

“Oh, uh…hehe…chicken breasts, of course…we actually have some coming out of the oven right now…let me go check on them.”

Before she could leave, Tor grabbed her by the wrist and burst out, “Wait a minute! Aren’t you going to ask what I want to drink?”

“Uh…I think you’ve had enough to drink already, Mr. Vemola.” The zombie-like creature growled at her before she said, “You know what? Here, have some beer. Heh…” She poured him a pitcher of golden ale as fast as she could before hurrying to check on the status of the chicken breasts…or look for an exit, either one.

Tor took a long liquidly snort of the beer and Lara’s insides grumbled like a machine as she held her hand to her mouth. She could feel her dinner rising to the surface when the creature guzzled his beer and made throat noises like a double bass drum solo. Within seconds, the beverage was swimming and sloshing in his gut loudly enough for everyone to hear. Some patrons got up and left, making throaty noises of their own. Not Lara. She sat at her table and watched this piggish man with cruel intentions.

The barmaid hurried to the counter with a plate full of chicken legs as big as telephone poles. She giggled nervously and said, “Enjoy your meal…Mister…Vemola…” He tried to grab her wrist to ask for something else, but she hurried out the door screaming in sheer terror.

“Wonder what that bitch’s problem is,” barked Tor, much to Lara’s cringing disgust. If she thought she was in an unappetizing mood before, she finally had the misfortune of listening to Tor chomping away at fried chicken and smacking his lips together as hard as he humanly could.

Lara believed the next time she opened her mouth would be the last time anything of substance stayed in her stomach. But she had to say something, if not for the other customers than for her own sanity. A few lip smacks later, she said, “Please! For god’s sake! Chew with your mouth closed!”

“It’s a free country, you feminoonoo. I can eat however I want!” Another alligator bite, another long minute of his lips and tongue smacking together like crash cymbals. And another bite. And another. And another. For somebody who could finish a beer within seconds, he sure loved to take his time eating a plate of fried chicken.

The bile rising in her neck, Lara mustered up the strength to say one more time, “Chew with your mouth closed…or else!”

Tor turned around in his stool with a green-toothed grin and said, “What are you going to do, report me to the Social Justice Police? Maybe you’ll want to make a citizens arrest or some shit like that. Why don’t you come on over and…slap some cuffs on me!” The last sentence was punctuated with a swirl of his pig slop tongue.

Lara couldn’t keep it together any longer. Her stomach pounded and throbbed. Her blood and sweat ran colder than her sweet iced tea. She leaned over and puked all over the ground, losing what could have been an enjoyable meal had it not been for Tor Vemola and his gross eating habits. She puked again. And again. And again, until her mouth tasted like battery acid.

“Hey, sweet patooties! Barf with your mouth closed! You’re triggering me and offending my sensitive areas!” mocked Tor before hee-hawing and slapping his bloody knee.

“You think that’s sick? You haven’t seen a damn thing yet!” growled Lara as she extended her long sleeve and unleashed her tarantula magic upon the “patriotic” zombie. The little creepers scurried and tap-danced across the wooden floor, yet Tor’s facial expression amounted to a simple “meh”.

“Is this hocus pocus shit supposed to scare me?!” he bellowed before scooping handfuls of arachnids and eating them like candy, venom oozing from his already sloppy sewer hole. There must have been a whole army of little buggers and Tor just devoured the whole lot of them….all while smacking his lips and clicking his tongue for extra effect.

Lara could only drop to her knees and stain her dress with what was once a delicious meal. She quivered, “No…no…not my babies…not my beautiful babies…”

Tor’s expression softened, but Lara didn’t want to believe it behind her damp eyes. “Now, now, darling,” said the burping zombie. “If it’s a baby you want, I can give you that. I believe we should all be making babies, including a pretty little thing like you. It’s all part of the master plan.”

As he slowly approached her while squishing spider corpses beneath his boot, Lara crab walked away from him until she was trapped in the corner of the restaurant with nowhere to go. This man was so disgusting that the place had completely emptied out on account of nobody wanting to be around a man who ate like that. “What am I doing here,” Lara muttered to herself. “I need to get out of here…what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, sweetheart. In fact, I love you just the way you are. If you’ve got anymore of them spiders handy, I’d love to have them chicken fried. I bet you’re a goddess in the kitchen! Actually, probably not since you came to a restaurant tonight instead of staying home.”

Tor pulled his jorts down and revealed something resembling a burned sausage with warts and pus protruding everywhere, maybe even a mushroom sprouting in the forest of greasy hair. Lara covered her eyes and squealed, but the zombie paid no mind to her fear and advanced forward. “Come on, baby girl. Let’s do this for the man upstairs. Let’s make some babies!”

Lara slowly removed her hands from her eyes and took one last look at the diseased organ. A shy smile crept upon her face as she crawled over to have a better look. On her knees with a bigger smile than before, she said, “You’re right…let’s make babies…You heard him, Pepper!”

