Flash Fiction Challenge: The Last 1000 Words Of An Non-Existant Novel

I haven't participated in the last few Flash Fiction Challenges over at Chuck Wendig's House of Tomfoolery due, mainly, to a severe lack of motivation. However, last night I was sitting around having one of those moments when I didn't know if I was bored, hungry, horny, or just needed to do some good, hard drinking. 

Turns out, what I really needed to do was write (along with some good, hard drinking). So, since I didn't have any good ideas of my own, I sauntered over to Mr. Wendig's space to see what his latest challenge was--I prefer to saunter on the web, don't ask me why--and it inspired me to produce the following piece of fiction. It was actually pretty difficult. Trying to get a cohesive narrative across, capturing, or at the very least alluding to, the previous events in the story while staying true to the challenge was extremely hard, but also, incredibly fun.

Epilogue

1

It has been many years, and he has found them. His wounds have healed but Lara's passing still haunts him. The nightmares are often, and in them he relives her death.

In the dreams Malbec somehow senses, somehow knows about the amulet, and in his knowing has rendered it powerless. He cannot defeat him. He sees the cruel tools wielded by the twisted forms of the Enclave's priests. Watches as her Essence is torn from her; the one he swore to protect. His vision is blurred by tears as the priests channel his love's Essence into the vessel, knowing all is lost. A moment later he feels Malbec's sword pierce his belly and his screams echo out across a world on fire.

He does not wake from these nightmares with a start, there have been far too many for that, but he must reach within himself, to the place in his mind where she resides, before he can relax. Her presence is reassuring. Her Essence still lives within him and has made him powerful, now he will use that power to rend the soul of the man who betrayed them.

He strides from the tent and lets the cheers of his army wash over him, for they know that today blood will be spilled and, with him at their head, they know they cannot be defeated. As the cries fade and the men resume preparing themselves; saddles cinched tight, breastplates donned, swords honed for the last time before they taste the blood of their enemies, he thinks of the young soldier who left his home to protect an even younger girl on her journey. A girl blessed with Magick more potent than anyone had guessed. Not her, nor the man who had sent them on that doomed quest. The man who had wanted more than anything to possess her Essence, the man whose hide he planned to carve her name into before the sun went down on this day.

Preparations made, he stands outside the camp, his army massed behind him. He draws upon Lara's Essence—her last gift to him, his last chance to fulfill his vow—and his body is surrounded in a cold blue fire. Its caress is her caress, and with it comes the sorrow, the longing, for though a part of her is always with him, it is not the part he loved most.

He reaches out and opens the Way. It is almost too easy, like a whisper, and he smiles to think of the effort it took the first time he tried to use her power. His search for the Enclave was not his only obsession these long years, and he has learned his lessons well.

The Way is wide enough that one hundred men riding abreast could easily pass through it, and tall enough that the siege engines could be stacked three high and still have room to spare. On the other side he can see the enemy's city. The spiraling towers of the Enclave stark against the blue sky, as if someone had taken a dagger and cut them from the day, exposing the night beneath. He scans the horizon for a moment, his eyes deep wells of blue fire, and steps through the Way onto the battlefield.

2

Deep within the central tower of the Enclave the Viceroy enters the Grand Hall. The only light is given off by guttering torches held by sconces set into pillars every twenty paces or so. At the end of the hall, behind a stone desk, sits the King. He is poring over ancient scrolls which are scattered across the desk and spilling onto the floor; The Prophecies.

The Viceroy's heels echo as he crosses the cavernous room until he stands before the King. “There is an army massing to our south,” he says. “Our scouts have confirmed, it is Pernod.”

The King looks up from the scroll he is holding. “Has he come as Vengeance?” he asks. The King sits back in his chair, closes his eyes, and recites, “Vengeance shall come unto us, wreathed in flame, his armies vast, and the Enclave shall drink from him as from a chalice so that we are made whole, and our power, everlasting.”

The Viceroy trembles before the King. “They say it is Pernod. They say he burns like the sun.”

The King opens his eyes and stands. “So the boy has come back to us,” he says, walking around the desk, the papers he was studying now forgotten. “You see, all things must serve the Prophecies. We have waited long and long for this day, let us go to him, and let us drink deep.”

The Parim Kardashiltian Effect

What if I told you, 20 years ago, that I was going to build a database that contained every single detail of peoples lives; from their name, to their age, to their address. From their place of business, to their friends, neighbors, family, and acquaintances. It would have personal photographs, maps of their daily routes, the places they frequent and play, their favorite restaurants and coffee houses, movies, music, books, and TV shows.

