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.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Scary Story In Three Sentences

Tick-tock, tick-tock, time flies and the words remain unwritten. It's been over a year since I posted to this space, and I have no one to blame but the countless other fuck-knuckles that demand my time. Well, them and the One True King of Fuck-Knucklery, all hairy, arthritic, and twisted into a self-fellating tangle of limbs more appropriate for Hell's own Kama Sutra than this plane of existence; myself. So it pleases me to, after so long, post a mere three sentences in herald of my return. However brief it may be.

 Blessed Silence

“Isn’t it ironic,” he asked his wife as he chewed on the succulent meat. “How the one thing we hate most in others can be, under the right circumstances, a thing in which we derive enormous pleasure?”

His wife remained silent, watching him finish his meal, for she had no tongue with which to respond.

 

Flash Fiction Challenge: Brand New Monster

It has been an inordinately long time since I have posted anything, and for this, I am ashamed. Leave it to Mr. Wendig however, to light my fire like the booze soaked corpse of Jim Morrison holding a road flare while siphoning the gas out of a Ford Pinto. The result is my submission into the latest Flash Fiction Challenge: "Brand New Monster". I hope you enjoy it.

The Closet

Moonlight shines through the window of the nursery, illuminating the collection of stuffed animals along the window sill and providing enough light to make out walls adorned with pink wallpaper, cartoony little elephants dancing across its surface. The house is sleeping. A baby in her crib, her parents in their bedroom down the hall. 

 

On the wall opposite the crib is a door. The brass knob reflects an image of the room, bending the world around its edge, distorting reality. Slowly, the knob begins to turn. The door opens a crack, then stops. A few seconds later it swings fully open, the well oiled hinges silent. 

 

The creature unfolds itself from the closet like a contortionist emerging from a box. So tall its head almost brushes the ceiling, it stands there on stilt-like legs, its arms hanging low to the floor. Its long fingered hands taper to wicked black claws that reflect the moonlight streaming through the window, and its nostrils flare as it tests the night air. It crosses the room in two long strides, the wake of its passage stirring the yellow paper stars hanging from the ceiling. 

 

It stands over the crib, breathing in the scent of the child, listening to the beating of her heart, feeling the warmth of her body. It shudders in anticipation, its grotesque face splitting into a grin that reveals a mouth too full of needle-like teeth. 

 

It begins to reach into the crib when a voice says, "I wouldn't do that if I were you." 

 

The creature whips its head to the right, toward the source of the voice that interrupted its meal. A boy, maybe ten years old, is leaning against the wall next to the window. He has dark hair, with dark eyes to match, and is casually examining a stuffed penguin that looks much older than the rest of the animals in the window. 

The creature turns to face the boy. "I suppose you will try to stop me," its voice is a dry rasp, its words distorted by its mouthful of teeth. "But make no mistake boy, I will feed." 

 

"That's as may be, Sid," the boy says, placing the stuffed toy back among the others, his expression hard. "But not her. Not tonight." 

 

In an instant the boy flashes across the room, his body outlined in a silver shimmer. His open hand slams into the creature, driving it back from the infants crib. It howls in surprise and pain, its long fingered hands curling around its gut where the boy struck it, the skin blackened and blistered. 

 

"Last chance," says the dark haired boy, motioning toward the open closet. 

 

The creature glares at the boy separating it from the baby in the crib. Then it begins to laugh. A sound like snakes slithering over dry bones. 

 

"You will not stop me Guardian," the creature growls, contempt dripping from every syllable. "I've bested far stronger than you." 

 

The boy sets his feet, waiting for it to make a move, when a look of dismay crosses his young features. The moon outside is full, and by its light he can see the wound he dealt the creature only seconds before is already healing; the blisters receding and the skin mending itself as he watches. 

 

"Yes," it sneers, reading his expression, and lunges at the boy. 

It swings one schythe-like hand as it charges, but the boy is fast and ducks easily under the attack. He circles to its left, his hands and feet silver blurs as he delivers a flurry of strikes to the creature's legs and body, its wounds healing as fast as he can dish them out. 