“Huh? Pepper?”

In one fluid motion, Lara grabbed Tor’s peter and ripped open one of his pus-filled wounds before inserting her last tarantula. The zombie screamed and danced as the little bastard crawled inside his flesh, chewing, digging, burrowing, injecting poison like an inoculation for the social disease, laying eggs for “the man upstairs”.

“You sick prick!” shouted Tor as he dug inside his wound to try to get the tarantula out of his system. Lara’s grin turned mischievous as poison rotted her foe inside out. Poison sprayed from every open wound in his body. Goop sloshed on the floor like a wading pool. It looked as though he was going to drop dead at any moment. And then…

“I’m just messing with you,” laughed Tor, much to the wide-eyed horror of his victim. “What? You actually thought that little shit kicker was going to do me in? I’ve got more diseases than a chemical weapons factory. There ain’t nothing you can give me that’s any grosser than what I’ve already got!”

Knowing her spider magic could only take her so far, Lara shot up to her feet and bolted for the door, only to be tackled to the ground by a powerful force. “No! Get off me!” she shouted, secretly wishing Tor would just get this over with. But oddly enough, the sloppy odor was replaced with a French perfume smell. The barmaid! With one shotgun blast, Lara screamed her head off yet again as blood, pus, and sewage sprayed the inside of the restaurant. A resounding thump on the ground signaled the end of this would-be rape struggle.

Lara felt a gentle hand pat her on the back while saying, “It’s okay…it’s okay…you can get up now. He’s gone.” The barmaid helped her to her feet and the two of them surveyed the damage to this once lovely restaurant: vomit, blood, gonorrhea goblins, god knows what else.

The barmaid lowered the shotgun and tearfully said, “The board of health is going to kill me for this…if not them…then that damn Vemola family. Bunch of do-nothing celebrities think they own everything. Famous for being famous and rich enough to sue our asses off…what have I done?”

Lara hugged the barmaid and said, “I’ll bet you anything those other Vemola jerks aren’t as diseased as their bastard son was. I’ll bet they’re just a bunch of posh snobs.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, but I think it does…” Lara broke her embrace and smiled at the barmaid. “If they can’t handle their own bastard son…what makes you think they’re going to be able to handle a little…arachnomancy?!” Lara punctuated her sentence with a wink. “They can take us to court all the want. They can bend the legal system to their wills. But they wouldn’t last five seconds on a giant spider web without having a heart attack. Trust me, babe, there’s more where that came from!”

Dumb Asses

VERSE 1

A drug zombie with his Johnson hanging out

A drunken loony shouting gibberish so loud

Giving hand jobs in exchange for change

With a hairy palm all covered with mange

Giving blow jobs with infected bloody gums

Now you’ve got rivers of pus in your cum

These are the characters you see at a bus station

Or out on the streets doing public masturbation

CHORUS 1

Dumb asses should be a priority

Locked up by the highest authority

Locked up in a room full of white

Straightjacket fitting oh so tight

VERSE 2

Laughing at nothing but the wall in front of him

Shouting conspiracy theories about the government

Smelling like shit and a pack of cigarettes

Jaywalking blindly where the streets intersect

Everyone’s walking just a little bit faster

While the acid trip is his psyche’s master

His hand goes up an unsuspecting woman’s skirt

He squeezes so hard that it starts to fucking hurt

CHORUS 2

Dumb asses should be a priority

Everywhere we go, they are the majority

Buses, ferries, and even taxi cabs

Walking ain’t crowded, but it’s sure a drag

VERSE 3

I’ll never go back to this city anymore

Except to listen to music so hardcore

Except to eat at the best restaurants

Except to hold signs in the biggest font

A love-hate relationship with the clown town

For every breath of fresh air, a stain that’s brown

For every sane guy, there’re a hundred freaks

For every bus trip, there’s the jerk of the week

COMBINED CHORUSES

Dumb asses should be a priority

Locked up by the highest authority

Locked up in a room full of white

Straightjacket fitting oh so tight

Dumb asses should be a priority

Everywhere we go, they are the majority

Buses, ferries, and even taxi cabs

Walking ain’t crowded, but it’s sure a drag

FINAL LINES

Dumb asses should be a priority X4

Dumb asses!

Thor and Gore

The kiwi-sized pustules on his arms, the surgical staples in his face, the gray discoloration of his skin, and the snot-colored slime in his hair, they did no favors in making Thor exit his house that evening. Only the raw and intense voice of Kyle Houston and his metal band Resistance could serve as his gravity towards public life. Dressed in little more than a Pantera T-shirt and black jorts, Thor ventured into the arena and kept track of the nasty facial expressions he was getting from people walking past him.

