Tiger Uppercut

VERSE 1

Striking a nerve like a glockenspiel

Is not how the world is supposed to heal

Of course it matters how your audience feels

They’re the ones who pay for your meals

They didn’t pay to see you spin your wheels

Shouting slurs with a Klansman’s zeal

Bigotry and anger weren’t part of the deal

Your jokes are older than slipping on a peel

CHORUS 1

Tiger uppercut to the billionaire giants

Sho-ryu-ken to the fascist tyrants

Machinegun punches to the royal crown

Punch all the way up, not all the way down

VERSE 2

You’re not dead yet, got millions of dollars

And an army of defenders who hoot and holler

They’re the Twitter trolls and radio callers

Your ego gets bigger, but your dick gets smaller

CHORUS 2

Tiger uppercut to the cardinals and popes

Sho-ryu-ken to abusers of bad jokes

Machinegun punches for the evil frowns

Punch all the way up, not all the way down

VERSE 3

You’ve never experienced living on the streets

You’ve never had to worry about when you’ll eat

You’ve never had a cop pound your face like meat

You’ve never been your uncle’s favorite tasty treat

Not all of your victims have a dinner table seat

Think about that when you’re feeling the heat

They’re not chewed gum stuck underneath your feet

They have their own dreams, march to their own beat

CHORUS 3

Tiger uppercut for the ones with bullwhips

Sho-ryu-ken for the sellers of bullshit

Machinegun punches for conspiracy clowns

Punch all the way up, not all the way down

Flash kick for the gods who rule from the sky

Spinning bird kick when they refuse to die

Rising dragon kick with a Bruce Lee sound

Kick all the way up, not all the way down

"The Hunger Games: Mockingjay" by Suzanne Collins

BOOK TITLE: The Hunger Games: Mockingjay

AUTHOR: Suzanne Collins

YEAR: 2010

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Dystopian

GRADE: A

I said this with the second book in the Hunger Games trilogy and I’ll continue to say it with this final installment: reading dystopian fiction feels weird in 2021, when COVID-19 has the world in a stranglehold and right-wing politics are at an all time high. And wouldn’t you know it, the Hunger Games world looks every bit as nightmarish as the real one. Oh sure, President Snow and the Capitol have a rebel army to contend with, Katniss Everdeen being the ultimate symbol of resistance known as The Mockingjay. But what good is a rebellion if the people in charge of said rebellion are just as disgusting and violent as their oppressors? Both sides have strict rules. Both sides are not above sacrificing their own to achieve their goals. It’s just a perpetual cycle of abuse that’s passed on from generation to generation, regardless of who’s aligned with who. That paints a very realistic picture of what war is like: there are no winners, only dead bodies. Somehow Katniss must find a way to stay true to her own beliefs and individuality through all of this. Not an easy task, but one worthy of an entire book series. Katniss truly is a symbol of resistance, but on her own terms.

Circling back to the idea of nothing changing, it reminds me of something George Carlin once said while performing standup comedy: “If you have selfish, ignorant citizens, you’re going to have selfish, ignorant leaders. Term limits will do you no good, because you’re just going to get another crop of selfish, ignorant leaders every time.” This seems to be true no matter who we elect as our leaders: they’re either too soft on right-wing extremism or they are themselves right-wing extremists. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. The Hunger Games holds a mirror up to our worst parts of society and it makes its readers uncomfortable. But sometimes a little discomfort goes a long way. The truth can sometimes be an ugly thing, but that doesn’t mean we don’t eventually have to come to terms with it. Katniss and people like her can only do so much. Yes, she’s the hero of her own story, but she can’t do everything. She, like the rest of us, has to rely on her allies to do the right thing and they don’t always do that. Can Katniss achieve true rebellion? Only time will tell.