 

He sees the thing's grin as it turns its head to follow him and realizes his mistake too late; by avoiding the initial attack, he is no longer between the baby and the monster. The creature's leg streaks out, almost too fast to see, and catches him high in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the far wall of the nursery. 

 

Dazed, the boy watches as the laughing thing reaches into the crib and presses the point of one clawed finger against the baby's chest. At its touch the baby's body stiffens and her breathing stops. 

 

"No!" the boy screams. 

He scrambles to his feet and leaps onto the creature's back, wrapping his arms around the thing's throat. Its skin sears where he touches it, and he leans back hard, steering it toward the closet door. As the creature's hand comes away from the baby she wakes up, takes two hitching breaths, and begins to wail. 

 

The creature reaches over its head and sinks it's claws deep into the boy's shoulders and back. He screams as he is hauled into the air and slammed to the ground. 

His voice is silenced on impact; his silver light, extinguished. 

 

The creature stands over the unconscious boy for a moment, then turns greedily to the baby. It reaches into the crib and the child's cries are cut off. The monster leers down as the baby struggles to breathe, her face and hands turning blue, when a white radiance fills the room. 

 

The parents are in the doorway, the father's hand on the switch by the door, the mother pushing past, both called by the cries of their daughter. 

The creature stumbles backward, screeching in pain, its clawed hands shielding its eyes from the terrible light. The parents rush to the baby's crib, oblivious to the boy struggling to get up and the howling Thing reeling across the room. The boy, now on his feet, throws himself at the creature, wrapping his arms around its waist and driving it back through the black rectangle of the closet.

 The boy falls through darkness, a silver coin thrown down a well, the mother's screams chasing him.

 ***

The hospital's fluorescent lights shine down, scrubbing the hallway clean of shadows; sterilizing it. A man wearing a white coat leaves the room marked ICU #4 and closes the door after him. He leans heavily against the wall beside the door, removes his glasses, and rubs his eyes. 

"Are you all right doctor?" He looks up to find a nurse standing in front of him holding a chart. 

 

"Yes, I'm fine," he says, settling his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "You know how it is. Sometimes these cases get to you." He tries to smile but cant, so he just looks down at his shoes instead. 

 

"I thought the little girl was going to be ok," says the nurse, genuine concern in her voice. 

 

"Oh, she is," he says quickly. "It was a close thing, but she's stable and her parents are with her now." He looks back at the door. "It's just that, I've seen those people before." 

 

He turns back to the nurse, at first unsure, but after a moment he begins, "It was about ten years ago. I had just started my residency here. They came in with the ambulance that brought their infant son. He had stopped breathing in the night. By the time the parents found him he had been without oxygen for too long, I did everything I could, but I wasn't able to save him. He was the first patient I ever lost." 

 

She hesitates, then reaches out and touches his arm. "But you saved this one," she says. She holds his gaze for a moment before walking away to deliver the chart she is carrying. 

 

The doctor turns back to the room and looks in the small window set into the door. The parents are holding their daughter between them, their heads pressed together. He watches as the husband brushes his wife's raven hair away from her forehead and kisses her there. 

Beside them, a little dark haired boy smiles.

Flash Fiction Challenge: The Numbers Game

It's that time again!

Time to huff ether and drive a city bus?

No.

Time to flip my underwear inside out to get the extra day?

No.

Time to shake a baby till it stops crying?

No, it's Friday! Which means time for another terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge. This week the Beardilicious One has asked that we write a 100 word story using only three words chosen from a list of five. The words, chosen by a fusion powered robot of such cognitive power that if you looked directly at its CPU for even a second you would walk away knowing how to speak Japanese, are as follows: Enzyme, Ivy, Bishop, Blister, and Lollipop. I have cleverly embedded three of those words into the following story, I hope you enjoy it.

The End

I was unprepared when the end came. I don't beat myself up about it though. I mean, who prepares for the apocalypse besides tinfoil-hat crazies and the echelon they expect to bring it about? Not that it mattered; it got them anyway.

One hundred thousand people died the first week.

Locked in my lab, I work on a cure. I've isolated the correct enzyme, but my hands won't stop shaking. The veins are black and creeping up my arms like ivy, and I can feel the blisters forming on my eyes. Not much time now. Not for any of us.