These people were on the verge of vomiting themselves inside out. They shivered as though they swam in the Arctic Ocean. They spit out their beer and coughed like drama queens in a viral ward. Few of these patrons spoke to Thor, but when they did, it was in hushed tones about how “fucking ugly” and “goddamn sickening” he looked. Even ears that have been treated to grinding heavy metal music for god knows how long could pick up on these intense whispers. A stream of green slime rolled down Thor’s eyeball and splashed onto the pavement below.

The giant zombie swore he wouldn’t get into trouble that evening. He imagined the scenarios with law enforcement playing through his head like a depressing movie. He could toss and chomp on as many cops as they want, but even he was no match for bullets and tasers. Thor was a human zit ready to explode. When he passed into mosh pit, his rage was ready to explode when somebody from the upper deck poured beer on his head and laughed with his friends. He thought maybe coming to this Resistance concert was a bad idea. Maybe life would be better in his house underneath the sewers. The rats wouldn’t judge him. The bums would be in even less condition to judge. But these fucking metal heads who thought they were badasses…ugh…

As Thor lumbered through the crowd, he earned more disgusted looks and varsity jock laughter from everyone around him. He breathed heavily in and out to calm his nerves, but all that did was get some slimy saliva on those who worked so hard to back away. “Fuck it,” he thought to himself. “I just want to listen to some goddamn music.” Ask and ye shall receive. The minute he shimmied towards the center of the pit, the lights went out and the crowd went ape shit for their favorite metal band. Thor cheered and roared along with them, not giving a damn about the red saliva dripping from his stapled lip.

The neon orange stage lights shone down upon the crowd and they cheered even louder than before. The guitarists (rhythm and lead), bassist, and drummer appeared onstage wearing Guy Fawkes masks and black hooded robes, true to their band name. The crowd and Thor along with them nearly had a verbal orgasm when the lead singer Kyle Houston approached the microphone wearing camouflage khakis, black combat boots, a backwards ball cap, and a sadistic grin. “What the fuck is up, Paulson City?!” he shouted into the microphone, which earned him a huge pop from the crowd.

The drummer tapped the high hat three times in succession and then the adrenaline-pumped music boomed throughout the arena. The crowd bumped and shoved each other with such intensity that they resembled dominos when they fell. Three hundred pound bouncers in black T-shirts swarmed in on the scene to eject troublemakers by way of full nelson. Kyle Houston’s dirty vocals were indecipherable through the shitty speakers, but Thor secretly never cared as long as the music was good.

The guitars continued to grind, the double bass continued to pump, and Kyle’s vocals sounded like a horror movie monster was ready to devour its victims alive. Speaking of horror movie monsters, as the mosh pit intensified, Thor found himself being shoved around and knocked to the floor a few times. When the music got louder, Thor began feeling elbows, fists, and feet against his already explosive skin. He bled like a fire hydrant and the bouncers did nothing to stop these rowdy patrons. “I won’t get into trouble,” Thor said to himself. “I won’t get into trouble….I won’t get into trouble…” As soon as a sharp elbow connected with his cheekbone, he yelled, “Fuck it!” and moshed right back.

Except Thor’s version of moshing was much more destructive than an elbow to the face and more violent than a kick to the patella. These people had one chance to behave themselves. They had one chance to accept Thor for who he was. They had one chance to keep Thor from feeling lonely in a world that type-casted the ugly as villains. They blew it. They blew it big time. Thor never held back. He took big bites out of patrons’ arms and painted the floors with blood. He grabbed them by the neck and tossed them around like small children. He head butted one three hundred pounder and sliced himself open worse than he did his victim. Thor even stuck his muscular arms out and spun around in circles, clotheslining anybody who came in contact with him. For his reward, Thor was treated to faster, heavier, and louder music from the fine young men of Resistance.

Before the mosh pit could resemble a bombed slaughterhouse, the chubby bouncers finally decided enough was enough and swarmed in on Thor. They grabbed him by his bloody arms and legs and held on like boa constrictors. But the harder they pulled, the harder Thor pulled as well. He sent them rolling around on the floor like three hundred pound bowling balls. The heavy metal zombie even took a bite out of a bouncer’s shoulder, causing the would-be tough guy’s girlish screams to echo louder than Kyle Houston’s monstrous growls.

Playtime was over for these pieces of heavy machinery in black T-shirts. They punched, kicked, and elbowed Thor in every part of his body imaginable. One guy even went for a groin kick and doubled the zombie giant over. The bouncers continued to beat the shit out of this giant and spread his pus-infused blood all over the dance floor. Whatever was left of the crowd cheered on like wild animals as the bouncers grabbed a physically and emotionally wounded Thor by the ankles and dragged him toward the exit.

“I said I wouldn’t get in trouble tonight,” Thor thought to himself. “I said I’d be a good boy…What happened to me?...Where are these men taking me?” Slimy tears poured from the zombie’s eyes like a schnoz suffering from an allergic cold. The laughter and cheering from the heartless crowd pumped even more viscous fluids from his eyeballs. And then the music stopped and Kyle Houston shook his head in disgust.

