Me, Myself, and I: Hellspawn

    I: Am I seeing things?

    Myself: I don't know. How long have you had demonic hellspawn for a pet?

    I: I wasn't aware that I had one, actually. Do these things.. Do they have names?

    Myself: What do I look like, an exorcist?

    I: Well, no. But I assumed that somewhere in my vast assortment of useless knowledge, I would've learned that somewhere.

    Me: You did. But, to be honest, I can't pronounce the damn thing.

    I: Oh... Well, how do I get rid of it?

    Me: You don't. You're cursed to have it follow you around where ever you go. Though,  normally it's not quite so....

    Myself: Visible?

    Me: Yeah. I'm sure it'll go away, though.

    Myself: So, to answer your question, no. You're not seeing things.

    I: That doesn't help at all.

    Myself: Asshole...

    Me: Why aren't you sleeping? It's three in the morning.

    I: Why would you ask? You know the answer.

    Me: It's only polite to ask.

    Myself: Dumbass...

    I: Watch it. I can't sleep. It's as simple as that.

    Me: I know, no need to get snappy.

    Myself: No need to ask the question in the first place. Bitch.

    I: Hey, knock it off, you two. I've got enough to worry about, what with this hellspawn gnawing on my leg.

    Me: Is he really? I say, he must be hungry.

    Myself: Your mom was hungry.

    Me: Eww... She's our mom too, idiot.

    I: Yeah, thanks for that image.

    Myself: Thought you might enjoy that. While I'm at it, The Game.

    I: ... I hate you.

    Myself: I'm you.

    I: I know.

    Me: Oh, shut up both of you.

    Myself: All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy...

    Me: We've got plenty of work to do.

    I: Yeah, but not the motivation to do it.

    Myself: That's your problem.

    I: Hey! Who got us through senior year?

    Me & Myself: Charlie.

    I: True... But I helped!

    Myself: I'm sure you did.

    Me: Oh, shut it. We're getting even less done with all this bickering.

    I: Were we getting things done before?

    Me: No... But I think we were damn close to figuring out this hellspawn issue.

    I: Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting about that.

    Myself: Hey, I saw a trick in a movie once. Maybe it'll work!

    I: Oh, lord...

    Me: You're going to kill us all doing things like that. Hold on while I search the database for exorcism techniques...

    Myself: The trick will work...

    Me: Shut up. Oh, look! You know how to preform a basic exorcism!

    I: Where the hell did I pick that up?

    Me: Brazil, apparently. Through, I'm not sure when we went to Brazil.

    Myself: The movie trick will work!

    I & Me: Shut it!

    Myself: Your mom shut it...

    I: Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?

    Myself: Wait, what did you just say?

    Me: Oh, Christ! You gave it an erection!

    I: Ah, damn it...

    Hellspawn: Romani quidem artem amatoriam invenerunt.

    I: Was that... was that a pick up line?

    Myself: Oh, God. Kill it!

    I: With what?!

    Me: Let me try something...

    Myself: Oh, no...

    Me: Exegi monumentum aere perennius!

    I: Damn it, you made it worse!

    Myself: Gnarly...

    Me: Okay, okay. I can stop this. Just give me a second!

    I: No! I gave you a second! Hell, I gave you three! Now it's my turn.

    Myself: No way, buddy. You're the one that started this. It's my turn!

    I & Me: No!

    Myself: Engorgio!

    Me: Oh dear God, that's foul.

    I: I didn't think it could get any bigger...

    Myself: Damn it, wrong spell! Expulso!



The Hellspawn explodes, showing Me, Myself, and I with gore and God knows what else.

    Me: ... Well... you blew it up.

    Myself: Haha! Now that is how you kill a hellspawn!

    I: I hate me.

Arioso

   Frank Opaloch sits down in his huge, midnight-black arm chair that rests square in the middle of his study. The burgundy walls and carpet perfectly accent the chair and give the room a dark, yet oddly serene, feel. Bach's Arioso play's over the small speakers at every corner of the room. First editions and rare copies of every kind of literature imaginable adorn the walls on six mahogany shelves. In between the shelves, art from some of times most accomplished artists ornament the otherwise bare space. The wall without shelves contains a cleverly concealed door which blends right into the rest of the wall.