Game Think: Dead Island

The same rules apply to my game "reviews" as do my book and movie "reviews". These are merely an articulation of the thoughts and feelings elicited by the game and still require an economy sized salt shaker handy when reading. 

The first time I heard about Dead Island was because a trailer for the game had been released which caused half the people who watched it to shit themselves over how awesome it was. It featured a Tarantino-esque use of disjointed storytelling, detailing the tragic end to one family’s vacation by starting at the beginning and the end, then meeting in the middle. You can watch it here.

Personally, I thought it was great. I mean, if they could tell such an effective story in a three minute trailer, think of what they could do with a full length game. But, for every Yin there must be a Yang, and this particular Yang consisted of another group of people shitting themselves, but it wasn’t joy that voided their bowels, it was outrage. You see, the trailer recounts how a young girl is bitten, infected, zombified, and subsequently hurled out of a fifth floor hotel window by her own father. Which is pretty brutal stuff. Awesome, but brutal.

This opened a can of worms, who then all shouted in unison, “How can you kill a child in a game? That’s disgusting!” To which I replied, “With a mouse click of cour—holy shit talking worms!” I’m going to be honest here; if it’s a zombie I’m killing it. No questions asked. At that point physical maturity ceases to matter. Confronted with the moral conundrum of a zombie fetus, I reach for the coat hanger. Every. Time.

So, now that we’ve established that I am a horrible human being (who is going to hell), let’s talk about the gameplay shall we?

Let’s get a couple things out of the way right up front:

1) If you were expecting a L4D clone, you will be disappointed.

2) If you were expecting a traditional FPS, you will be disappointed.

Dead Island is neither of these things. It’s more of an amalgamation of an FPS, RPG, and Adventure game. Kinda like if Diablo roofied L4D’s drink and then invited Dead Rising, GTA, and Just Cause 2 over for some sweet DVDA action.

You have four character classes to choose from: a throwing weapons expert, an edged weapons expert, a firearms expert, and a blunt weapons expert. Each gives you an advantage with the weapons they are experienced with—obviously—and their skill tree provides ways to further increase those advantages as your character levels. I have only played with Xian, the knife expert, and she has a skill tree specific to edged weapons. I assume that each character’s skill tree is set up to increase their skill level with their inherent weapon expertise.

After an initial cut scene and a prologue adventure that serves as a tutorial, you finally get into the real meat of the game. It quickly becomes apparent that in Dead Island “FPS” stands for “First Person Swinger” as the game is heavily dependent on melee attacks. I am currently on the fourth mission and I still haven’t seen a gun.

Weapons are found and, at least in the beginning, wear out rather quickly. You might be lucky to get through ten or so zombies before your boat oar or metal pipe runs out of “durability” and becomes useless. This is something you need to keep an eye on as once the durability meter reaches zero you will still be able to hit enemies with the weapon, but it won’t do any damage. I learned this the hard way after beating on a zombie with a pipe for half an hour before I realized the reason it wasn’t dying was because my weapon was used up. 

The RPG elements consist mainly of XP generated from kills and completed quests, which level you up, and in turn earn you skill points to spend upgrading your character. The skill tree has three branches: one focuses on a berserker style attack which you can unleash once your “rage” meter is full, another focuses on increasing your skills with the type of character you have chosen (edged, throwing, blunt, etc…), and the last focuses on defensive skills such as increasing the effectiveness of med packs and the like.

I managed to get a few hours of play in last night before my nightly-vodka-induced-coma (otherwise known as “sleep”) set in, and I admit to having quite a bit of fun. The graphics are good, not breathtaking, but not Shelley Duvall ugly either. The quest system works, as far as I can tell, and I am looking forward to putting my first frankenweapon together. All I need is the circular saw blade to finish my “Ripper”, which was a bonus for pre-order.

 

I did, however, run into two glitches—I think—in my first two hours of playing. At one point my flashlight stopped working. I then clipped through the floor of the map and fell deep into the netherworld where, presumably, Satan’s horned cock was waiting for me (I quickly ctrl+alt+del’ed, as I have no desire to preview the violation waiting for me upon my inevitable post-mortem descent into Hell).