It would be viewable by law enforcement, employers, advertising agencies, and the federal government.

And then I told you that people would willingly, happily, put all of that information into the database themselves?

Would you tell me I was crazy? If you know where I'm going with this—and you probably should—then you might say, no. But if you're old enough to remember the days before Facebook, then you might be thinking to yourself, “Yeah, I would have thought that was crazy 20 years ago.”

Welcome to the future, my friends!

I find it pretty interesting myself. Thinking about all of those people out there, just “checking in” at every place they stop. Telling the whole world what they had for lunch that day, or where they are going to be that night. Why? Isn't that shit personal? 

Apparently not.

Now, I know I'm not the first person to think about this, and most certainly not the first to write about it (though, to be honest, I've never read those writings. Just going by the law of averages here.) But I've really been thinking about this a lot lately, and I feel the need to get my thoughts on this subject down, if for no other reason than to make my brain shut the fuck up about it.

So, why? Why do people so willingly give up every single little detail about their personal lives? I have a theory; I call it The Parim Kardashiltian Effect. People are so desperate for fame-for-the-sake-of-fame that they are willing to sacrifice all of their personal privacy to attain even the merest hint of it.

They see Kim and Paris being followed around by cameras every day being “real” and think, “I want that.” They know no better, and think the bile-inducing train wreck of these peoples lives is something to be emulated, while those of us with functioning neurons can only stand by and slowly shake our heads. And we are the minority!

These people believe they are such special, magical, one-of-a-kind, little snowflakes that they honestly think the whole world wants, nay, needs to know about how delicious that ham sandwich they had for lunch was. They use the GPS in their phones to map out every place they stop, but shit their pants when they find out that their faggoty ass iPhone has a “secret” text file that can be accessed by anyone with a computer.

Really? You document every detail of your life in an easily accessible online database and then freak out when you learn that if someone physically gets ahold of your device they can open a text file detailing the different sites on the route you just uploaded to the net via your GPS?

Why would you care about that when anyone with an internet connection can just go to www.Facebook.com/idontunderstandirony and see what you were up to that day?

There are already numerous documented cases of stalking, harrassment, and people announcing their plans to take a week-long vacation, then coming home to find they've been robbed.

What was that? Not you? Your account is private, you say? Oh really. How private? Can friends of friends view your profile? Just friends? How big is your friends list? It's over 9000?!!!

Or, maybe it's not. Maybe you have a reasonable amount of friends, who you know and trust, and only they can view your profile. OK. What about the cops? Or the FBI? Or the CIA? What about them? You think you can hold up Facebook's privacy policy like a sacred shield and prevent a federal agency from peeping on your shit? In a country where we have the Patriot Act, warrantless wiretapping, and the ability to indefinitely detain an American Citizen on the mere suspicion of “terrorist activity”?

Yeah, sure, go ahead and think that.

Look, I don't want to come off like some conspiracy-theory-spouting tinfoil-hat crazy, but as a realist who has, more than once, come a hairs-breadth from deleting the profile I haven't updated in years; I can't say that I am comfortable with the amount of information I have already shared, and even that is infinitesimal compared to what most people are putting out on a daily basis.

When I think of Facebook nowadays I can't help but conjure post-cold war, pre-internet images of government offices with rows and rows of filing cabinets, all with countless manila folders inside, and one of them has your name on it.

Back then it was scary. Now, it's just a status update.

Words That Need To Die: Not So Much

I've recently noticed that I am becoming more sensitive to the stupidity in our popular lexicon and this is an extension of that sensitivity. Words That Need To Die is my attempt to articulate my hate when it comes to pop-culture words and phrases (I'm looking at you, Epic) that need to die an immediate death so as to spare me and humanity, but mostly me, from the bone-shattering migraine that erupts between my temples every time they are used. As always, feel free to disagree; it wont hurt my feelings and changes absolutely nothing.

Definition of MUCH

1

a : great in quantity, amount, extent, or degree

 Take a look at the definition above. It is from the Merriam-Webster online dictionary and it is crucial to the main reason my tiny black heart flares with rage when I hear the phrase "not so much". There are, of course, other reasons, so lets examine those first, shall we.

I think the first reason I hate this turn of phrase are the people who seem to be foisting this insipid nonsense on the rest of us; Advertising Assholes and The Uncreative. Two classes of people absolutely guaranteed to send me into paroxysms of rage and disgust.