   Two pedestals stand directly in front of the wall. On one, a rare edition of Dante Alighieri's epic poem, Divine Comedy in its original Italian, lays suspended inside a glass case. On the other is a small pendant that also seemingly hovers inside of a glass case. The pendant is simple and plain, made up of a silver capsule and a dog-tag style chain. A small amount of liquid fills the inside of the capsule and in the liquid a bubble of air is held captive. There is a small plaque on the pedestal that reads, "Kristine".

   Frank sips a bit a champagne from a long, elegant glass and relaxes a little, falling deeper into the plush chair. This is his place of solitude and of rest where he can forget the world, if only for a little while. Being a multi-millionaire isn't as easy as most people think. Despite being only forty-seven, he looks more like sixty something. Unlike many of his fellow millionaires, he controlled his company. He didn’t just play golf while some punk kid ran his business into the ground. From an early age, Frank knew he had to maintain control.

   He had been bullied, abused, taken advantage of, and lied to as a child. As he grew up, he was always told he’d never amount to anything. He was always told that Frank Opaloch would remain unknown, part of the masses, and forgotten. He had proven them wrong. Every last one of them. Some of them, he had even stepped on on his way to the top, and he relished every second of it.

   Kristine had been the only person who ever believed in him. Kristine, his beloved wife had supported him all the way. She fought along side him and kept him sane. She was his sunshine, his guiding light. She never left his side, until she was torn away by a coworker driving home drunk after a late office party. Frank liked to think she never saw his coming, that it had been quick, and that he who had taken Kristine from him burned in hell for the crime.

   Frank isn’t a vengeful man by any means. He always keeps a cool head, rarely ever succumbing to emotion. That’s what this room was for. A single tear tumbles down his wrinkled, wise face. He didn’t wipe it away, choosing instead to let it run it’s course. The tear felt odd to him, like something that simply shouldn’t be. There was no room for tears. There never had been. Even in this semi-fortress of solitude, he had to keep himself as composed as ever. He didn’t want to admit it, and no one knew it, but he was much to fragile to let emotions take hold.

   A small, electric beep lets him know someone is invading his cocoon. When the secret door opens, the lights return to full strength and the music stops. A wiry young man stands in the doorway, carrying Frank’s attaché case and the day’s schedule. Sighing, Frank set’s his glass aside and stands up, his joints cracking with age. Turning to the young man, he asks him to leave the case and schedule and leave. Nervously, the man complies and Frank is once again alone.

   Straightening his tie, adjusting his shirt, and donning his nearby suit jacket, Frank looks as naturally presentable as ever. Snatching the schedule up from the case, he quickly peruses it. Nodding in approval, he picks up his case and begins to head for the door. On his way out, he stops to lay a gentle hand on Kristine’s glass case. For a moment, but only for a moment, his eyes well with tears once more at the thought of her. Bowing his head, he whispers “I love you” , and he leaves the room. As soon as he’s gone, the doors close once more. In the dark, a faint but noticeable scurry is the only warning before a horrible, sourceless wail tears through the silence. Somewhere in the darkness, a woman who isn’t there mourns for the tortured soul of her beloved husband.

"I love you too."

Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya — Part One

   “I wish somebody had told me, you know? If somebody had just stepped in and said something, anything, none of this would be happening.” 

   The tired, downtrodden voice traveled across the bar. For the good part of an hour, I had been mostly ignoring it, choosing instead to focus on the drink in front of me. As far as I could tell, the source of the voice was just another one of us down and out losers, talking in hopes that somebody would actually listen to him for once in his life. It wasn’t that I didn’t care what the man was saying. I just had my own problems to worry about, just like everyone else at the bar. The man wasn’t really even talking to me. More at me, than anything. But something he said about half-way through his depressing monologue caught my attention. He mentioned guns, and lot of them. After that, the monologue turned into a Michael Bay movie. 

   Guns don’t interest me—I don’t even like guns—but the chance that I may have stumbled upon something illegal was too much to pass up. The monotony of day-to-day life is often broken up by the bizarre and taboo. While gun smuggling was nothing terribly outlandish in a world of endless action movies and cop dramas, it was certainly something new in my treadmill life. 

