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Ndamukong Suh's Motor City Message

On Thanksgiving Day it became the stomp felt around the sports world when Ndamukong Suh repeatedly shoved the head of Green Bay Packers’ offensive guard Evan Dietrich-Smith into the turf and then stomped on his arm before walking away after being ejected from the game.

Initially, Suh attempted portraying his actions as being misunderstood, just as he did when he ripped the helmet off of Bengals quarterback Andy Dalton, and just as he did when he drove Bears quarterback Jay Cutler into the ground after the whistle had blown. These stunts led to Suh being internally labeled one of the dirtiest players and biggest trash talkers in the game. Ndamukong was fined for both violations and is now facing multiple game suspensions and potentially mandatory anger management classes for this latest holiday game incident. That is what the NFL needs to do in accordance with their regulations, and many NFL stars such as Hines Ward are offering Suh advice mostly asking him to tone things down, and while in the name of sportsmanship most people are inclined to agree, but for the fans and players of the Detroit Lions perhaps it’s a way of asking other teams “Do you get the message?”

Detroit, Michigan is not a happy place. It is a once prosperous community now burning on the fumes of the Ford industry. A city that was once known as the murder capital of the United States has experienced hardships and misery that are reflected in their sports teams. You have to be tough and thick skinned in order to survive in a place like Detroit. That’s why the Detroit Red Wings are considered one of the greatest franchises in sports history, they have a reputation for being skillful athletes and brutal, violent competitors; and it has brought them multiple championships. No one has asked them to tone things down.

Ndamukong Suh wants to be seen as a friendly big man. It helps his marketability, but for those that have played with and against him they all know that he is far from a gentle giant. He is a ruthless, cutthroat opponent. Most of his college teammates in Nebraska didn’t even like him, but he is playing in a franchise for a city that knows all about grinding the day away, never taking time off for the sake of luxury. Detroit is a blue collar city with blue collar people that don’t know the meaning of the word luxury and experience very little in the ways of compassion, so why shouldn’t they have a player and a team that reflects these things.

The Detroit Lions were winless only three years ago and are now trying to make a run at the playoffs. When Suh was ejected from the game after his unsportsmanlike conduct, there were no coaches, no players chastising him on the sidelines; maybe they did in the locker room, but normally they don’t wait that long. If you’ve done a serious wrong you’re likely to get an earful on the sidelines right then and there. So maybe there are some folks that do not object to his behavior, but they do prefer that he channels that anger into his gameplay, like fellow wide receiver Calvin Johnson, instead of becoming a grid iron terrorist.

At first Ndamukong created an unbelievable excuse for his actions against Dietrich-Smith, saying he lost his balance, and only on Saturday did he finally admit that his actions were over the line, but I’m not sure if the city of Detroit cares about him going over the line. They care about winning, but more importantly no one’s laughing at them anymore. So, hopefully for Ndamukong Suh and the opponents of the Detroit Lions – message received.

The Last Circus - Movie Review

The Last Circus shows us the tale of a man named Javier (Carlos Areces) who has chosen to follow in his father’s footsteps of being a circus clown. Unfortunately, Javier has never been a funny character or understood humor, not even as a child, so he is forced to play the daunting role of Sad Clown.

After joining a small-time circus, the shy Javier begins to grow affectios for the circus’ acrobat Natalia (Carolina Bang), but Natalia, an adrenaline junky, is already head over heels in love and lust with the circus’ prime performer and moneymaker Sergio (Antonio de la Torre) who is Happy Clown. Sergio is a vicious alcoholic who reminds everyone that he rules the circus and when he is not busy abusing other circus members, or beating Natalia, he terrorizes Javier both in character and in reality at every turn.

Javier attempts to rescue Natalia from Sergio’s violent ways which enrages the cretin even further, and soon Sergio’s spiteful actions unleash a hidden vileness inside Javier that he has never known, setting both clowns on a blood filled collision that puts not only Natalia in danger but some of Spain’s most important political figures thanks to the legacy of Javier’s father, a former Happy Clown and militant butcher of National Soldiers over 30 years ago.

The Last Circus is a violently twisted, passionate film. The circus life and the mentality of its compatriots are in full demented effect throughout the movie. They do not think the way most people do because they do not live the lives most people do. All of the dementia and carnality is created and captured eloquently by writer/director Alex de la Iglesia (The Oxford Murders) with grim cinematography reflecting the mood of the story and a melodious, spiritual soundtrack that will haunt the viewer long through the night.