I find that when a word, or phrase, that was once cool/funny has been usurped by the Advertising Establishment it becomes useless. It is the final nail in the meme coffin. And those that continue to use them after their expiration date are usually part of The Uncreative; people who can't, or won't, contribute anything new and are content rooting around in the culture-dumpster using everyone else's leftovers long after they've begun to rot and smell of putrescence.

They will happily use a trod-into-the-ground joke or meme--as if they were the ones who just thought of it--as a substitute for actual humor; these are the types of people who still think they can get a laugh from a Brokeback Mountain reference when talking about gays.

To these people I say, "Hey, buddy, why don't you go back to gazing into your asshole in the mirror. The rest of us non-morons are trying to have a conversation."

The second reason this phrase bothers me is, I don't know where it came from! Why is it so prevalent? Who was the first one to say that shit? Why is it so fucking popular now; was it a meme I missed out on? How did it get so deeply ingrained into our popular lexicon?

Does anyone know where this shit came from? Because I cannot think of one single pop-culture event to pin this word-turd to. Usually a phrase like this will come from a movie, or video, or some celebrity quote. But this shit seems to have sprung up out of nowhere. Quietly pervading our homes and places of business one dipshit acquaintance at a time, until, one day, we were surrounded and inundated by this horrible, horrible, phrase.

But my main reason for hating this phrase harder than a CEO hates paying a middle-class tax rate? It is constantly being used incorrectly by the dumb-asses that I already despise, so it's like getting double-fist punched in the junk by Captain Kirk every time I hear it.

Take a look at the definition above. "Much" is a term used for the measurement of differences between things. So the phrase "not so much" can be used to form a coherent sentence, but the knuckle-draggers in our society seem to think they can use it for any damned situation, and that is when I find myself imagining my hands clenched around their throats in a vain attempt to shut off their air supply before they can utter one...more...idiotic...word.

Lets take a look at some examples of the correct usage of the phrase "not so much":

• Jim is really into clown pussy, but me? Eh, not so much. 
• Bob took a four foot shit, but Steve? Eh, not so much. 
• I can hate-fuck Flo from progressive up the ass for fifteen hours straight with a pine cone, but her husband? Eh, not so much.

You see? Those work because you can break them down into their most basic format and they will still make sense. How much into clown pussy? Not so much. How much shit? Not so much. How much hate-fucking? Not so much.

Now, lets take a look at how a moron uses the phrase "not so much":

• Mike can fold paper into little origami Fleshlights, but Ted? Eh, not so much. 
• Phillip can backflip onto another man's erect penis, but Joe? Eh, not so much.
• I can dislocate my shoulder to shove my arm elbow-deep into my own asshole, but Julio? Eh, not so much.

Can you break those down into a basic format which makes actual sense? How much...what? Ability to fold paper? Proficiency at backflipping onto dicks? Double-jointedness in their shoulder?

It doesn't work, because there is nothing to measure in those three examples as they are absolute; either you can backflip onto a dick or you can't. Either you dislocate your own shoulder in order to get the extra four inches you need to go elbow deep or you don't. There is no in-between to be measured by the word “much”.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I need special medicine to keep from erupting in a foam-spewing-from-between-my-clenched-teeth rage whenever words like these are used. I am forced by my brain to analyze the minutiae of seemingly inconsequential crap until I am reduced to a reptilian pile of seething hate when they are used, and most especially, used incorrectly.

So please, if you are going to wallow in the pop-offal and use "not so much", use it correctly. Otherwise, I may have to skip a dose and start The Great Culling in earnest.

My Pirate Joke

Many moons ago, on the 19th of September, it was National Talk Like A Pirate Day. I commemorated this day by writing a pirate joke. Why, you ask? Well, because the pirate jokes out there are mostly shit. 

You see, a friend and I have this little ritual. Sometimes we will go to lunch together, and during these lunches we will tell each other jokes cobbled together from off the internet to see which one of us can make the other laugh a french fry through their nose. It's a fun little game we play. And sometimes, if the mood strikes us, or if it's a special occasion, we will pick a theme. We've done blonde jokes, and "a guy walks into a bar" jokes, and, on the occasion of NTLAPD, pirate jokes!

We soon realized however, we had a dilemma akin to a rocky outcropping hidden just beneath the surface of a murky sea; a danger we hadn't anticipated that threatened to sink our little boat made of mirth and laughter. 