“Let him go!” he shouted into the microphone. Everyone in the room, including the bouncers, went quiet and doe-eyed at this strange request. “Are you fucking retarded? I said let the poor guy go! Do it! I have no interest in pressing charges!” As ordered, the bouncers reluctantly let go of Thor’s ankles and slowly backed away with their hands defensively in the air.

Kyle scratched his head in mock confusion and asked the crowd, “What in the hell is wrong with you people? You think I didn’t see how you guys treated this poor son of a bitch the minute he came in here? If you guys pulled that shit with me, I’d want to cannibalize your sorry asses too!” The crowd booed lightly, but were quickly silenced with a grating, “Shut up!” from the lead singer of Resistance.

“So this is what humanity has come to, huh?” asked Kyle while pointing an accusatory hand at his patrons. “This is how we treat people who are different from us? I’ve always thought the whole reason for heavy metal was to escape that bullying bullshit. I know that’s why I got into it. Yeah, the guy’s got some…not so desirable features, but then again, I’d rather rock out with a slime-covered motherfucker than a bunch of close-minded dip-shits like you anyways. And just so you fuckers know, I had a cleft lip when I was a kid. I had to have surgery to fix it and the hospital bill nearly wiped out my family’s savings. My dad walked away shortly after. So when I see even the least attractive looking guy being treated like this, I take it fucking personally.”

Tears and snot slithered down Thor’s face as he slowly stood back up on his feet, no worse for wear. The blood and slime on his body was all in a day’s work. Kyle asked him what his name was and he answered with a monstrous growl, “I am Thor!”

“Nice to meet you, Thor. If I got beaten up as badly as you, I’d be Thor too!” joked Kyle, which got a modicum of laughter from the neutered crowd. “I’m just kidding, man. Come up here to the stage, buddy. I’ve got something for you.” The zombie trudged across the goop-covered floor and gazed into his heavy metal hero’s eyes like a typical fan boy.

Kyle placed a hand on his shoulder with no regard for the hygienic hazard before him. He said, “You did a sweet job defending yourself against these morons over here. It took a whole gang of fat asses to bring you down. I’ll bet you not even one of these bastards could do the shit you did tonight. That’s because they can’t walk in your big ass shoes, my friend. I’ve got a job offer for you. I’ll pay you a five-figure salary to travel all over the world with me as my bodyguard. Are you in or are you in?”

Even more sludge poured from Thor’s eyes as his stapled lips formed the biggest shit-eating grin imaginable, revealing his buttery yellow teeth and serpentine tongue. “Anything is better than living in the sewers!” which was Thor’s way of saying not only yes, but fuck yes.

“Nobody should have to live in the sewers no matter what the hell they look like. Congratulations, you’ve got the job! Now get your big ass onstage and shake my hand!” grinned Kyle. Thor launched himself onstage with one step and hugged his new employer rather than shaking his hand, getting slime all over Kyle and acquiring a lot of awkward looks from bouncers and moshers alike. “Grow the fuck up, people, it’s nothing a long shower can’t fix.” As soon as the sloppy embrace ended, Kyle said, “Your first day on the job starts right now, buddy. Help me and my band get the fuck out of this dumpy arena. And by the way, your first hour on duty is also your lunch break if you know what I mean.”

Thor drooled with delight and whispered, “I know exactly what you mean.” One guy in the crowd shit his pants so badly that he became just as disgusting in appearance as Thor.

"Fang and Claw" by Markie Madden

BOOK TITLE: Fang and Claw: Undead Unit 1

AUTHOR: Markie Madden

YEAR: 2015

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Paranormal Crime Drama

GRADE: Pass

In a future where undead creatures pass as everyday citizens, vampire detective Lacey Anderson has been assigned a new partner in the form of werewolf Colton Scarber. Vampires and werewolves are natural enemies, but Lacey takes it to an even more personal level seeing as how her family was murdered by a pack of werewolves when she was little. Lacey and Colton have a hard time seeing eye-to-eye, but they must learn to coexist when a string of assaults and rapes plague their hometown of Dallas, Texas. The two detectives agree that these crimes were committed by the same suspect, but proving it to a judge and jury is an uphill task where cooperation is paramount to success.

Markie Madden’s extensive knowledge of the law and police procedure is so evident in this novel that it resembles an episode of Law & Order, NCIS, The Shield, or any other cop drama on TV. Lacey Anderson has a striking resemblance to Olivia Benson from Law & Order: SVU when it comes to her professionalism and the tender way she deals with rape victims. Colton Scarber, on the other hand, resembles Vic Mackey from The Shield with his passionate outbursts and triggered anger, though Colton has slightly more respect for the law than Mackey ever could (even if procedure can be a pain in the ass sometimes). The DNA testing, the interview questions, interrogation tactics, and even something as basic as paperwork have all the intricate details of a well-crafted crime drama. My only question is, when will Dick Wolf or Donald Bellasario order a TV series for this novel?