Some viewers might not understand the brand of humor in The Last Circus, which is as dark as the subject matter, but that is a regular staple of Alex de la Iglesia’s movies. The performances were well executed by the whole cast but Antonio de la Torre shines through it all as the incomparable, dastardly Sergio.

The movie is well paced as new discoveries and adventures are being made around ever turn, but as the story progresses it becomes difficult to know who to root for as reasoning and logic are manipulated by the mental state of these characters, but once the movie is done you will ask yourself “What the hell did I just see?” and if you’re mind can handle it, you may just sit back for a repeat viewing, but I would recommend a mental breather. There is no movie like this yet this year or forthcoming that I am aware of, and leave it to Spain to have the brevity to deliver a film of this high quality insanity. No one in America has the nerve or the talent to pull off something like this, and even if they did, no North American studio would ever go near it.

The Cleansing Trail

A story I thought up during my morning jog....

Greg stepped outside at four-thirty that morning, the temperature was much lower than the meteorologist with firm breasts, heavy eyeshadow, and gaping teeth had previously predicted, which made Greg even more excited for the upcoming eight mile jog.

Feeling blessed to be currently living directly across the city’s modified river canal, it would be a crime for someone in Greg’s peak physical condition not to take advantage of the two mile radius encircling the naturally discolored water and all the feisty creatures dwelling within and around it.

Greg felt blessed lately. His short stay in county prison reassured his meaningful value on life and the honorable code of ethics taught to him by his father. Everyday Greg awoke behind his cell door he carried a backbreaking weight of shame. His father would have believed he had failed as a father and as a man had he lived to see Greg under these circumstances and felt the same about Greg.. What made things worse was that Greg felt right at home in those police state conditions, even made several friendly associates that helped him cope with prison life, but in his heart Greg was not a prisoner; he could never succumb to such a mundane, overly supervised lifestyle. He needed fresh air, transcending daylight, and the ability to make simple decisions without asking for permission.

As he walked across the street to Lincoln’s Trail entryway made of vermillion colored dirt, outlined by side-standing bricks, which reminded Greg of the yellow brick road from The Wizard of Oz as green bushes and fully loaded Fichus trees cascaded the open field peripheral to either side of the bright dirt and rocky trail. By the time the dirt met the parading trail of pavement ensconcing the water, Greg had programmed his mp3 player to his wickedly motivational workout mix comprised of an eclectic variety of upbeat tunes ranging from groovy and soulful to hate-filled and speedy. Once his jams were set, he stuffed the mp3 player in the left pocket of his dark gray hoodie.

At such an ungodly early hour, Greg expected to be the only patron using the trail, but growing up in the barrios he had learned to always be prepared. Strapped around his waist was a knife holster loaded with his ten inch survival knife given to him by his grandfather when Greg was a boy. No one in his family ever went hunting, but Grandfather knew to always carry the right tools around with you, and his whole family were well aware what kind of socially cloaked town they lived in and just because they weren’t hunters didn’t mean they were not ever going to be hunted. The rules changed everyday. Greg began his jog.

He turned left where the Solstice Street met the river and left again shortly after, following the curved path, passing by fishing docks to his left and swing sets, slides, and sandboxes to his right; park benches were spread out all along the trail.

In the center of his right there was a basketball course adjacent to a shaded rest stop that could seat at least two dozen people. A weather worn canopy shaded the pavement laced quarters while wired fencing shielded any potential users from wildly flung basketballs. Across the street from all of that was El Estrella, the rough barrio where both of his grandparents had spent their own teenage years and where Greg visited his great grandmother Nana every weekend as a child before any of these neighborly amusements ever existed at Lincoln’s Trail – before Lincoln’s Trail itself even existed.

The kind of people that lived there now were the kind of people that Greg had spent his whole life walking around while empathizing with; the kind of people he spent six months with in county jail. They were the new generation of self-entitled, unethical thug wannabes. They gave real thugs a bad name. They were too cowardice to be real criminals and too stupid to be anything else. They were the lost generation that was becoming the utterly hopeless nation, thinking that the government’s welfare checks and Medicaid offerings equaled a king’s ransom and a low brow morality.

Greg hated them, but he knew how to use them.They begged to be used, goaded, and extinguished.