But no matter what shape the ending of this book takes, you can always count on the fact that Katniss Everdeen is a strong female character. I don’t mean strong in the sense of having muscles and a surfboard-sized sword in each hand. She’s well-written. She has flaws, ambitions, interests, and most importantly, a sense of individuality that makes her stand out from the rest of the character cast. She makes mistakes and doubts herself like any normal human would, but none of her errors result in being comically stupid. And when she messes something up, she fixes it like the responsible adult she grew up too quickly into being. Individuality is what leads to true resistance, not guns and bombs. Any artist will tell you that, because creativity cannot exist without individuality. Same goes for standing up for what you believe in.

I very much enjoyed what I read in this book, whether it was Katniss’s realness, the action sequences, the ugly truths behind politics, or even the fact that every chapter ends in a cliffhanger of some sorts. I know that last part seems like such an obvious thing to do, but it’s really noticeable in this book and it keeps me coming back for more, which is important for any book to accomplish. Suzanne Collins is an excellent writer who has created a bleak world, one where the media really does control people’s opinions and violence is disturbing no matter who it happens to. Mockingjay gets five stars out of five, no question about it.

A History of Violence

MOVIE TITLE: A History of Violence

DIRECTOR: David Cronenberg

YEAR: 2005

GENRE: Thriller

RATING: R for violence, language, and sex

GRADE: A

A story about a diner-owner saving his establishment from a robbery would have been thrilling enough on his own. But where exactly did Tom Stall get his fighting skills from? It wasn’t just blind luck. He didn’t take martial arts courses. Maybe he was ex-military, but why would an ex-military guy suddenly have mafia goons calling him Joey when his name is clearly Tom? He’s hiding something, not only from the town that praises his actions, but also his own family. The growing tension between Tom and his family is a focal point of the story’s drama. The more that comes out about him, the more isolated he becomes from the one he loves. I was going to dock this movie a point for a sometimes slow pace, but that slow pace actually helps intensify the drama. Tension needs time to build. In the case of the audience, they’re going to feel all the hate and anger that Tom and his family feels towards the ones who wronged them…right before they implode on each other. If you have a history of violence, the cycle will eventually repeat itself. Building tension and sending anxiety through the audience are this movie’s strong suits.

But of course, you can’t call the movie A History of Violence and not have a good deal of violence in it. Tom Stall’s punches, kicks, and limb breaks are so brutal that they’re satisfying to watch as they happen to everyone who messes with his family. But the cherry on top of the blood-covered sundae came from Jack Stall, Tom’s son, who had been bullied all year at school by a redneck named Bobby and his friends. Jack just absolutely wrecked Bobby and it was so delicious to watch. As a former bullying victim myself, I love watching these kinds of scenes. Of course, Tom isn’t happy with how Jack handled it, because that’s not how his family solves problems…but Tom totally does as he slaps his son for smart-mouthing him. Pot, meet kettle. But that just widens the divide between Tom and his family, so blatant hypocrisy adds to the building tension that the movie does so well.

I won’t spoil the ending for everyone, so I’ll speak as vaguely as possible. By the time all is said and done, we don’t know if the main problem is solved. We don’t know if Jack will face repercussions other than suspension for the pounding he gave Bobby. We don’t know if Edie (Tom’s wife) can carry on with her marriage. We don’t know if Sarah (Tom’s daughter) will stop seeing monsters at night. But most importantly, we don’t know if this cycle of violence will continue or if everything falls apart. Normally, this kind of open-ended storytelling is ideal for producing a sequel, which I wouldn’t be against. But even without a sequel, this is effective storytelling because it leaves the audience with anxiety-inducing questions long after it’s over. They’re free to exercise their imaginations. It’s not even confusion they feel. It’s a genuine interest in seeing the story beyond its ninety-six minutes. By renting space in the audience’s head long after it’s over, A History of Violence truly did its job of telling an effective story.

Everybody played their roles to perfection. The violence was satisfying whenever it happened to the bad guys (Bobby included). The drama was never in a cool state even after those bad guys get their comeuppance. It started off slow, yes, but that’s something I’m willing to forgive since the rest of the movie kicked it into high gear with the action and drama. If you feel like your patience is being tested, keep watching it all the way through, because you’ll get everything you want and more…even if the ending leaves you with more questions than answers. A History of Violence gets five out of five stars.