Everything flowed so naturally in this book that Colton’s behavior in the early portions of the story took me off balance. Werewolves, by their very nature, have rage issues which prompted laws that required their race to take anger management classes. That part is understandable. What I don’t understand is why Colton has to whine and complain about doing menial tasks like internet searches, paperwork, or witness interviews. It’s not like Lacey is asking him to join a Bosnian death squad and slay children; she’s asking him to do basic police chores that will only take a small amount of time to complete. At this point, I chalk it up to immaturity rather than rage. But since this behavior doesn’t last long and more of Colton’s professional nature starts to reveal itself near the middle of the novel, this isn’t a huge knock against the book and won’t devalue the passing grade it receives. This flaw is just worth noting, that’s all.

As far as other details go, there are a few minor grammatical errors (she spells “did” without an I at one point), but not enough to take the reader out of the story. The calm way the police psychologist Marcell was portrayed is every bit as convincing as the police themselves. Lacey’s trauma of losing her family to a werewolf attack is also realistic since she has pent up anger and night terrors to go with it. Her fear of heights can be vicariously felt through the reader, especially near the end when it matters the most. Genre-wise, the police drama elements are more prominent than the paranormal ones. I would have liked to see the racism elements played up a little more, but that probably won’t happen since undead creatures are everyday citizens. Yep, that’s all I have to say for now.

All in all, there’s not a whole lot to complain about when it comes to Fang and Claw. If you do have any complaints, they’ll be quickly usurped by the intense and compelling story that’s unfolding before your very eyes. I highly recommend this book to anybody who loves both the paranormal and crime genres. The reading is easy on the eyes and will bring you to the edge of your seat as the story draws to its conclusion. A passing grade will go to a fine piece of literature like Fang and Claw! Congratulations on knocking it out of the park, Markie!

Lionize

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Feelings

***MY FEELINGS***

I got to see Jason Mewes (Jay from the View Askewniverse) perform a hilarious Q&A session the other night in Tacoma. Lots of sex jokes. Lots and lots of sex jokes. So many sex jokes that I laughed like a James Bond villain because of them (much to Jason’s delight). As much fun as I had that night and as awesome as it was to meet Jason Mewes and take pictures with him, that’s not what this journal is about (though yes, my brother and I had a great time that night).

During the car ride home, my brother James asked me a very profound question that I blew off as being asinine: “What goes through your head when you have a certain experience?” He elaborated by saying that I respond to even the most amazing things in life by saying, “It was fine” in a monotone voice. Part of his comedic rant was that I could be at the bottom of the Himalayas or having sex with a younger version of Cameron Diaz (or doing both at the same time), and all I would have to say is, “It was fine.” James then talked about the time he worked hard cooking a salmon steak with the right amount of herbs, spices, and sauces and all I said once I was done eating it was, “It was fine.”

There are many reasons why I don’t talk about my true feelings. One reason could be that it’s a male thing and since I have a penis and two testicles, I fall under that category. The other reason is that talking about my feelings leaves me exposed to whoever I’m talking to. Sure, I could just give James the proper critique for something as simple as a salmon steak, but even that moment of positivity could open the door for him or other people to ask about the darker parts of my emotions.

Talking about the darker side of my emotions isn’t easy for me because, as a schizophrenic, I have to relive those moments again and feel like shit afterwards. Living with my mom’s ex-boyfriend Art, getting bullied in high school, and being lonely at Western Washington University are all off-limits topics for me. The less I talk about dark emotions, the better I will feel mentally.

For the sake of this journal, I will talk about an emotional experience I had that was more than just “fine” or “whatever”. Consider this your one and only invite into my mind. If you see me in real life and you want to talk about it some more, forget it. Not happening. Even now, I have butterflies in my tummy, and this is just writing about it.

In 2016, I went to see Slipknot in concert for the second time in my life. One of my favorite songs that they played that evening was “Killpop”. If you Google the lyrics, you’ll see that they contain themes of psychotic love and sexual frustration (even though the song is about something completely different).

I loved this song so much that I sang along with it in my loudest, most passionate voice possible. In that moment, I could forget all about being a sexual has-been and a 30-something virgin. In my senior year of high school, I looked like a goddamn stud muffin with my leather jacket, sunglasses, thin body, and badass haircut. I had women flirting with me from all angles and even had cyber sex (yes, I know it’s just masturbating to a computer screen, but it was still enjoyable, so shut up). And then I had schizophrenia. The disease itself made me act crazy and the medication made me gain over a hundred pounds. Goodbye sexy Garrison, hello Uncle Creepy.