The other—which I’m not sure was a glitch, but seriously pissed me off—happened when I tried to play a random coop. Every so often—if you set your game to “internet”—you will receive a message saying “HornyPedo is near your part in the story. Press ‘J’ to join their game.” After about the fifth time, I figured, what the hell, and tried to join a random person that popped up. The result was, the connection never got made, and when I got back to my game everything in my inventory was gone, including all of my money! The game had saved my position, but not my stuff, which kinda made me say a whole lot of bad words all at once in a high octave. I quickly recovered though, and continued on my merry zombie-bashing way (but haven’t clicked the dreaded “J” button since).

All in all, I enjoyed my first foray into the tropical nightmare of Dead Island, and am champing—look it up—at the bit to get back to questing all over the resort’s shady beaches; where the ocean froths red from all the spilled tourist blood. I have yet to kill any zombie-children, but more disturbing than that, I have learned that when attacked by a zombie in a bikini, I will totally check out its tits before I cave its skull in with a tire iron.

Hell, and the mighty horned cock of Satan, wait for me.

Flash Fiction Challenge: The Sub-Genre Tango

It's a new week, which means a new Terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge. This week we were to choose from a list of genres provided by The Bearded One and mash em up into a story, 1000 words or less . There were some pretty out-there genres on the list (I'm looking at you Femslash), so I picked the two that I didn't need to google and just went for it. Here is my entry @ 998 words, a Sword & Sorcery Black Comedy (I hope).

To Slay A Dragon 

“We are forever in your debt.” The fat little village elder pumped Shadaar's hand vigorously.

“Nonsense,” Shadaar produced his warmest smile. “It is our solemn duty to rid good folk such as yourselves of a scourge like that dragon.” Shadaar extricated his hand from the elder's grip. “And as much as my companion and I have enjoyed our stay in your wonderful village, I am afraid it is time for us to move on.”

“'Tis unfortunate,” the elder leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper. “Gretchen has taken quite a shine to ye.”

Shadaar looked past the little man to where his wart-faced troll of a daughter stood watching them talk. She twisted her face into what Shadaar could only assume was meant to be a seductive smile and twiddled her fingers at him.

“A rare beauty she is,” he said repressing a shudder. “Alas, the life of a dragon slayer does not allow for romance.” Gretchen's tongue slid out of her mouth like a slug and ran along her hairy upper lip. Shadaar felt his gorge rise and said, “Although at times like these one does feel some regret.”

“I suppose yer right,” the elder said, reaching beneath his cloak. “Still, here is something I can give ye.” He produced a leather purse and handed it to Shadaar.

“Thank you,” Shadaar said, taking the purse and making it disappear within the folds of his robes. “Your generous donation will allow us to make it to the next village that needs our help. Farewell.” Making a slight bow to the elder, Shadaar turned on his heel and strode to the edge of the village where Gareth stood, leaning on his battleaxe.

“Got it,” Shadaar said as he passed.

Gareth smiled behind his great red beard, shouldered his axe, and fell into step beside his partner.

 #

“Fifty lousy sovereigns!” Shadaar smacked the wooden tabletop, the sound of his palm striking the wood was flat in the noisy inn. “We slay a dragon for them and the best they can do is fifty sovereigns?”

“It's not like that's all they offered,” Gareth grinned over his tankard of ale.

Shadaar glared at him.

“She would have made a fine wife,” he said, his grin splitting his bushy beard in two. “Just think, you could have settled down and started a farm. At night she could warm your bed, and in the morning you could hitch her up to the plow.” Gareth laughed heartily at his own jest, and then raised the tankard to his lips for a drink. Shadaar twitched his index finger and the tankard twisted in Gareth's grasp spilling ale into his beard and down the front of his leather breastplate.

“Hey!” Gareth said, setting the tankard down and grabbing a handful of beard to wring it out. “So what if we only got fifty sovereigns? It's not like the dragon was real, we were in no danger.”