   My life wasn’t anything terribly difficult, just dull. Working a desk job isn’t so bad, until you fall into a routine. Once that happens, you’re doomed to live every day the same as the last. Over and over and over again. Then, one day, you walk in to find a seemingly harmless envelope on your desk. You open it, expecting some complaint about you not putting a cover sheet on your TPS report, only to find a nice little pink slip. Add a messy divorce from your psychotic wife and the fact that your bother is involved in some sort of cult on top of getting fired, and your life really starts to look rough. 

   Like all losers, especially the recently unemployed kind, my first instinct was to flop into the nearest bar and make like a fish. Soon after, though I didn’t seem him come in, a string-bean of a twenty-something kid flounders over to the bar. At first he seems calm enough despite his incessantly tapping foot, keeping to himself outside of a quiet “Hey” as he sits down. The façade doesn’t last long, though, and within minutes and about two drinks, he’s reduced to a hunched over, nervous wreck of a man. 

   “This whole thing is just... a lack of communication, y’know? I’m new to this sorta thing. I don’t run guns. I’m not a criminal. I wasn’t looking for trouble. But my brother, big man that he is, gets involved in this smuggling operation. He tells me all about it, going on and on about how he’s going to be making big money now and all this stuff. Now, I wasn’t sure if he was serious. I mean, he makes ‘jokes’ like this all the time. So, I kinda tell one of my friends about the whole thing, right? Turns out, he tells a friend who goes and tells the cops. They think it’s real. The big twist ending is, it is real. My brother’s big operation gets stomped by the cops. He makes it out okay but they lose all the merchandise and a couple of his guys. So, now he’s coming after me. Me, his own brother! How was I supposed to know that he was serious, huh? I thought it was just a joke! He was drunk when he told me, and I wasn’t even the one to tell the cops, man. But he’s coming for me. Or, somebody is. I think it’s him, but... I don’t know. Whoever it is, they mean business. They’ve already killed my friend and the guy that went to the cops. I guess all I’m trying to say is that I’m scared, y’know? I’m scared.” 

   When his story was finished, he downed the contents of the shot glass in front of him and turned to leave after dropping far too much money for the drinks. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he gives me some advice without even looking at me. 

   “I’m not sure you were even listening to me, but thank you. I needed someone to tell me story to. I everything works out for you, whoever you are. Just remember to watch whatcha say, alright? You never know who’s listening.” 

   With that, he walks away without even telling his name. As he leaves, I consider stopping him and finding out more, maybe offering to help. But, deciding it’d be better for me to just stay out of it, I turn back to the bar. The ringing of the bell attached to the door announces his departure. Suddenly, tires screech outside and a dull thud sends me running for the door. I don’t know what made me run. Maybe I had cared about the man’s story more than I thought. Maybe I felt guilty for not having stopped him. Whatever the reason, I ran as if my own life depended on it. 

   Outside, a crowd had already begun to gather. In the midst of them all lay the virtually unrecognizable corpse of the man I barely knew. Clutched in the remains of his left hand lay his mahogany two-fold wallet, stained with blood and brake fluid. Picking it up I flip it open, revealing his driver’s license. Johnny. Johnny Hawkins. 

   Staring at the license, I reach for my phone to call 911. Realizing I left it at the bar and notice the twelve other people with their phones already out, I sigh and head back inside. Unsurprisingly, my phone is gone. Sitting back at the bar, I take another look at the wallet in my hand. 

   “Johnny, I hardly knew ya.”

Writers Block

“I don’t know what to write. I’m supposed to be doing a paper on blood revenge for Mrs. Parks’s fifth period English, but I’m drawing a blank. Damn you, Writers Block.  You are the bane of my lowly existence. I hope you’re happy.

I don’t even know what else to say to you. That’s how badly you’re jammed me up. I can’t even curse you, because you’ve robbed me of my ability to write. What is it about you that makes this so hard? Is it me, rather than you? Is there some sort of chemical imbalance, some sort of mental deficiency that prevents me from writing? Or, are you really just some evil force that lurks within us all?