In fact, in a nerve alerting moment, about seventy feet before Greg turned left on Colon Street; Greg noticed one of El Estrella’s newly lost souls walking along the sidewalk. Greg startled the young man who thought he was the only one walking the park at this hour, and instead of keeping straight along the sidewalk, the wannabe thug dressed in a white jacket, black baggy, butt-sagging shorts with a matching black shirt, shoes, and beanie decided to step on to the pavement trail and pretend to stare out at the river in the chilly morning moonlight. This made Greg nervous, but from the way the wannabe stiffened his posture and tried being nonchalant with his purposeless business; Greg noticed the wannabe’s nervousness as well and kept on jogging.

Returning to Solstice Street, Greg spotted his usual, anonymous morning compatriot – an older gentleman who walked only on El Estrella’s side of the trail. The first three weeks that Greg had jogged around Lincoln’s Trail, the old man assisted himself with a cane. He would politely wave at Greg either as a gesture of kindness or simply letting Greg know, “I see you,” but knowing the neighborhood and the culture, Greg interpreted it as an act of kindness. It was the same kind of gesture his grandfather made to every person that walked past his house when he would sit on his front porch and absorb the scenery, appreciating life and all the little things that made life matter to him.

These last three weeks, the old man had forgone the use of his cane. Greg was proud of him.

When Greg made the left on to Solstice, he witnessed a new arrival to the early morning exercise group. Another old gentleman whose body looked haggard in comparison to the man who used to use a cane had just embarked on his exercise walk with a hunched over torso and rickety knees that made his steps seem painful, but there he was, pushing his frail body along in the morning’s cold darkness. After passing the physically delicate man on the trail, Greg continued on and noticed that Wannabe had moved over to the canopied eatery area next to the basketball court. He was sitting down; his torso slumped over the table top with his beanie-covered-head lying flat on its side.

Fucking waste.

Greg continued left around the corner of Colon with his mind still on the worthless waste of flesh and oxygen housing itself beneath the canopy.

Even in prison, there were wannabes that learned how pathetic they had made their lives; though many of the wannabes, it wasn’t completely their fault. They had been raised by neglectful teenage parents to rely on the government and other hard working folks to keep their greedy pockets full and their gold-toothed mouths fed. The more Greg thought about it, the quicker his pace increased.

Another thing he learned in county was anger management; how to control his temper when under the most infuriating circumstances. One bad move landed you in the hole, another one landed you in the infirmary. 

When he made his third turn at Solstice Street, Greg noticed that the old man that formerly used a cane was just passing by the basketball court as Wannabe was still loitering under the canopy. Meanwhile, the fragile old man was beginning his first trek down the other side of the trail.

It was with this fortunate timing that Greg slowed down to a walk, paused his mp3 player, and took out his earbuds. Wannabe never heard his footsteps or the unsheathing of his survival knife. The dumb bastard never even had time to lift his head from the tabletop before Greg slammed the ten-inch dagger through the pathetic slacker’s neck, straight through the wooden table’s surface. Unable to scream and too terrified to move, Wannabe’s blood dashed across the table’s surface. Greg could hear it pouring off the edge down to the concrete. He adjusted his stance so he could maintain pressure while avoiding contact with the blood. He twisted the blade inside Wannabe’s neck to ensure a quicker and slightly more painful death.

When Wannabe’s body stopped completely moving, Greg checked for a pulse (again, avoiding any bloody contact). The stars were bright enough to allow Greg to look into Wannabe’s eyes. They were totally devoid of life, not that there was much life to begin with. This trail was for people that embraced life.

Greg yanked his blade from the fresh corpse’s neck feeling relieved - one less societal leech; one less waste of flesh. He swiped the blood from his knife off on a clean portion of the corpse’s blood soaked jacket, checked for any signs of new walkers or runners, and when he saw none he completed one more turn at Colon and retreated back to the vermillion dirt road feeling rejuvenated and excited for the blessing that was a brand new day.

Equinox - Movie Review

Four college friends venture into the woods to make a day out of helping their geography professor when they stumble upon a mystic tome with ties to a parallel dimension within the forest whose creatures and spirits have invaded our own world in search of the tome. David (Edward Connell) is the sole survivor of the group and while being monitored in a psychiatric ward, he assists a local detective by telling him the story as the movie progresses through a series of flashbacks, but the tales of demonic creatures and invisible castles are too farfetched for the officer and the psychologist to believe.

Equinox is a movie that I have had on my must-see list for the longest time. I knew how terrible the acting and special effects were going to be when I saw it, but it’s one of those horrible classics that one must see for themselves to truly appreciate not only the horridness but also the effort to do something epic on a miniscule scale.  