It Was All an Adventure to You

 “He’s right this way, Princess. Watch your step. He’s been lying here all day, it seems.”

Princess Marle knew who that male pronoun was meant for, but she didn’t want to say it out loud. She didn’t want his name associated with the grape-scented wine wafting through the forest. She intentionally slowed down, not because she didn’t want to step on her royal white dress, but to prolong the answer. She could have moved at a snail’s pace despite the urgency of her squad of knights, but this part of her future was inevitable. As a former time traveler, she knew something about grim futures.

The knight captain raised a branch so that Marle could pass through. Some of the leaves got in her otherwise perfect blond hair, but hers wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the young boy lying against the trees in front of her. Defeated, drunk, disheveled, and demonized. Four D’s, one shell of a former human being. It was indeed Marle’s ex-husband Crono, his eyes glazed over, his clothes a stained mess, his spiky red hair even messier than usual. All life had left his once bright eyes, numbed by the genie lamp-like bottle dangling in his right hand.

With her knights firmly behind her, Marle tiptoed toward her ex and took a whiff of the offensive air that poisoned not just the forest, but an entire human body. “Did you bathe in Genie’s Delight, Crono?” No answer, just drool, tears, and snot. Marle yanked the bottle out of his hand and sarcastically took a sip. “Mmm! You have fine tastes…despite the fact that you’re not even old enough to drink alcohol. Still…you have very nice tastes.”

Marle threw the lamp-like bottle against a nearby stump, the shattering noise jostling Crono around a little bit, the only sign of life he was capable of showing. Not even his ex-wife’s scowling contempt was enough to wake him up from this depressive stupor. “Arrest him.”

“It was all an adventure to you…”

The knights couldn’t proceed any further as Marle held out her arms like a barricade, wanting to give her ex-husband a chance to speak his mind…or whatever was left of it. “Come again?”

Crono spit a wad of blood onto a nearby patch of grass, as if that would be more effective at deforesting this area than his alcoholic miasma. “Time travel is supposed to be fun, right? We were all having a good time going through all those worlds…all those dinosaurs…all those dragons…all those bony old men looking for something to eat in a fucking factory…” He spat again. “I’m glad you had a good time, Marle. I’m happy all those lighting bolts and fire bombs didn’t scar you in the least. I was worried being in constant battle would take its toll on all of us…” He hiccupped.

“Crono…let me make something perfectly clear. Those battles were not my idea of fun. Nobody was having fun. We fought all of those monsters because it was necessary. We saved the world. Isn’t that something to be proud of? Isn’t that something you want to be remembered for?”

Crono burped.

“Answer me!” Marle’s arms folded like she was ready to make her final judgment upon this poor bastard in front of her.

Crono burped again. “I’m sure it’d be nice to be remembered as a savior. But that’s not how I remember it. All I remember was being burned alive and slashed to pieces.” Tears welled up in his eyes, much to the dismay of his ex-wife. “I died, Marle! I literally died! And before that I almost had my head chopped off by your kingdom! They were going to give me the guillotine for a fake kidnapping charge! The guillotine! To a little boy! That’s all that capital punishment is, really: state-sanctioned murder.”

Marle calmed down somewhat. “I agree.”

“I don’t,” said the knight captain, who earned himself a slap on the arm from her highness.

“You were cleared of all charges, Crono.”

“Tell that to the townsfolk. You think I don’t hear them talking? They still think I kidnapped you. They don’t buy that time portal explanation. Nobody does.” He pointed at an empty field. “Even that guy won’t stop talking about it. He wants me dead, just like everyone else.”

“Crono, who are you pointing at? There’s nobody there.” The weight of what Marle just said caused her to suck in a deep breath. Almost holding her hand to her mouth, she whimpered, “Are you delusional? Are you…hearing voices?” Her only answer came in the form of a weak shrug. “Is that why you drink so much?” He nodded. “You ruined our marriage over a few bottles of wine for this? Crono, why didn’t you tell me?”