“Do know you what it costs to conjure a golem that size?” Shadaar gestured with his right hand and all of the spilled ale drew itself from Gareth's beard, gathered into a foaming sphere above the table, and fell back into the tankard with a splash. “Just the herbs alone are worth more than that. Not to mention the time and effort we put into making the villagers believe the dragon was real in the first place.”

Gareth picked up the tankard, glanced inside, shrugged, and took a drink.

“Besides,” Shadaar continued. “We get caught doing this and sooner or later a lord is going to have our heads. I don't know about you, but I value my neck at a lot more than fifty sovereigns.”

“Bah, I fear no lord.” Gareth said, setting his tankard down and shifting in his seat. “Besides, no one will ever figure it out. This scheme is foolproof.”

“Excuse me.”

Shadaar and Gareth both looked up to see a young man with a bowl cut, wearing yellow and black livery, standing at their table.

“My lord seeks an audience with the men responsible for slaying the dragon at Ashkleford.”

Shadaar turned a sober look on Gareth, “Must you always tempt fate so?”

Returning his gaze to the liveried young man Shadaar said, “Please tell your lord that we are very weary from battle—“

Gareth let out an exaggerated yawn. “Very weary,” he said, earning him a pointed look from his partner.

“And must humbly decline his invitation.” Shadaar finished.

The young man's smile was accompanied by the sound of scraping steel as swords were bared behind them. “Oh,” he said. “This isn't a request.”

They looked around to see a dozen soldiers, all in yellow and black cloaks, pointing a dozen swords at them. Shadaar turned back to the young man and clapped his hands together. “I'm suddenly feeling invigorated. What say you? Shall we meet with your lord now?”

They followed the liveried young man outside the inn, the soldiers filing out behind them, to find a coach waiting. It was a magnificent white egg the size of a small boulder. Its surface was covered in intricate carvings depicting scenes of battle, landscapes, and castles. The egg rested on a base of highly polished wood supported by wheels made of what looked to be ivory. Hitched to the front were four enormous stallions. The inside was just as ornate as the outside; a nest of velvet cushions the color of blood. Shadaar and Gareth climbed inside the padded luxury of the coach and the young man closed the door.

Shadaar leaned out the window before the young man could walk away and asked, “Boy, what does your lord want with us anyway?”

The young man turned back and said, “Why, to slay a dragon of course.”

200 Word Writing Challenge: The Muse

I am part of a writers group that hosts a monthly writing challenge. This month the challenge is to write about your muse. More specifically: "Write - in 200 words or less - a description of your literary muse, real or imagined. What is your relationship? What does your muse look like?" Here was my entry:

 “The page is still blank.”

“Thank you for that observation, I was wondering why there weren't words there.”

“Someone is in a mood today.”

“You're late.”

“I am not bound by your mortal schedule. I arrive when I arrive.”

“Tell me about it. I've been staring at this blank page for over an hour waiting for you to show up.”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I can't arrive until you are ready to receive me?”

“Oh, so it's my fault now? You know, I never have this kind of trouble with Inspiration.”

“Inspiration, pfah. He is fickle. All style and no substance. Don't be so easily seduced by his charms, he never finishes what he starts.”

“Do you think it would be possible for us to get started? Unlike you, I've been here for a while.”

“You test my patience child. Still, despite your attitude, I am inclined to indulge you. What are we writing about?”

“Our relationship, coincidentally.”

“Really? Well then, I have just the thing. Take this down, 'The page is still blank'.”

Flash Fiction: Must Love Guns

As I have mentioned before, Chuck Wendig has a must-read blog over at www.terribleminds.com and hosts a flash fiction challenge every Friday (Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friiiday). This week, the subject is guns. I decided to throw my revolver into the ring, and knocked a story out today. It's a bit over the 1000 word limit, but I just couldn't shave any more off and still be satisfied with the story. So, while I'm out of the running for the prize, I am still going to submit it since I would like to get some feedback from the regulars who read Chuck's blog. Now, without further ado, here is my submission:

Grace Under Fire

Devereaux's men came at night. Grace was in the kitchen chopping vegetables when her husband, Phillip, went to answer the knock at the door. She had just finished the onions and was halfway through a bunch of carrots when she felt a presence behind her; an almost imperceptible displacement of air picked up by the hairs on the back of her neck that immediately sent her flesh crawling across her shoulders and down her arms.