The acting is terrible by everyone involved, and with the handful of fight scenes and action sequences it’s amazing how everyone maintains such prim and proper attire. The creatures that the quartet encounters are the homeless man’s Ray Harryhausen concoctions. There’s an undecipherable jumble of clay that looks like it came out of a terrible Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer meets The Kraken from Clash of the Titans and a Satan-like winged demon that could have fit right along in Davey & Goliath Go to Hell. The one shining lucifer of hope is the leopard clad toga wearing Incredible Hulk gorilla, which was a live action creation using an actor, a heck of a lot of makeup, and what looks like a shredded car seat cover.

I enjoyed Equinox for its ambition as well as its cheese. There are several ideas and scenes that lead me to speculate that this film may have had a hand in inspiring Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead, so if you need a good laugh or are just in the mood for something a bit off kilter, Equinox is a fun watch and should not be taken seriously at all.

The Iron Rose (La Rose de fer) - Movie Review

Two exciting young lovers out for a walk decide to add more stimulation to their flamboyant lives by taking a stroll through the local cemetery of their French village where they are hoping to find a lonely area for some passionate alone time.

While exploring the eerily scintillating side of life underground near a tomb, they lose track of time and as they wander around the cemetery they realize that they cannot find their way out. They end up being locked inside the graveyard; and as the night creeps over them, their senses become infected by the morbid atmosphere. Their fears become manipulated by the cemetery and soon their love turns into suspicion, and then into a game of survival.

 The Iron Rose (La Rose de fer) is not outright a horror movie. It is gothic artwork expressed through film. A horror movie purist is likely to discard this movie after the first forty-five minutes or so because, while the tension is keenly expressed and detailed, the fact that the movie is made mostly of two cast members will leave body count enthusiasts disappointed.

The artwork, however, is captured excellently on camera through director Jean Rollin’s eyes. Rollin is known more for the sleazier horror offerings such as The Nude Vampire, The Living Dead Girl, and fifty other films with The Iron Rose being regarded as one of his most serious efforts. The train scene in the beginning is a beautiful, engaging piece of cinematography that would equal the finest paintings of the modern era and he uses all separate quarters of the cemetery to their fullest with a dancing routine around staked crucifixes and a countless row of plain tombstones signifying a hopeless situation.

Francoise Pascal and Pierre Dupont (aka Hugues Quester) play the paranoid couple. Their acting isn’t much to root about. They even provide some unprovoked laughter at times as they struggle with set pieces as well as each other. Francoise Pascal’s beauty is in full effect throughout the movie, particularly during her stylishly nude monologue on the beach. Her beauty is truly mesmerizing.

The Iron Rose is not a typical horror film. If you and your significant other are both movie buffs, this might actually make for a good date film if you can handle subtitles as the entire movie is in French. It is not a film meant to scare but rather meant to be explored. The limited cast does cause the movie to slow down sometimes too much, but for art lovers the enchanting scenery is worth absorbing.

Undying Message

The steps of the undead waltz penetrated the apartments’ paper-thin walls, from the first floor all the way to the second. A stomp followed by a dragged foot, and as it had every Wednesday for the past three weeks, the creepy rhythm halted at my front door.

Then, the knocking began.

Before, the raps were persistent and tough, like a life altering message was about to be delivered, and considering my reaction the first time I answered the door under these outlandish circumstances, my life was definitely altered forever. This time, however, the raps were slower; the life was being filtered from the remaining depressed spirit. The visitor’s message wasn’t so important anymore.

I raised my head from my science studies, unsure if I should answer the call this time. While I pondered the issue, a second highly assertive set of knocks pounded the door, shaking the entire structure. I felt forced to answer it before any of the neighbors chose to investigate the rude noises.

The locks were quickly undone, the door was opened, and once again there stood Uncle Phillip whom had been buried at Leslie Palms’ Cemetery one month ago. His skin tone was closer to ash, dried and sagging more than last week with well defined holes in his flesh where the subterranean creatures had begun feeding on him.

“Hello, Michael,” he said.

“Hey, Uncle Phil,” My stomach started turning from the pungent odor that seemed to be a few steps behind him. “C’mon in.”

He limped to his favorite section – the sofa in front of the television. His left foot was turned to a ninety degree angle, explaining the dragging noise, but I didn’t want to think about how it became contorted. I did wonder if anyone had seen him tonight or the previous nights, but I had neither read any nor seen any related reports in the news. The navy blue burial suit had tears in it, probably from being snagged and ripped on unnoticed pointy surfaces and scraped against building surfaces.

“What is that smell?” he asked. He could smell his own festering stench? “Are you having tea?” I guess not.