He laughed like the madman he was becoming. “How am I supposed to bring that up in conversation? Oh, honey, these mashed potatoes are delicious! By the way, I’m hearing things that aren’t there! Your knights would have given me the guillotine just for that. I guess there’s no better way to relieve head trauma, am I right?” He chuckled at his own form of gallows humor.

Marle’s breathing became more erratic and jittery as she fought back tears that she never wanted her loyal knights to see. “Crono, if you would have told me, I wouldn’t have judged you for it. I would have helped you through it. We all would have.”

“I wouldn’t have,” said the knight captain.

“SHUT UP!” yelled Marle, an order that was quickly obeyed. “Crono…we married each other…we shared moments…and you threw it all away with that disgusting wine! You could have told me what was going on!”

“Not even your healing magic would have done me any favors, Marle!” Crono snapped back. “You want to help me? Reach inside my head, pull the demons out one-by-one, and throw them away for good! Can you do that? Can anybody do that?!”

“…No…I can’t…” Marle’s tears were slowly eroding away her royal toughness.

“Look…if you’re going to arrest me, then do it already. I’m beyond help at this point. Those combat memories won’t go away on their own. Those chatty bastards won’t stop spreading rumors about me. And I’ll never get the taste of Genie’s Delight out of my mouth. Ah, who am I kidding? Everything tastes like blood nowadays. I’ve been stabbed so many times that I can taste it every day. I’ve been burned so many times that it tastes like crispy black scabs. Just arrest me or kill me, okay? I don’t care what you choose, just do something.”

Marle wiped her eyes on her arm glove before using her arm like a barricade once more to stop the knight captain from arresting Crono. “I’ll handle this. Take the rest of the day off, Captain. You’ve done enough.”

“But Princess, I…”

She lifted a finger to her lips. “Not. Another. Word. Let me handle this. Go.”

The knights hesitated for a while before marching back to the castle, leaving Marle to wrap Crono’s arm around her back and hoist him to his feet. His dizzy equilibrium made him harder to carry, but she was still willing to do it. He was so slippery that she just decided to carry him baby style in her arms. He seemed comfortable in that position from how easily he closed his puffy eyes. Marle didn’t even have to struggle that much to hold him, suggesting to her that he hadn’t had much food to go with his copious amounts of alcohol.

Marle carried the remains of her ex-husband through the dark forest, the one where they used to “level up”. The one where they escaped from the castle guards by traveling to the future, the future of broken down factories, skinny survivors, constant hunger, and dark skies. Maybe there was some validity to Crono’s trauma.

She carried him like the mother she originally wanted to be. She climbed many castle stairs, receiving dirty looks from the guards along the way. She didn’t care. She climbed more stairs. And more. And more. And then she introduced Crono to a room he thought he hadn’t seen before. “This doesn’t look like a drunk tank…”

“That’s because it isn’t. It’s our old bedroom. The bed is a lot softer here than in a drunk tank.”

A little bit of life returned to Crono’s eyes as he looked around the old bedroom he shared with his now ex-wife. Marle took it in as well. The stained glass windows, the bookcase full of knowledge and wisdom, the beautiful artwork that was a mirror image of the battles they fought together, and more importantly, the bed that felt like laying on a cloud of vanilla ice cream.

“I think you’d be more comfortable with your shirt off.” Sure enough, Marle stood him up and removed his wine-scented tunic, revealing visible ribs underneath. She elected to leave everything else on his body in order to keep it PG. She hobbled him over to the bed and laid him down on his stomach, face first into the silky eiderdown pillow. He was asleep almost instantly, snoring like a coffee grinder and snorting like a pig.

Marle gazed down upon her once beloved with watery eyes. She threatened him with arrest back in the forest, but she knew in her heart she could never carry out such an order. He was so irresponsible, but he was also hurting. She couldn’t leave someone like that alone in the forest at the mercy of conservative knights. He looked almost as pained as the starving twigs from the future. He looked like a corpse ready for his permanent dirt nap. He was drunk out of his mind, yet he clung to life all the same. She knew he wasn’t ready to surrender.