Grace turned to find a man, wearing an ill fitting suit and a shark’s grin, eyeing her up and down the way one might admire a fine sports car they couldn’t afford. Covetous, the thought flashed across her mind, unbidden. That’s the perfect word to describe the look on his face, covetous. But as she turned, his expression changed into something more sinister and dangerous, deadly even.

“Now, now,” he said, opening the jacket of his suit to show the gun beneath. “I don’t think you’re gonna need that.”

Grace looked down and saw that she was still clutching the butcher knife, holding it out in an unconscious warding off gesture. She didn’t put it down.

“Put the knife down,” he said, drawing the gun and leveling it at her. “Or I’ll have to put a bullet in that sweet ass of yours.”

Grace met the killer’s gaze, and after a moment turned and set the knife on the counter next to the beginnings of the meal she now knew would never be eaten.  He used his gun to motion toward the door and followed her into the living room.

Two other suited goons—one with dark hair and a goatee, the other his exact opposite; blond and baby-faced—were holding Phillip at gunpoint. He was sitting on the couch, his hands duct taped in front of him, eyes wide with terror.

“Grace,” he started to get up, but Baby-face backhanded him with his gun sending Phillip sprawling back onto the couch clutching his bleeding cheek.

Goatee pressed the muzzle of his gun to Phillip's head. “I told you not to fucking move. Next time, I empty this thing into your skull, understand?”  

Phillip nodded his assent.

“Good,” Goatee said. “Now, let’s talk about where the money is.”

“I don’t know anything about any money,” Phillip said, still clutching his bleeding face. “I don’t even know who you people are!” He was practically sobbing.

Goatee slapped Phillip on the uninjured side of his face, hard. “Don’t fuck with me asshole! Four of Mr. Devereaux’s couriers have been hit in the past month, all dead, all missing their bags. After the second hit we started marking the bills, I’ll give you one guess where that lead us. Now tell me, where’s the fucking money!”

Phillip recoiled from that last outburst as if he had been slapped again. “I told you, I don’t know anything about any money,” he squealed, tears welling up and rolling down his cheeks. The sight of those tears seemed to increase goatee’s rage by an order of magnitude.

He leaned in, pressed the muzzle of his gun to Phillip’s head again, and said, “Listen to me you little shit, I don’t know how a sniveling worm like you offed one, much less four, of Mr. Deveraux’s couriers, but I’m going to give you to the count of three to tell me where the money is, or I’m going to make that hot little piece of ass over there a widow right before me and the boys run a train on her. I swear to fucking God. One!”

“I don’t know anything about your money!”

“Two.”

“Please, I’m not lying. I don’t even know who this Devereaux is!”

“Three.”

“No don’t! I’m telling you, you’ve got the wro—“

Goatee’s gun coughed once and the contents of Phillip’s head sprayed out, splatter-painting the couch and walls with brains and bits of skull.

Grace stood and watched this scene unfold, Shark-grin’s gun pressed into the small of her back, without moving or saying a word. Goatee turned to Baby-face, “Toss the house. Find out where he stashed the money.”

Baby-face nodded and walked out. A second later, Grace heard the crash of their—My, she thought, My is the right word now that Phillip is dead—possessions  being tossed about as Baby-face began searching for his boss’ stolen money.

Goatee turned to Shark-grin, “Warm her up for us, I’m gonna go call Mr. Devereaux.” He produced a cell phone from one of his pockets and left the room.

Shark-grin shoved Grace face-first into the wall of the living room and pressed his gun to her temple. She could feel his erection as he rubbed against her. He reached around and squeezed her breast. “You’re a real sweet piece of meat,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m gonna make you bleed.” He started to take his pants off, and Grace sensed his attention waver while he fumbled with his belt.

She moved, fast.

Grace rammed her hips back at the same time she reached up and grabbed the gun against her head, twisting it out of his grasp. She spun around with the ease of a dancer, or expert martial-artist, used one hand to grab Shark-grin’s wrist, twisted it up behind his back, and slammed him up against the wall. Their positions reversed, she pressed the gun under the shelf of his jaw and said, “I think you’ll be the one bleeding today asshole,” and pulled the trigger. His brains erupted from the top of his head and fell in a warm rain.