All the pirate jokes were shit. Utter shit. 

Nearly all the jokes we were able to find had some variation of "ARRRR" for a punchline. The pirate movie? Rated ARRRRR. The pirate's favorite animal? ARRRRdvark. My reaction to all of this? ARRRRR you fucking serious?!

Almost every single joke was like that. They were unusable. So, I climbed the mast of our happy little joke boat and screamed to the heavens, "I will write a pirate joke! It will not be shit! It will not have ARRRR anywhere even remotely close to being in it! Fuck all these other jokes!"

And so dear friends, I present to you, my pirate joke. Was I able to live up to my proclamations? I leave that for you to judge.

   

It was Jim's first day as cabin boy on a pirate ship. As he boarded the ship, he saw an old pirate with a peg leg swabbing the deck.

Jim walked up and said, "Hi, I'm Jim, the new cabin boy."

The old pirate looked up from his mop and said, "Welcome aboard Jim, they call me Peg-leg Pete on account that I lost me leg to a cannon ball, and now all I got is this peg for a leg. Why dontcha' go on over to the Wheelhouse and meet the first mate?"

At the Wheelhouse Jim found a surly looking pirate with a patch over one eye.

"Hi, I'm Jim, the new cabin boy."

The surly pirate says in a gruff voice, "Welcome aboard Jim, they call me One-eyed Willie on account that I lost me eye in a sword fight, and now I have to wear a patch. Why dontcha' you go to the captain's quarters and let him know yer here."

Jim, feeling uneasy about the condition of the two crewmen he's met, heads over to the captain's quarters and sees a tall pirate with a parrot on his shoulder and a hook for a hand.

Jim introduces himself, and the captain says, "Welcome aboard Jim, they call me Captain Hook on account that I am the captain of this here vessel, I lost me hand to a hungry crocodile, and now I have a hook where me hand used to be. Why dontcha' head below decks, drop off yer stuff, and meet yer bunk-mate."

By this time Jim was starting to get really worried; he didn't realize being a pirate would be so dangerous.

Below decks Jim found his bunk and another pirate standing next to it. Jim was greatly relieved to see that he had both his hands, both his legs, and both his eyes. "Maybe this won't be so bad after all," he thought to himself and said, "Hi, I'm Jim, the new cabin boy."

His bunk-mate smiled and said, "Welcome aboard Jim, they call me Willy Woodpecker..."

The Rage Machine: David Siegel

Today I was shown an email that was sent by a billionaire named David Siegel to his employees. You can read the full thing here :http://finance.yahoo.com/news/ceo-workers-youll-likely-fired-131640914.html, you just have to scroll down a bit. There are quite a few gems in this email that I am about to happily use to lance this boil on the ass of the world, so I hope you're ready for some patented Wordmurder. I also want to preface this post by saying that everything contained herein is purely my opinion and anyone is welcome to disagree with it; I don't give a shit. I would also like to point out that this is satire, as I fully understand that Mr. Siegel has the financial capability to squash me like the squirmy multi-legged insect that I am. So, now that I have made my legal disclaimer, let the shit-talking begin!

I sat aghast, reading this over-privileged dipshit's feeble attempt to sway his employee's votes, and began to wonder to myself how anyone could be such a self-righteous douchebag and not simply implode under the weight of their own ego.

He comes out the gate swinging. Wearing a pair of ruby encrusted boxing gloves with the words “Self” written on the left glove and “Righteous” on the right one, all in stunning 24 karat gold.

“I started this company over 42 years ago. At that time, I lived in a very modest home. I converted my garage into an office so I could put forth 100% effort into building a company, which by the way, would eventually employ you. We didn't eat in fancy restaurants or take expensive vacations because every dollar I made went back into this company. I drove an old used car, and often times, I stayed home on weekends, while my friends went out drinking and partying. In fact, I was married to my business - hard work, discipline, and sacrifice. Meanwhile, many of my friends got regular jobs. They worked 40 hours a week and made a nice income, and they spent every dime they earned. They drove flashy cars and lived in expensive homes and wore fancy designer clothes. My friends refinanced their mortgages and lived a life of luxury. I, however, did not. I put my time, my money, and my life into this business --with a vision that eventually, some day, I too, will be able to afford to buy whatever I wanted. “

This guy couldn't possibly think more highly of himself. I mean, he knows the true meaning of the word sacrifice. He had to live in a modest home, and had to drive a used car. Meanwhile his “friends” got “regular jobs” and pissed their lives away, while he, who is obviously sooo much better than them, did not. He created a business, which by the way, would eventually make him a billionaire asshole instead of just a regular asshole.