We all, at some point, suffer from Writers Block. A lot of us have found some sort of cure, ranging from coffee to a favorite movie, death metal to chocolate. The “cures” are all manner of things, and all supposedly work. I’ve tried a great many myself, yet have been unsuccessful thus far. I haven’t quit searching; I will destroy you, Writers Block, someday. But I can’t wait for an easy cure. I need to write now, whether you like it or not. So, here’s me. I’m calling you out, Old West-style. We’re going to end this, once and for all. Hello. My name is Garrett Chandler. You killed my writing. Prepare to die.”

- Two Days Later -

Breaking news! Local teen, Garrett Chandler, was found dead in his Fruit Heights home early this morning by a jogger. What the jogger was doing in his house, we don’t know. But, since they always find the bodies anyways, we’ll let it slide. It’s their thing. What we do know is that Garrett appears to have gone insane and killed himself by, somehow, exploding his mind. All over the house are the initials W.B. written in blood, though we are unsure of who that is at this point. Oddly enough, various pieces of Garrett’s writing were found strewn about the house, leading the investigators to believe that he somehow drove himself insane, The Shining-style. More on this hilarious story on the nine o’ clock news!

Việc đốt những

   “Well, something smells delicious.” quips Detective  Sergeant Riley Anderson, stepping into the oddly pristine crime scene. Half a dozen forensics analysts scan the room for clues of any kind. Despite the rotting corpse in the middle of the room, it’s actually a decent apartment. A small bed, flat screen, and desk furnish the room. The walls are blank, except for a small poster of some terrible horror movie. As bad as the movie may have been, the poster is still disturbing. Glancing just to the left of the poster, Anderson spots a small Asian woman standing in the corner watching the forensics geeks.

    “You should’ve smelled it before we opened the window.” retorts a young police officer by the name of Charlie Nelson, who was the first to arrive at the scene. Perfect hair and a crisp uniform suggest nothing less than ‘Academy Favorite’. “Come ‘ere for a sec. You’ve gotta check this out.”

    Kneeling next to the badly decomposed corpse at his feet, Officer Nelson uses his pen to open up one of the eyelids. While the rest of the body was suffering from decomposition, something else was wrong with the eyes. Grimacing,  Anderson kneels next to Nelson.

    “What happened to his eyes?”

    “I dunno sir. The coroner says they’re burned, but that doesn’t make any sense.”

    “Burned? You thinkin’ we’ve got a lighter-wielding psycho on our hands like that guy from last year?”

    “What? That arsonist?”

    “Yeah, except this guy makes it more personal.” chuckles Anderson, pulling out a pack of gum from his jacket. Popping a piece of gum in his mouth, he offers another to Nelson who declines.

    “I dunno, maybe. It’s weird, though, because only the eyes are burned. Look.” Nelson uses his pen to point out various parts of the face around the eyes, “Only the eyes. None of the surrounding tissue is burned. Hell, the guy still has eyelashes.”

    “Interesting... Hey, who’s the woman?”

    “Her?” questions Nelson, pointing over to the woman in the corner. “She’s the landlady as far as we can tell. Poor thing was the one that found this mess.”

    “Ah. I should’ve guessed.”

    “She’s been standing there the whole time. Doc checked her out, says she’s fine but, I don’t know. She looks terrified.”

    “Well, I’m assuming it’d be fairly traumatic, finding this guy.”

    “I suppose. She hasn’t said a word for a while now.”

    Directing his attention back to the corpse, Anderson checks the man’s jacket pockets. Finding nothing particularly interesting, he checks the pants.

    “Well, I’ve got his wallet. Wonder if he’s got anything good.”

    Flipping open the black leather two-fold, Anderson finds the man’s drivers license.

    “Well, this is interesting.” says Anderson, examining the piece of plastic. Everything seems to be fine, except the name is burned off.

    “His name is missing... it’s just like the eyes, too. Nothing else is burnt. Just the name.” comments Nelson, shifting uneasily.

    “Not to get too dramatic here,” says Anderson, checking the rest of the wallet, “But there’s something seriously creepy going on here.”

    “Agreed. Maybe she... Hey, where’d she go?” Nelson says, turning to find the woman gone.

    “Nhận ra! Nhận ra trước khi tôi giết một lần nữa! Xin vui lòng, tôi cầu xin bạn!”