“Yes,” I was officially befuddled. “Would you….care for some?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he politely accepted. Even in death, some of the undead still practice manners and not brain consumption.

We reconvened at the dining table which was just a few steps away from the sofa, as was the kitchen quarter of the apartment, both with a fresh cup of warm Earl Gray in front of us.

“How are you?” asked Phillip. Seeing him in clearer light, I noticed the right side of his face was starting to sag; the muscles in that respective side of his bottom lip could no longer sustain the muscle tissue. He looked like a partially paralyzed stroke victim with its top corner portion of their lip bitten off, revealing teeth at all times.

“Fine,” I answered, though I couldn’t stop leering at his left eye. It looked like part of the retina had detached. It swayed a bit whenever he spoke or moved.

Then, Uncle Phillip asked the same question from the three previous visits. “How’s Sonjya?” He always asked how his wife was. It seemed that the part of his brain that told him he was dead had eroded or been eaten, because I had told him that he was dead and that she was trying to move on with her life. What I had not told him was that she had already moved on. She was dating again. They didn’t have a perfect marriage, and if Uncle Phil hadn’t died first, he would have continued living a lie because their marriage felt like it was over a long time ago to everyone except Phil, I guess.

“She’s fine. She’s – she’s doing just fine. She is coming to terms with the situation, all that’s happened….” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Good,” he said as an earthworm cascaded down his right cheek, poured from underneath his right eyeball. It chewed on his rotting cheek.

“She’s happy,” Whether it was a question or a clarification, I couldn’t tell. I think he just needed to hear it from someone else besides me, even if it was himself.

“Good.”

That was the last night Uncle Phillip visited me. Part of me was disappointed; I enjoyed his company, but I understood that he wasn’t a person anymore, just a hurting soul. The other part of me was thankful because the other tenants and the landlord no longer accosted me with ugly, damning looks in regards to the muddy trails leading from the outside and ending at my front door.

I visited Uncle Phillips grave site after classes were done that day. I could see the ruptured areas from where he had risen from the ground, only now instead of stressed out imprints of hands digging their way out for salvation, flowers were blooming in their place. Uncle Phillip was leaving a new trail, one that recalled the goodness in his life; one that led him to a final sense of personal peace. I hope to leave a trail like that behind some day, but right now I’m planting the seeds that will blossom into what will hopefully be a beautiful, memorable trail of my own.

Goodbye, Uncle Phillip.

Demonic Techno-Warfare

Standing on the rooftop of a building high enough to showcase the landscape of the whole city, I am distracted from the speckled city lights and depressed colors by the sound of police sirens and gunfire. At a street corner blocked from my view I see police lights accompanied by additional gunfire. Soon, three convicts, chained together, roll into my vantage point; one of them writhing in despair – the heaviest one. The other two try dragging him down the abandoned city block but his heavy carcass doesn’t gain them any favor. A second convict is then shot and immobilized. The third fleeing offender is left alone to contemplate what this frightened attempt at a mistrustful freedom is truly worth.

Miguel, the wounded prisoner, is shipped to the nearest hospital for treatment. While in recovery, three flashy individuals enter his hospital room. Two of them appear to be the entourage – a man and a woman, both dressed in black; the woman fashioning a tight dress, the man in a fine leisure suit. The head of this mysterious trio is wearing a black three-piece with a red long-sleeve underneath; his hair black and slicked back to a fine point. All three of them bore the flesh of sun deprived statue.

The main man handled a briefcase which he slammed on the wounded Miguel’s legs, rudely awakening him. Before Miguel could shake the cobwebs from his i.v. drips, the main man established the trio as representatives of a private company hired by Miguel’s father to look out for Miguel’s current best interests. Main Man opened the briefcase, revealing built-in functioning laptop with a hi-def monitor. It played a video recorded by Miguel’s father explaining that if he signed with this organization, all of his medical bills and legal issues would be dealt with and absolved if he were to attend a dinner seminar. Naturally, the morally feisty Miguel agreed and signed his name on the electronic writing pad.

That evening, a fully healed Miguel and I arrive in a cul-de-sac of a slightly upscale neighborhood. We approached one of the less flamboyant homes and awaited our hosts. As we waited, we were soon joined by three men dressed in prideful leather western gear from the tops of their freshly steamed cowboy hats to their shining, horse-kicking boots; thick mustaches sprawled across all of their upper lips with the thinnest one draping the peripherals of his cheeks and lips with a Fu Manchu style.