Well, Mr. Siegel, how did you get that “very modest home”, might I ask? Or the money to start your business? Obviously it wasn't from a “regular job” you so easily derided, otherwise how could you put forth the 100% effort you needed to build this business? Was it somehow because you had the PRIVILEDGE to do so? You see, most people work a “regular job” because they have to in order to pay their bills. Seems like you didn't have to worry about stuff like that.

The problem I have here is that this story starts in the middle. Why do you think that is? He doesn't go into how he got that very modest house, or his used car. He already has them, and the money, and the time to start up a business on top of that. For most people just getting the house and the car is hard enough, but Mr. Siegel apparently was able to do that shit no problem. As a matter of fact, his story of hardship starts with him already a homeowner with a reliable means of transportation. So far, he's had it pretty rough, but he's not done letting you know how hard he really has it because he continues with this:

“Just think about this - most of you arrive at work in the morning and leave that afternoon and the rest of your time is yours to do as you please. But not me- there is no "off" button for me. When you leave the office, you are done and you have a weekend all to yourself. I unfortunately do not have that freedom. I eat, live, and breathe this company every minute of the day, every day of the week. There is no rest. There is no weekend. There is no happy hour. “

Do you see now? This guy is a fucking slave! You piece of shit employees don't know how good you have it. At least you get to leave on the weekends. Mr. Siegel, on the other hand, gets no rest. None. Ever. He owns the largest house in the fucking country, a private jet, has a personal assistant, a personal chef, and a staff of maids and butlers to run his household, but he doesn't ever get to enjoy any of it because he's so busy making sure you ungrateful money-sucks have a job. This guy is a fucking hero. *jackoff motion*

Well, if that doesn't have you weeping in the aisles, get out your economy-sized box of scented tissues because this shit is about to get tragic.

“Obviously, our present government believes that taking my money is the right economic stimulus for this country. The fact is, if I deducted 50 percent of your paycheck you'd quit and you wouldn't work here. I mean, why should you? Who wants to get rewarded only 50 percent of their hard work? Well, that's what happens to me. “

Ho-lee-shit. This guy has to endure so much torture at the hands of the federal government he might as well be a Gitmo detainee. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to call in the fucking A-Team to rescue this over-fed gasbag.

Prepare to defend yourself, because now that we've all vicariously lived the horrors of this billionaire CEO's life, he rears back for the final one-two punch--intended to permanently stamp the self-righteous across our foreheads--and closes with the most paradoxical bullshit I have ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon.

“So where am I going with all this? It's quite simple. If any new taxes are levied on me, or my company, as our current President plans, I will have no choice but to reduce the size of this company. Rather than grow this company I will be forced to cut back. This means fewer jobs, less benefits and certainly less opportunity for everyone.”

“You see, I can no longer support a system that penalizes the productive and gives to the unproductive. My motivation to work and to provide jobs will be destroyed, and with it, so will your opportunities. If that happens, you can find me in the Caribbean sitting on the beach, under a palm tree, retired, and with no employees to worry about.


Signed, your boss,
David Siegel“

Let me get this straight. If you, who, out of the kindness of your own heart, have slaved every day to provide the poor unfortunates who work for you employment (and not at all to further increase your wealth and allow you to live a life of nearly unbelievable luxury), are forced to pay the tax rate prior to the temporary tax cuts that were enacted during a time of prosperity for you (which only made you more prosperous), you will somehow lose your will to continue your completely selfless crusade to provide for those less fortunate than you and retire to a Caribbean beach where you will finally be able to enjoy the fruits of your labor?

How fucking delusional can one out-of-touch asshole be?

This guy actually believes that he is the sole reason the company exists? There were never any people who did anything to help get him to where he is? What do the 7000 people he employs do? I'm sure there are executives and managers, accountants and lawyers, maids and groundskeepers, chefs and waiters, and a whole host of other people who made his wealth possible. Yet, if the government repeals the temporary Bush tax-cuts he's going to just take his ball and go home?

Fuck him.

The fact is, if this man were as righteous as he obviously believes himself to be, he would not be sending thinly veiled threats to his employees in an attempt to sway their vote. He would be down on his knees kissing the ass of every one of those maids and chefs and groundskeepers, and thanking them for making his wealth possible. He would stand up and proclaim his absolute commitment to repaying the country which made it possible for him to become so obscenely wealthy by paying into programs with his tax dollars that would elevate others and provide them with health care, education, and opportunities to become as obscenely wealthy as he.