Knowing full well he was knocked out from the drunkenness, Marle climbed on Crono’s back and gave him a massage anyways. She didn’t want to squeeze too hard out of consideration for his visible bones, but she squeezed just enough to hopefully put some better memories in his traumatic nightmares. If the gentle touches weren’t enough, she leaned into his ear and whispered something she wanted to say, but couldn’t get through to him during their crumbling marriage: “Crono…I never stopped loving you!”

He Hates His Penis

He hates his penis and all that it stands for

He hates his tastes, wants to be a sad bore

If anybody knew what kind of shit he liked

He’d be locked in darkness without his rights

A broken lamp, but there’s no genie inside

No way to get rid of the parts he must hide

Take a razor blade and cut his dingus off

And the sack for which he turns and coughs

The thoughts don’t stop, he wants to drop

Before he gets his ass beat by the keystone cops

Throw the TV out of his window pane

Before a Huggies commercial drives him insane

No where to turn to, no one to talk to

Want to stab him to death? He won’t stop you

He never asked for his brain to be fucked up

Nobody would choose it, it’s just tough luck

Where does he go from his lowest point?

Does he just light up yet another joint?

Numbing his pain with drugs and food

He lived another day, stabilized his mood

He’s a monster without the claws and fangs

A warmonger without the guns and tanks

A devil without living in the hells below

That shit’s on earth, in case you didn’t know

Show Don't Tell

PRE-VERSE 1

Don’t tell me about the ghostly music

Show me sound waves liquefying his brain

Don’t tell me he’s about to lose it

Show me twitchy faces as he’s going insane

VERSE 1

Reading about scandals in the newspaper

Won’t give you the most intimate flavor

An old man’s gyroscopic wiener in motion

Leaves her trapped above the Atlantic Ocean

Few seconds of assault becomes a life of trauma

But they’ll brush it off as SJW drama

She’s a hero for telling a story that pains her

And showing the old fart he’s a walking failure

PRE-VERSE 2

Tell me you’re hurting without telling me so

The hangover turns your head into a bomb to blow

Tell me why you’re drunk without telling me why

Because it’s better than letting monsters see you cry

VERSE 2

A fictional world becomes real in a hurry

When the lines of fantasy become so blurry

Is the author a racist or just bad at his craft?

When the audience screamed, the Nazis laughed

Five hundred pages of knights and mages

And lovers so fine with questionable ages

He’s a villain for telling a story so awful

And showing why he’s still on the side of lawful

PRE-VERSE 3

These stories don’t connect in any meaningful way

They’re just random thoughts barfed onto the page

Get a nice editor to tell you that you’re full of it

Test your resolve, we’ll see if you’re full of quit

VERSE 3

In the end, we all have our stories to tell

But it’s all a matter of if they’re told well

We don’t mind a little bit of being disturbed

As long as there’s substance to go with big words

Everyone has potential to live beyond themselves

And see their very best efforts on library shelves

You’re a human for telling a story the world needs

And showing them all you despise corporate greed

No One Else Is Living This Way

Ghostly music swirled in Commander Bright’s brain, though the instrument of choice was whirring noises from his waking dizziness. He would have checked for a massive lump on his head if not for his hands being restrained behind his back. Any oxygen he managed to muster up came through his snotty nose as his mouth was obstructed. He wanted to wiggle around to break free from his new bondage, but the duct tape was too powerful, squeezing him down like a Gundam’s hand.

Bright’s darkened vision let just a little bit of light in at a time and eventually his salty eyes gave him the blurry, distorted shape of someone he used to know. Long gone was the innocent young man that he tried to push into becoming a true soldier. In his place was wide-eyed psychosis, a teenaged boy wearing not his uniform, but a wife-beater tank top, dirty brown pants, and a glazed over expression. Amuro Ray had gone off the deep end, but Bright had already known that the minute he could no longer move his body or express anger through his words.