“Don’t think they’re gonna be servin’ tacos at this shindig, fellas,” said the shorter redneck, directing the discouraging remark towards Miguel and myself. Neither of us responded, which left him a window to add to his racist tirade. “Whatsa matter boys, no speakin’ ze Engless? Well, you know how to wash a dish you’ll do just fine in this place.”

Before I could stab him in the throat with my fountain pen the door opened. We were greeted by Main Man. He welcomed us into the home, delighted we could attend. While his two assistants prepared the seminar he led us to the dining room. The table was sprawled with delectable entrees, foods and fruits of all kinds – turkey, apples, oranges, and dishes filled strawberries and various assortments of nuts, cheeses and crackers. Certainly I had never set eyes on such a delightful smorgasbord, and judging by Miguel’s drooling mouth neither had he. However, the three rednecks saw fit to ruin all pleasantries before any of them could even begin.

“I don’t need no picture show,” spoke the same one that heckled Miguel and I outdoors with his thick, southern country boy accent. “What’re y’all sellin’ here and what’s it gonna cost me and muh buddies, because, frankly, this is all a little too fruity for us. So, what’s the deal?”

“The deal,” said Main Man through snow-colored lips and increasingly infuriated black eyes, “is that I do not like rude people, sir. And ever since your arrival, you have proven to be anything but.”

While the four men stared one another down in a game of commercial cat and mouse, from down the hall of red carpet and red walls approached a staggering figure untouched by any light. It moved as though a sordid will overpowered its broken legs as it stomped and slid its way towards us.

What were once three rednecks had mysteriously become two; no one aware of what had happened to the third, but there was no time to ponder as this ghoulish creature continued creeping its way towards out location until finally, it’s true form showed itself in the light. It was an undead duplicate of the Fu Manchu redneck dressed in a gray, tarnished and torn space suit.

“What the fuck?” gasped Fu Manchu Redneck.

“What fuck, indeed,” said Main Man, stepping closer to Fu Manchu Redneck. “Your sexual tastes are no secret here, nor are the methods you practice in acquiring your sweet, sick treasures.”

Main Man swooped into Fu Manchu’s personal space with enough nervous force to knock him into one of the kitchen seats which immediately produced black leather straps, binding his arms behind the chair, spreading his legs wide and in welcoming fashion.

“How bout a taste?” asked Main Man.

Zombie Space Fu Manchu Redneck lunged at Fu Manchu Redneck’s crotch, tearing into his pelvic flesh and proceeded to administer a bloody, gore soaked oral sex session.

Racist Redneck stumbled in shock and horror while Miguel and I looked on, slightly frightened but definitely astounded more than anything else.

“You aren’t without your own faults,” Main Man switched to Racist Redneck.

With a summoning blink, Main Man’s two assistants took hold of Racist Redneck by his arms and in the blink of a hummingbird’s eye, he was transformed into a mutant frog the size of a baby pig, with horns protruding from its head like those of a bull.

“But before we can cook the meal, it needs stuffing.”

With that, Main Man’s assistants each grabbed a hind leg and pulled heavily, splitting the frog’s backside wide open, blood spilling to the neatly polished white tile floor. Main Man dipped his hand into the stuffing bowl and began applying it to the insides of Racist Redneck Frog’s posterior, sampling a bit of bloody stuffing every now and then; even feeding his two assistants a crimson handful.

As this happened, Fu Manchu Redneck achieved his climax from Zombie Space Fu Manchu Redneck’s violent crotch play, and as he ejaculated his head exploded with an uncontrollable volcano of semen erupting from his neck, spilling all over the dinner table and its delicacies.

Miguel and I were devastated. Then, Main Man turned his attention towards us, converting our devastation into outright fear because it was at that moment that we eventually realized we were in the presence of wickedly demonic forces, possibly Satan himself.

“This way,” directed Main Man towards the sliding patio doors. Stepping through them threw us into a different dimension. We were now thousands of feet above land on a castle’s tapestry reaching above storm bearing clouds occasionally flashing lightning and crackling thunder.

Main Man went on this diatribe of how they were gathering the pieces necessary for the annihilation of everything touched by heaven – Earth, space, technology – everything was to be damned, and they needed right minds and bodies for the job. That’s when Main Man grabbed Miguel and tossed him over the ledge, but to no one’s knowledge, Miguel’s form shifted into an albino insect-like creature. It clutched a piece of the tapestry’s brick and swung to safety, securing itself to the side of the tapestry’s neck. He was then blanketed by a white aura and vanished.