But he's not.

He's a spoiled, soiled, wretch of a man, who views himself through a fun-house mirror in which he is Atlas, shouldering the weight of the world while malcontents around him suck the life from his bank account. He insists that by rolling back taxes from a rate that he has only paid for 12 of the 42 years his company has existed, that he will no longer be able to support the “system” or his company. He threatens the very livelihoods of the people he claims to have been the sole motivation for maintaining his company out of simple greed.

He thinks only of himself, and it is evident in the despicable email he sent to his staff. Throughout the whole thing he acknowledges the employees who work for him and allow his business to exist only one time, and even then he uses it as a lead-in to more of his already rampant self-pity and narcissism while, at the same time, completely dismissing their contribution: “I know many of you work hard and do a great job, but I'm the one who has to sign every check, pay every expense, and make sure that this company continues to succeed.“ 

It is also evident in the salutation he uses. He doesn't sign it "CEO Westgate Resorts", or simply "Sincerely, David Siegel". No, he signs it as "your boss". You know, in case you didn't know who the fuck was in charge around here.

  

What a dick.

I sincerely hope one of the employees he so blatantly insulted with his poorly conceived email walks into his office, hands him their resignation, and takes a shit on his desk so that maybe, just maybe, Mr. Siegel can actually get a whiff of what his email really amounts to.

Dirty Limericks

I got bored today and decided to try to write some poetry. Of course, since I have the intellect of a drunken baboon with a raging hard-on, it manifested itself as a bunch of dirty limericks. I had so much fun thinking them up, I imagine there will be more of these in the future. Enjoy.

There once was a man from Nantucket,

who kept all his jizz in a bucket.

When the bucket got full,

he'd stop in mid pull,

and go to the window to chuck it.

There once was a woman from China

who could shoot things out her vagina.

One day she got tired,

and her cunt it misfired,

which blew her to North Carolina.

There once was a man from Seattle,

who rode his horse 'round with no saddle.

And though she would whine,

while he rode the equine,

he liked fucking her more than the cattle.

The Rage Machine: Alex Cross

The opinions expressed herein are those of a total douchebag. I make no apologies for my language or opinions. I loose my venom on the page in the hopes that it will entertain the few who share my psychosis. So, if you are easily offended, read on; it pleases me to anger you. If not, then enjoy. I hope you are well entertained.

There is a new abomination on the horizon. It's almost here, and soon it will be disgorging its filth across movie-goers faces like a steaming spurt of poorly cast Hollywood cock-juice. I am, of course, referring to the film: Tyler Perry presents Tyler Perry's: Alex Cross (as portrayed by Tyler Perry)

This irredeemable shit-balloon exploded into my living room while I was trying to enjoy a professional sporting event. Upon seeing Madea in her male disguise, I had to wonder if I had somehow sat on the remote and accidentally ended up on the WE network, or Lifetime, or some other estrogen fueled channel where the drama flows like blood from the stump of a severed penis. After confirming I was indeed on the same channel, and that, yes, this was an actual thing, I proceeded to watch what was once a badass character–devoted to bringing down psychotics with his wits and oh-so-smooth voice–devolve into a dickless action hero.

Morgan Freeman's Alex Cross was a total badass. He mind-fucked criminals until they wept and begged him to tell them a bedtime story so they wouldn't have nightmares about him. I imagine Tyler Perry's Alex Cross will just humiliate criminals into submission by making them laugh at his ineffectiveness so hard they piss themselves.

I feel the need to stress this point. Tyler Perry is NOT a badass. Period. Fuck you. End of discussion. This is a man who sold his sack to pander to the lowest common denominator of the female gender. Showing him sawing off the barrel of a shotgun and uttering lines like, “I will meet his soul at the gates of hell before I let him take a person I love from me.” Will not make him a badass. It will not somehow erase the fact that his target audience are bitter, jilted women and the mentally retarded (I'm sorry, but if you enjoy the Madea movies you are, in fact, retarded. And that's not just me being an asshole, its fucking science).

And just in case you think I am exaggerating about this movie being geared toward vapid, slack-jawed window-lickers, the tagline used in the trailer is: Don't ever cross, Alex Cross. You know, because once you cross Cross, Cross will get cross and cross you right the fuck back.