It seems shallow-minded to have that be a source of pain for me, especially since people are willing to give you the worldwide disaster argument over and over again (“people in Africa have it worse than you do, there are hurricanes everywhere, blah, blah, blah”). I’ve had a taste of love and I want it again, but I’m also aware that this 300 lb. body isn’t fit for such things. Therefore, when I sang “Killpop” in my most passionate voice, I could forget all of that and give a metaphorical middle finger to anybody who doubts my likeability. Ironically, when the song was over, a sexy lady in a dress and a cowgirl hat kissed the back of my hand in approval. I never got that girl’s phone number or email address, but it was probably for the best.

There you go, folks. That’s my emotional experience. Now I’m locking the doors in my mind and you’re never getting back in. If you want to know how I’m doing today, I’m doing just “fine”. Today was actually a good day for me. The past four days have been exhausting because I was angry about mopping up my dog Maggie’s shit and piss. Today I didn’t burst into a hodgepodge of swear words and I was able to use that energy to write a short story called “Witch Hunt”, read 30 pages of “Paper Towns”, and draw a picture of Fatima Ruiz (a gangster from another short story called “How Could You?”). Imagine that: fiery anger can be tiring as hell! We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***

As I just told you, Witch Hunt is in the books, so now it’s time for another short story. This is another old one called “Lionize” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1.      Dargoth Destroyer, Human Barbarian

2.      Zeal Cottonwood, Zombie Giant

3.      Andrea Lovell, CEO of Lionize Corporation

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: Andrea’s corporation specializes in deadly arena combat as public entertainment. Dargoth and Zeal are in her latest pay-per-view main event after both of them went undefeated for such a long time. All combatants who work for Andrea are locked in an ironclad contract with promises of a high payday and threats of a lawsuit if they’re in violation. Dargoth, who desperately wants to get out of his contract, attempts to assassinate Miss Lovell during his match with Zeal.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

And now that we’re on the topic of Lionize, my next Dark Fantasy Warrior will actually be a fantasy-themed fighter! Imagine that! He’s Dargoth Destroyer and he’s, you guessed it, another beefy barbarian! He won’t be a Gary-Stu, though. Maybe. I’m not sure yet.

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

REINA: What did you do productively today?

ME: Stuff.

REINA: What kind of stuff?

ME: Just stuff.

REINA: Garrison! That’s not a real answer!

ME: (Whiny groan.)

The Perks of Being a Zombie

VERSE 1

I once had wild dreams of being a creator

But everyone else was a heel commentator

“Fix computers, scoop ice cream into cones

Do it all for your wallet and future home”

But I resisted every obnoxious voice

The ones in my head gave me no choice

“Listen and conform to everything we say

If you don’t want bleed for the rest of the day”

CHORUS

“Move it! Move it! Get your fat ass in gear!

Let’s go! Let’s go! Before I kick you in the rear!

Faster! Faster! Listen to what’s in your ear!

The perks of being a zombie are always clear!”

VERSE 2

I packed up and went to the indoctrination center

The closest place to hell that I could ever enter

I wouldn’t know it from the numbness in my brain

When it comes to pain, it all feels the same

Psychotic behavior was disguised as laziness

Torment and anguish was disguised as craziness

I never felt so naked in all of my goddamn life

The suicidal tendencies always felt so right

CHORUS

“Move it! Move it! Get your fat ass in gear!

Let’s go! Let’s go! Before I kick you in the rear!

Faster! Faster! Listen to what’s in your ear!

The perks of being a zombie are always clear!”

VERSE 3

I had a Broken Universe before it became cool

My pillow was always soaked in undead drool

My dreams were grayer than the winter shadow

Doing my homework was always such a battle

One day in psychology class, I found the name

Of the force inside me that brought me shame

A condition that I thought was traumatic cinema

Name of my disease was paranoid schizophrenia

ALTERNATIVE CHORUS

I am the master! You are the slave!

Nobody tells me how to behave!

It took a whole decade, but my eyes are wide!

I don’t have to run, I don’t have to hide!

My nights are cozy, my dreams are sweeter!

I’m a positive force and a negative eater!

You call me crazy and I give my thanks!

I’m the captain of the ship, I’m pulling rank!

Rise and Shine

VERSE 1

Rise and shine for your fucked up mind

There’s no more time to relax and unwind

Get your ass out of bed, Mr. Sleepyhead

Rise like a zombie coming back from the dead

CHORUS 1

Rise and shine or your ass is mine!

Rise and shine, don’t fucking whine!

Rise and shine for the dollar signs!

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

VERSE 2

Too many stories and not enough glory

A life of snoring is so damn boring

Work your fingers to the powdery bone

Your flesh melts like an ice cream cone

Your blood boils like a river of lava

Your wheels turn as you pen this drama

Do it all again on the very next day

This line of work is where you’ll stay

CHORUS 1

Rise and shine or your ass is mine!