I, on the other hand, was led within the tapestry’s dwellings. Long gone was the suburban household with the scrumptious spread and mutilated rednecks. Now, we were in a scientific warehouse where silver lined every inch of walls and floor, and silver computers filtered information while researchers studied lab results.

Main Man walked me towards a testing box. I was placed within, clueless as to what was about to happen. I heard machines gearing up and suddenly the box began tearing my skin from my body yet I felt only a tinge of pain, like getting a tattoo, but then more tools – saws, scalpels, and tubes emanated from the damnation box and began boring into my very soul, slicing at it, stretching it inside and out. All the pain was in my mind. I went numb.

The door to the damnation chamber opened. Weakly, I exited the same as I had entered, if not for a lingering buzz in the back of my head. There was something different though – the room was brighter than before. Main Man and all of the scientists were nowhere to be found. A blinding light had sprouted from outside and all of the computers were downloading new information.

Miguel had come back. He had been an alien angel sent to lead his platoon into this dimension. The buzzing in the back of my head grew larger and louder, and continued doing so until I awoke in my bed.

Dancing with the Damned

Vulture needed his screening room and film projector running perfectly. All the masterminds in the genetics field were in attendance as well as some potential backers from all over the world with pockets that dipped all the way down into the planet’s core. Vulture’s future in science and my future in outstanding paychecks rested on today’s presentation.

While attending to my final inspection over the projector, I heard heavy rustling in the air vents above. Reena attempted slithering past me as if we were playing a demonic hide-and-seek game, and while the spoiled odor of her slime trail masked any specific location, her pale, happily demented face caged behind her straight jet black hair exposed her whereabouts ever time. Sure enough, there she was up above, staring at me through the grated barrier gleefully, eerily; smiling so hard, her teeth seemed about to shatter and her eyes ready to burst from their sockets. Reena was too loud for the darkness.

The projector’s lens needed one more cleansing which allowed Reena the opportunity to slither one of her pale, purplish tentacles through the vent and smacked the side parietal of my skull. It brought her great joy. She laughed like a witch gutting a Kansas orphan, scuttling all the way down the eastern air ducts. I, on the other hand, could only smile. I was looking forward to decapitating her later.

Lackey answered my radio call. My projector maintenance work was done, Lackey would see to the actual running of the presentation.  It was time for me to deal with the real problem I had been assigned to elucidate.

Walking down the spottily lit corridor, I held on to the cool air emitted by the air conditioner despite Reena’s filthy stench soiling the overall placid atmosphere. To the right was the exit door, and after opening it the heat blasted all across my body while the bastard of a sun blinded me temporarily. After my eyes readjusted, I unsheathed my Jericho 941 and set myself in the ready position. What good that did me. I turned the corner of the building descending the stairs – AnoMolly still got the drop on me, pumping a slug brutally through my right shoulder.  I didn’t think I was that much out of practice but if a half-witted, malformed, genetic jigsaw could get the drop on me, I was definitely out of practice.

Downstairs was Vulture’s back entrance. Apparently he had already hired one cleanup crew to take care of Molly, but it appeared she greeted them with a rocket launcher. That would have explained the charred hull of what used to be an automobile and ashy remains of its passengers. The driveway extended to a cemented slope where the staircase ended. The slope led to the backdoor where Molly sequestered herself. From that section she had access to the kitchen and from there, any part of the house she desired. I needed her to stay put, so naturally I did the most irresponsible thing anyone could do in that situation. I rushed the corner, opening suppression fire to keep Molly from having a clean show while I found cover between the charred car and the wall flanking right from the open gate.

As I reloaded the backdoor swung back and forth from open to close. I was able to get a good look at Molly. She was sporting a cleaver angled through her forehead, blood soaking her dirty blonde hair and pink bathrobe, holding a 9mm (Bersa Thunder, I think). She looked like a zombie but she was fighting like a modern gladiatrix, and behind her was the last of Vulture’s money. Molly didn’t know what it was; she only knew it was important to that smarmy, egotistical wretch of a man. Whatever she had planned for it, I needed to stop her. My paycheck was in jeopardy. Why she hadn’t set fire to it or chopped it up was beyond me, and frankly I wasn’t in the position or the mood to question why.

I timed the swinging of the door, took aim, fired; nailed her just below the cleaver’s blade. That sent her brains smearing and her head rocking. Unfortunately, it also sent her running to the kitchen. I hauled ass down the slope and through the corridor. I couldn’t lose her. I entered the kitchen quickly but at a squatting level. I cleared the room. I’d lost her.