Baby-face came running from the other room, gun in hand, and Grace put two into his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground. Grace crossed the room and pressed herself against the wall next to the living room doorway.

“What the fuck is going on in there!” Goatee ran into the room and stopped when he saw the bodies of his partners. Grace put a bullet into the back of his head.

Grace stood over Phillip’s body. She had given him the money, of course. A stupid mistake, it never occurred to her that the bills had been marked. He had wanted a new set of golf clubs, and she could never deny him anything. He was dead because of her.

She went to the kitchen and pulled up the floorboards in the pantry, removing the bags of money she had stashed there. Then she lit a candle, set it on the kitchen table, and turned all the knobs for the stove on high without lighting them.

She was half a mile away when the fireball lit up the night sky. She watched it in her rear-view mirror and said a soft prayer for Phillip. She drove into the night, her thoughts dominated by a single word.

 Devereaux.

Bitchfest: How three sentences ruined my day

I've been back and forth about this about a thousand times, but after half a bottle of port my inhibitions have been lowered sufficiently for me to do something I will most definitely regret later.

I'm going to whine like a bitch.

Here's the deal. Chuck Wendig has a wonderfully profane blog—www.terribleminds.com—and I lurk over there regularly. He occasionally hosts a writing contest, giving out copies of his ebooks as prizes, but I've always been too much of a pussy to enter. Today I figured I would give it a try.

The rules were simple: Write a story with a beginning, middle, and end in only three sentences. The only catch, it must be a story. No vignettes.

Determined to take a shot at this contest, I rolled up my sleeves and busted out what I thought was a decent entry. It wasn't terribly original, but it adhered to the rules, and I was happy with it. I posted it into the comments section and waited patiently for Mr. Wendig to make a decision.

Here is what I submitted:

Jake drove like a maniac, taking corners too fast and weaving in and out of traffic, desperate to get to the wedding before it was too late. He burst through the doors of the chapel to find it empty; rose petals and rice covering the floor, the echoes of his entrance fading as he stared at the deserted pews. Jake turned and trudged back to his car as hot tears fell, destined to forever hold his peace.

Not too shabby. Like I said, not terribly original, but it had a nice arc, and it incorporated a nifty play on the last part of a traditional marriage ceremony. I didn't expect it to win—I had already read a bunch of the entries and I knew mine wasn't going to be in the running for the prize. As a matter of fact, the two that were my favorites ended up being the winner and one of the top four.

“So whats the problem,” you ask? Sit down, dear friend, and let me crybaby all over that question.

Prior to announcing the winner, Mr. Wendig berated everyone for making his job so difficult and posted a list of entries that he “really loved”. Nestled in the middle of the list was this entry:

The bad men came and took Pa away. They said they’d bring him right back. They didn’t, so now I’m man of the house.

Really? Really?!

Look, I know this is entirely subjective, and Mr. Wendig is entitled to love any damn thing his bearded heart desires, but I just can't wrap my head around this one. No disrespect to the author, but that shit ain't a story. It's something the retarded son of a ranch hand might say when the Sheriff came 'round to find out what happened to Curly Slim, but a story? I don't think so.

At first I thought what bothered me was that Chuck singled out an entry as exceptional, while to me it didn't even meet the criteria. But after awhile I realized what my problem really was: What if I don't know good writing when I see it?! I mean, I think I know good writing, but I fully admit to being a foal—still slick from birth and barely able to stand on my own wobbly legs—while Mr. Wendig is a goddamn racing stallion. Who the fuck am I to question one who has achieved so much with their writing when I haven't finished more than a short story?

So, I read it again.

And again.

And again.

I turned my monitor upside down, squinted one eye, and slaughtered a lamb in a desperate attempt to see what I was missing. No dice. I still don't get it.

I have come to the conclusion that maybe I just don't know enough to be able to appreciate it. Like a beer drinker swishing around a mouthful of late bottled vintage and declaring, “Tastes like wine,” perhaps I just haven't developed the palate necessary to discern why this entry rated so high on Mr. Wendig's literary scale.