Amuro’s superior wiggled around in his chair some more, but to no avail.  He was too weak from the dizziness and lack of oxygen. But he couldn’t find it within himself to accept defeat so easily. There had to be a method to Amuro’s madness. Something had to make him tick aside from the constant battle fatigue when he took his Gundam into any given war zone. Bright’s exhausted mind wouldn’t allow him to search so easily for answers.

“Guess what?” Amuro leaned his face closer to Bright’s. “I forgot to make my bed today.” The young man chuckled through his nose, a privilege not afforded to the bound and gagged Bright for fear of passing into darkness yet again. The joke wasn’t even that funny to begin with. Amuro wasn’t done there. 

“But of course…that’s hardly my only infraction.” He produced a file folder and thumbed through the pages like he was shuffling cards. “That’s a lot of pages for just one person. It’s almost like…you’re obsessed with me or something. I’m sure you have a lot to say about me.”

He pulled one of the pages out. “Amuro Ray. Sixteen years old. Gundam pilot. Received several infractions for behavioral issues, which include, but are not limited to insubordination, questioning authority (which is the same as insubordination, I don’t know why you’d put those two together), hijacking military property, desertion, aggravated assault, and aggravated mayhem. Has several psychological issues such as high-functioning autism, depression, post-traumatic stress…

“Do you really want me to keep reading this? We’d be here for hours if we went over everything. Wait a minute…” He looked around in mock disbelief. “There’s no file cabinet. How am I supposed to file this page with no cabinet? I’m sure it has to go somewhere.” He stared menacingly at Bright’s left thigh, causing his bound and gagged victim’s heart to thump loudly like a useless beacon to nobody coming to rescue him.

Amuro produced a staple gun from his back pocket and stapled the lone sheet of paper to Bright’s thigh. The Commander screamed so powerfully through his gag that his throat began to take more damage than his wound. His eyes watered and burned down his cheeks. 

“What? You don’t think that’s a good place for it?” More gagged screaming from Bright. “I agree. Let’s put it somewhere else.” Amuro ripped out the staple and this time the gagged screaming nearly caused Bright’s head to split open. The Commander cared little about the oxygen leaving his body in a gust of tears and snot. Amuro didn’t care either as he continued to taunt his former superior.

“Well, look at this! You got blood all over the page. How is anybody supposed to read about my horrible deeds when there’s blood everywhere? How is anybody supposed to judge me if they can’t see what’s there? This page needs to drip-dry. And I have just the place to hang it.” He stapled the non-bloody side of the page to Bright’s crotch and this time the screaming was high-pitched, like a female dragon wanting desperately to unleash her fireball. Speaking of fiery balls, Bright’s genitals bled more profusely than his thigh.

Amuro continued to taunt him. “Nah, that’s not going to dry it off. Let’s hang it somewhere else.” He ripped out the staple and Bright’s voice nearly blew like a bomb as he shrieked in pain. Seconds of torture turned to minutes. Minutes turned to hours. Hours turned to days, weeks, months, and years. In reality, it had only been a few seconds of agony, but it might as well have been eternal damnation.

The teasing wasn’t over, as Amuro pulled a bottle of liquor from the shadows of whatever room they were in. “Am I even old enough to drink this?” He popped off the top and did it anyway, teenaged years be damned. His innocence was gone long before he took his first sip. He held it out to the still screaming Bright. “Want some?” Amuro proceeded to splash the alcohol on Bright’s groin and leg wounds. The stinging pain was like a thousand scorpions digging into his body with their claymore tails. The bacteria was dead and Bright wished he was.

Amuro splashed the alcohol in Bright’s face, which would have spelt the end for his oxygen supply if the tape gag didn’t get saggy and fall off. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Bright screamed. The growls of agony were replaced by raspy, rapid-fire breathing. The blood in his gums pooled up and gave him a nice taste of nickels and dimes.

“I’m sorry, what was that? You want me stop? You had enough?” Amuro slapped Bright and reddened his already strawberry cheeks. “Come on, Bright!” Amuro slapped him again and again. “You can’t grow up unless you get slapped! If you’re depressed, snap out of it! Isn’t that what you said to me?” Amuro suddenly calmed down, but not in a charitable way. “My own father wouldn’t even hit me.”