Rise and shine, don’t fucking whine!

Rise and shine for the dollar signs!

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

BRIDGE

This lifestyle isn’t just a stepping stone

It’s what you should be calling home

There’s nothing bigger, nothing better

To your own craft, you are a debtor

VERSE 3

Something mysterious is holding you back

Energy and fire is what you fucking lack

You burned yourself out like a dying candle

The daily grind you’ll never be able to handle

Good morning is a hypocritical phrase

When all you want to do is laze in your haze

Stressed out, pissed off, fucked up, get lost

Now you know the deal, time to pay the cost

CHORUS 2

Rise and shine? Go fuck yourself!

Rise and shine? Go straight to hell!

Rise and shine? No goddamn chance!

Find another partner for your puppet dance!

Cookie Cutter Cutie Pies

VERSE 1

If you’ve seen one of them, you’ve seen them all

Each and every one of them are Barbie dolls

Packed in tight at the crowded shopping malls

Skipping and prancing down the fucking halls

The walking dead have got some fucked up heads

Doing anything to get someone in their bed

The supermodel body with the perfect measurements

The supermodel ego with the perfect evidence

CHORUS

Cut, copy, past, repeat!

Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!

Mental vegetable and social meat!

Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!

VERSE 2

Making love isn’t the same without passion

Conforming to shallow values and fashion

I might as well date a giant lump of clay

Or a burning effigy made of paper mache

Black credit card or just working hard?

Sugar baby princess or god among insects?

One way or another, we meet our fates together

Will you stay standing after the storm we weather?

CHORUS

Cut, copy, past, repeat!

Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!

Mental vegetable and social meat!

Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!

BRIDGE

Legacy of ecstasy

Schism of hedonism

No matter what you call it, it doesn’t change the fact

You’re a follower of sheep, not the leader of the pack

EXTENDED CHORUS

Cut, copy, past, repeat!

Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!

Mental vegetable and social meat!

Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!

When the ship comes in, you’re ready to cheat!

Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!

Stepping on backs with your nine inch heel feet!

Cookie cutter cutie pies! Cookie cutter cutie pies!

Cookie! Cutter! Cutie! Pies!

It’s all just bullshit and lies!

The Undertaker

The bitter taste of wheat beer slid down Heath Danielson’s throat like a flash flood of numbness. It was like drinking horse piss, but it was effective at making him forget how badly his father was screwed over when he lost his bakery to the bank. Heath also forgot that he was supposed to behave in a gentlemanly manner when drinking at this particular bar.

When he fell asleep, his face landed right into a neighboring woman’s chest. All of her screams and slaps across the head were like flies buzzing: a mere annoyance. It was the beefy bouncer who grabbed Heath by his scraggly brown hair and floppy arm that finally made him realize how fucked up he had become. Being tossed out on the streets and landing firmly on the unforgiving concrete was not a mere annoyance. The scrapes and bruises were proof of that.

In his brain-dead ecstasy, Heath managed to pull himself up off the ground using a parked car as leverage. Staying up would prove to be harder as he stumbled and crawled his way down the sidewalk. He occasionally let out an obnoxious burp and everybody in his vicinity scurried away from him. Cars began honking at him as if their horns were enough to awaken him from his drunken nightmare.

All Heath really wanted to do was find a nice place to empty his bladder, which was the size of a snow tire. He couldn’t go back to the bar or any other place of business since he was too drunk to read their signs. He did however find a nice shade of darkness where he was convinced he was the only one there. Perfect!

Heath waddled and stumbled into the darkness until his forehead hit a brick wall and temporarily woke him up. He had a lump where he smacked his head, but it was as good a place as any to drain the lizard. He struggled to find his jeans zipper, but eventually unzipped it and let the urine pour from his system like the floodgates of bliss. This simple bodily function put a stupid grin on Heath’s face, as if it was the only form of happiness he could experience since his father had to close his bakery.

Once his bladder was drained, Heath tucked his thingamabob back in his pants and unwittingly gave himself a zipper injury. The spark of pain got a yelp out of him as well as the temporary ability to read what was in front of him. The drunkard’s eyes grew wide and his body was shaking violently at what he saw. He just pissed on the memorial of Zell “The Undertaker” Jardine.

“Oh, shit!” Heath said to himself. Before he could turn around and run away, a trench-coat wearing arm rose up from the grave and grabbed him around his throat, squeezing with the strength a silverback gorilla. Even without significant oxygen and a brain full of booze, Heath could easily make out this zombie’s features: an old man with white horseshoe hair, muscles upon muscles, and a trench coat that carried god knows what. Zell tossed Heath on the ground and allowed him to hack and wheeze what little oxygen he could back into his body.