Or maybe I just need to douche the sand out of my vag.

Movie Think: Cowboys and Aliens

The same rules apply to my movie "reviews" as do my book "reviews". These are merely an articulation of the thoughts and feelings elicited by the movie and still require an economy sized salt shaker handy when reading.

Hollywood, an ever-expanding vortex of suck, has not backed down in their assault on originality and continues to remake, reboot, and rehash the same six movies in an endless loop of insults to our intelligence. It has gotten to the point where I predict—with the confidence of one blessed with the gift of cynical clairvoyance—that I will be sitting in a darkened theater in the very near future, watching a trailer for the gritty reboot of the movie I just paid to see.

This frightening vision woke me from my vodka induced coma—which we will heretofore refer to as “sleep”—curled in my sweat-soaked sheets, with only the words of my mother to give me comfort. “The future is not written. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.” And as I lay there, terror-sweat drying on my brow, I thought to myself, “Sarah Connor is my mom?!”

Which should explain why, ever since I heard about the movie Cowboys and Aliens I’ve wanted to see it. I was excited because we were going to get something new, something that had potential and wasn’t a re-remake or a sequel-equel. It had Daniel Craig, who kicked ass as James Bond, it had Harrison Ford, who kicked ass as Han Solo and the motherfucking president, it was backed by Stephen Spielberg, who is directly responsible for some of the best movies of all time, and it had cowboys fighting fucking aliens.

My excitement was tempered however, because Mr. Ford and Mr. Spielberg are also partially responsible for the recent late term abortion known as “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull”. They get a pass though, because I lay most of the blame for that steaming shitpile on George Lucas since, at that time, he was the only one who had shown a propensity for ruining every awesome story he came in contact with. He's like King Midas if everything King Midas touched turned into an inept screenplay carved into a dog turd.

So, blinders firmly in place, I marched off to see Cowboys and Aliens at my local Muvico—which is a pretty badass theater, and if there isn't one in your town you have my pity—with a grim determination to like this movie resting on my shoulders like a sacred mantle of nerd denial. It wasn't enough.

Overall the movie suffers because the writer or director wanted us to care about the characters. I know that might sound odd, but without proper development you can want me to care about the characters until they make an Arrested Development movie and I still won't give a fuck about them. You need to give me a reason to give a shit beyond “she made googly eyes at the protagonist” if you want me to care when something bad happens.

This is the main problem I have with movies like this. There is no buildup of tension. I have noticed that, for some reason (most likely the steady declination of the average moviegoer's IQ), a lot of modern movies have achieved such a level of ADD that they can't foreshadow anything beyond a microsecond. So you end up with scenes like this 90 minutes into the movie:

Heroine: “Where did you get that scar?”

Protagonist: “I got it defeating a band of rabid flamingos. It wasn't pretty, and I don't like to talk abou—“

*Someone bursts into the room*

Someone: “A band of rabid flamingos is attacking the town!”

Also, it's time to do away with the obvious jump-scare. This shit is rampant. It's equivalent to those emails you couldn't escape a few years ago that had you concentrate on some bullshit maze only to have a picture of Regan in full-on pea soup mode pop up when you “least expect it”. By the fiftieth time I was pretty hip to what was coming, and it's the same with these jump-scares.

The protagonist hides from the monster while it searches around, the violins building to a crescendo. But the monster, unable to find the protagonist, leaves the room. There is a moment of stillness. The violins stop. The protagonist lets out the breath they've been holding, and THE MONSTER JAMS ITS SCREAMING FACE INTO THE CAMERA! Preferably with spittle flying from its teeth (betcha didn't see that one coming did ya?).

In Cowboys and Aliens it happens twice to the same character!

In an attempt to inject something positive into this “review”, I will say that I was pleased with Harrison Ford's performance. His character had a miniscule but discernible arc, and I think he did the absolute best he could with the material he was given. He is still a great actor and I hope to see him working with a better script in the near future.

I give Cowboys and Aliens, starring Han Solo, James Bond, Captain Hadley, Guy Fleegman, and Eli Sunday, two Deus Ex Machinas and half an inexplicable romance.