SHIT.

I lost her.

My gun was ready, my ears attentive. The kitchen was surprisingly spotless. I would’ve been proud to store my food in such a speckles abode.

There was silence, and then the sound of sneaky, hustling footsteps along fluffy carpet. I aimed in that direction, catching a glimpse of the tail-end of Molly’s bathrobe. I sank to a crouching position before turning the corner. Gun ready, I sprang the corner to discover an empty hallway with three doors to choose from. What doubled my frustration was that I hadn’t heard any doors slam.

I hadn’t….HEARD….ANY….doors…..SLAM. You think I would’ve gotten the hint, but again – I was out of practice.

Molly came crashing down on top of me, piercing my back with one of Vulture’s trophy blades. The pain was powerful, but my adrenaline and animosity was overflowing. I had no idea this bitch had learned to climb walls.

She tried carving the blade down my backside, but I hoisted both of us on to my feet. I kept thrashing to keep her from gaining any leverage on the blade’s handle. Finally, I was able to grab the back of her bloody robe and flip her over, down to the ground. Her head landed near my feet. I unloaded my gun clip in her gut and stomped the cleaver through the remains of her skull, and I didn’t stop until her face was a pile of red and white mush and teeth.

The money was in the rear entrance, where Molly had left it. I walked back out into the damning heat, I think the blade was still in my back but my body was already going numb, I’d lost enough blood to save a homeless vampire colony; I had the shirt to prove it.

I walked up the slope and collapsed where the edge met the bottom of the stairs. I may have passed out for a while because I suddenly saw all black, but I heard a scraping noise. My eyes opened to see Walthorpe dragging the burnt car out of the drive way with a single hand.

Walthorpe was a huge individual. If Bigfoot became a professional bodybuilder, he would be Walthorpe, because Walthorpe was a creature that could be taken for a Bigfoot; brown bushy hair all over his gigantic body structure. And he did enjoy weightlifting.

With the car out of the way, the medical unit came in to do their thing. I just wanted someone to get me out of the god forsaken heat. I still had some decapitating to do.

Journeying through a Dead Tree Nucleus

In the deadest heat on land that was either the ass-end of Nigeria or the Brazilian-waxed scrotum of Arizona, my associate dressed like an indie record label producer and I accompanied the witch doctor back to his dead grass and dead tree hut. The entire landscape felt raped; frequently, violently cindered by man’s war and nature’s luck.  The shaman had built a fence of dead grass and trees, like his hut, which served as the nucleus of his planetary existence, and an escape from all the savages beyond it.

We entered the hut, greeted by an enflamed spirit pit spitting fire between the elephant tusks that enclosing the ritualistic blaze. After us three became situated around the pit the shaman presented me with a smoking pipe the length of my uncle’s sawed off 12-gauge which he politely named – Killer Horse Cock.

After lighting it with the pit-fire, a secondary journey began. The inside had served its purpose, we ventured outdoors; the circling fence had grown sharp teeth along the hedges. Associate Producer and I walked into the mouth of this nature’s spiritual plane, accepted an uplifting into the spirit plane, and we were now stumbling all across the spirit plane. I disappeared from my own sight and time.

I awoke atop a heap of boulders with a higher, larger boulder shading me; all of us nestled in a natural resting spot near the outer core. Sundown was underway.

From that trajectory I noticed a large concert stage in the southeast. I couldn’t see people but I could differentiate the music instruments and as eclectic as they were, the music was maddening. Nowhere else on the planet was anyone hearing these noises, such brilliant noises that could be created by only some of the most untamed spirits and I was privileged enough to savor them until sight and time disappeared again. They returned in the mouth of this nature’s nucleus and from what I could see from the teeth the fence grew a previously short time ago, this mouth had enjoyed itself a tidy feast while I had been discovering the loveable jams.

Between each tooth were dead tree wrappings with human bodies cocooned inside, definitely a minimum of ten; all wrapped and positioned upright as if prisoners of an obsessive-compulsive spider. Doctor Sham An and Associate Producer traded fart jokes behind me while I walked around the dead, mouth of this fed nature’s nucleus. Sooner or later, I halted in front one of the lifeless husks. I tore away the wrapping at the chest, aware of exactly what I was doing, and I did not stop digging and ripping away until I saw bones – the chest and ribs. I looked around them, within them and I felt relieved without knowing why, as though an epic question had just been answered.

Doctor Sham An embraced me with a brotherly arm over my shoulder and with Associate Producer, we all embraced the new happiness.