As soon as the lush was breathing normally (albeit with raspy overtones), he had the urge to relieve himself once again when he saw Zell pull a long, bloody, and jagged machete out of his trench coat. “I’m going to enjoy every minute of this,” said the former war hero. “Which one of your limbs should I cut off first? Your arms? Your legs? Or maybe I should make that zipper injury feel like a paper cut and hack off your tiny dick!”

Heath crawled backwards and waved his hand defensively as he tried to plead his case to someone nicknamed “The Undertaker”. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know that was your grave!” The lush let out another sickening burp. “I’m just really pissed off tonight. You see, my dad just had to close his…”

“Silence!” shouted Zell. Heath’s breaths were getting faster and deeper with every step The Undertaker took towards him. The sounds of militia boots hitting the pavement were loud and clear to even someone with drunken vision. “I didn’t spend ten years in a government prison getting tortured half to death just so I could have disrespectful faggots like you pissing on my grave! All I want is a little peace and quite and you can’t even give that to me! You and your disgusting burping; it’s damn insulting!”

Heath’s eyes were cascading with tears when he said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Jardine. I’m really sorry. Please don’t kill me. I’m fucking drunk as a skunk right now. I don’t even know where the hell I am right now. I’ll give you your peace and quiet if you’d just let me go.”

Zell’s demonic eyes rolled backwards when he reached down and grabbed Heath by his shirt collar to hoist him up, holding the jagged machete to his throat in the process. “If you have any brain cells left in that thick skull of yours, then you’d better start begging for your life a lot better than that. I’ve cut up many demons and undead warriors with this machete and it would be an honor to take your head off as well. Go ahead, you little bitch! Scream for your life!”

“I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again! Please let me go! My father needs me!” shouted Heath in a pathetic voice, prompting Zell to release his shirt collar and allow him to drop to the ground. The demonic zombie still had the machete pointed at his would-be victim. Heath waved his hands defensively and said, “Look, man. I’m just the son of a baker. I used to be before the goddamn bank took everything away. You just said you were in a government prison for ten years. Didn’t you feel like doing…you know…something drastic?” That last sentence was punctuated by another burp.

“Every damn day I felt like doing something drastic!” shouted Zell. He allowed that comment to hang in the air for a few long seconds before putting his instrument of destruction back in his trench coat. “Every damn day,” he said with more compassion. “Even when I got out of that prison and we eventually won the war, things were never the same. The story doesn’t end just because the author puts his pen down. I had nightmares when the war was over. Sometimes I’d wake up and wouldn’t know where I was. And yes, I did a lot of drinking during that time, even more so than you.”

Heath looked up at his now calmed down assailant with compassion of his own. And then he turned his head to the side and puked his guts out. Some of the flowing stomach acid managed to dirty up Zell’s boots, which once again put a sadistic frown on the war hero’s face. After wiping the bile from his mouth with his jacket sleeve, Heath realized what he just did and said in that same pathetic voice, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! Please, don’t kill me!”

Zell’s eyes rolled back and he this time picked Heath up by his unwashed hair before pulling the machete back out to hold it to the drunkard’s throat. Mr. Danielson cried like a little baby with his tears coming as quickly as his puke. The zombie warrior shouted, “Shut up! Stop your blubbering, little boy!” The tears had dried up. “So that’s how your story’s going to end, huh? You’re just going to let these corrupt banks do whatever they want with your father’s business? One that he worked so hard to obtain?”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” said a whiny-voiced Heath.

The Undertaker pressed the blade against Heath’s throat even harder, drawing a little speck of blood and causing the raspy breaths to come more rapidly. And then Zell turned the blade over and put the handle of the weapon in Heath’s shaking hands. “I have no more use for this now that I’m dead and gone. But for you, my friend, it’s not too late. Take this blade and show those asshole bankers that you’re not one to be fucked with!”

“Are you kidding me? I can’t just attack them like that!” said Heath.

“You’re right,” said Zell sarcastically. “They’re just going to give your father’s bakery back to you like civilized gentlemen. Because that’s how the real world works: everything is handed to you and nothing has to be fought for. That’s why I have my own tombstone where I’m resting more comfortably than I would in a Hilton Hotel.”

Heath could feel the cold steel in his hand. It was such a simple weapon of war with jagged edges and many lives claimed. A prolific war hero was passing down his instrument of death to a mere drunkard who never thought he could change the world with a bloody slash. This blade made Heath Danielson feel powerful. It made him feel revolutionary. Those suit-wearing jackasses at Babylon Bank didn’t stand a chance against him. They could have all the beefy security and all the brutal cops they wanted and they would all fall down one by one. A sea of blood would overtake the streets as the souls of those claimed by this machete would be burning in hellfire for all eternity.

“You can count on me, Mr. Jardine. Nobody steals from the Danielson family! Nobody!” shouted Heath…right before he puked up another meal on Zell’s legs.

“For God’s sake, man, don’t ever drink that much alcohol again!” shouted the zombie before shoving the drunkard down on the ground.