Bright shot a snot rocket on the floor and breathed heavily as he spoke. “You can slap me and staple me all you want, but your head voices aren’t going away!” Amuro grew sullen in his once arrogant facial expression. “You think you’re the only one who has war flashbacks?! You think the rest of us aren’t hurting just as much as you are?! This is war, Amuro! Everybody’s feeling it! You’re the only one who’d even think about torturing me over this! You’re the only one with the staple gun right now! No one else is living this way…”

Amuro backed up, stunned in silence.

Bright spit a wad of blood on the floor. “See? You’re backing up because you know it’s true! Torturing me isn’t a substitute for therapy! Never has been, never will be! You can kill me for all I care, but no matter where you go, you take the pain with you!” Bright smiled through red and pink teeth. “You know what the best part about all of this is? Your trauma will only get worse once you go to prison. All that time alone in your prison cell with nothing but your thoughts. Your loud…destructive…violent thoughts…They’re all yours. They’ll only get louder. And louder.”

Amuro clutched his brown head of hair and doubled over in pain. “Stop it! Just shut your mouth! I’ll staple your lips shut if I have to!”

“What kind of nightmares do you have, anyways? Bombs going off? Getting shot at with lasers? Nearly dying every single time you’re out on the battlefield? Oh, I bet you hate those explosions, Amuro. I bet you absolutely HATE combat!” Bright started making bomb noises with whatever was left of his throat and mouth.

“I said stop! No more! SHUT UP!” Amuro broke the liquor bottle against the wall, fashioning it into a knife. He slowly crept towards his hostage with wildness in his eyes and spittle foaming on his lips. “You were the one who made me this way! You wanted me to be a soldier! You wouldn’t let me rest when I needed to! You’re the one who fucked with my mind!”

“Yeah…I am…And you know what? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Except this time, when I slap the hell out of you…I’m going for a knockout!”

“STOP IT! SHUT UP!”

“Or what?! What are you going to do, Amuro?! You’re going to keep wrestling with your mind until it gives you want you want?! Good luck with that! Face it, Amuro…you can kill me…you can kill my whole crew if you want to…but your mind…will always be a shitty place to be!”

Amuro couldn’t deny his head voices any longer. He turned the broken bottle on himself and sliced his own throat open. Bright’s voice may have been raw from death growling into a tape gag, but at least he couldn’t compare his throat pain to Amuro’s. The once brilliant Gundam pilot now laid on the ground in a pool of his own biological sludge, finally free from the prison of his own mind.

Bright’s breathing slowed down and his neck stopped radiating with pain like a nuclear rod. Every breath he took was one of relief. The pain in his crotch and thigh was completely forgotten about during his moments of bravery, but not when he tried to undo his tape. Squirming went from being a mere chore to a marathon in hell as pain shot throughout his entire body. But free himself from the tape he did. And then he collapsed on the floor with nothing to entertain his senses but the boots of his rescuers, who almost came too late.

He lost track of how much time had passed since he’d been asleep in the hospital. He thought for sure he had slipped past heaven’s gates. But the only part of heaven he could experience at that moment was the softness of his bed cushioning his aching body. Everything else felt like being engulfed in flames, whether it was the wrappings on his wounds, the tubes coming out of his skin, or his pounding headache.

The nurses turned around to check his progress…and every last one of them had Amuro’s face. They even had Amuro’s voice. Everywhere Bright looked, he saw his torturer, who once took on the role of the one being tortured. It had to be an illusion, right? It had to be his mind playing tricks on him. That was the only explanation for this. 

In which case…everything Bright said about Amuro’s traumatic hallucinations came to fruition…for him as well. He gave away his own prophecy. The physical torture was over. The psychological hell was just beginning. Maybe taking Gundams onto the battlefield wasn’t a great idea after all. Bright wanted to shout his newfound insanity from the rooftops, but shouting required a little more vocal power than he was afforded. He was a prisoner of his own mind…and it would be like that for the rest of his life. The broken bottle sounded better with every passing day in the hospital.