    With that, the frail, old woman’s skin falls to the floor, exposing the charred flesh underneath. The creatures mouth splits open, unleashing an indescribably horrible sound. Anderson pulls his pistol, but it’s far too late. Flame erupts from every crack and crevice on the creature’s body, transforming the room into hell on Earth. For all its intensity, the inferno is over as soon as it begins.

    The Creature, the Việc đốt những, surveys the room. Staring up at her are the burned out eyes of everyone in the room. Her mouth cracks into a smile, and she leaves the room. Vengeance is hers, but there is still much to be done. The Burning Ones will have their revenge.

The Devil's Own

    “Anastasia! Wake Up! Wake up!”

    Bullets, blood, and fire fill the sky. Jolting up, Anastasia barely misses losing her head to a vicious shard of shrapnel. Round after round of machine gun fire tears through the blood-soaked ditch, ripping through men and munitions alike.
   
    “Anastasia!”

    Shooting a glance behind her, Anastasia finds Dimitri crouching down, knee deep in guts and gore, clutching his PPSH-41 submachine gun. Next to him, covered in mud and the remains of some poor victim of the never-ending rain of machine gun fire, lies her Mosin-Nagant. Snatching up the rifle, Anastasia quickly checks for ammo. Two rounds. Satisfied, she turns to Dimitri.

    “I am going to stop that gun!” she screams, barely audible over the relentless roar of the machine gun. “I need you to cover me after I kill the gunner!”

    Nodding nervously, Dimitri reloads and pats Anastasia on the shoulder, letting her know he’s ready. Seconds later, the hurricane of bullets shifts down to the far end of the ditch. Seeing her chance, Anastasia jumps up and takes aim.

    The machine gun sits mounted on a small jeep, it’s seemingly infinite ammo belt slithering through the belly of the beast. Belching fire and lead, the beast rocks the jeep and shakes the ground. Behind the cacophony, a beetle-black helmet violently bobs with recoil.

    Anastasia lets loose a round from her rifle, splitting the helmet in two. Blood and grey matter color the air for a brief moment and the beast wildly perforates the sky before screeching to a sudden stop. A German soldier at the back of the jeep takes aim at Anastasia, but catches a face full of frantic submachine gun fire from Dimitri. The driver of the jeep scrambles for his Luger before another round from Anastasia’s rifle tears through his throat. Silence descends on the ditch like a leaden blanket.

    The silence doesn’t last long, however. The cries of the dying and the damned echo through the shelled-out city. The first wave of German troops has been destroyed, but the next will come soon. Anastasia turns to the ditch, looking for any salvageable supplies.

    “Dimitir, check the jeep.”

    Kneeling in Mud, blood, and God-knows-what, Anastasia checks for a pulse on a fallen comrade. His cold, clammy skin and the two ragged holes in his chest suggest that he doesn’t have much of a heart anymore. Undiscouraged, Anastasia moves on to the next muddy corpse.

A New Year

Welcome to 2011, my friends. We’re one year closer to the end of the world and the Mayan zombie apocalypse. With that in mind, what are you prepared to do to make this year awesome? Try base jumping for the first time? Make a movie? Start a band? Train for the zombie apocalypse? All good ideas. How about we make this year really awesome? 

You know what would be great? No more bad movies. No more of these CGI-filled crapfests like Prince of Persia, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, or Clash of the Titans. You know why movies like these exist? Because we’re dumb enough to pay to see them. Box office and DVD sales combined make enough money to keep churning out terrible movies. Why do you think that there are seven Saw movies? Or, even worse, over thirty more god-awful horror movie remakes on the way? They’re remaking The Thing, because they know that enough people are either bored enough, dumb enough, or have a crappy enough taste in movies that they’ll make a profit. It’s a shame, really. How many good movies didn’t get made because of these remakes, reboots, prequels, sequels, and “re-imaginings”? 

Here’s an idea. Before you go to see a movie, read up on it. If it’s any of those things, think twice before you go and see it. Try rottentomatoes.com or any of the other thousands of movie review sites. The new american remake of The Host only pulling a 4.5/10 on IMDB? Don’t see it. It’s really that simple. Not all remakes are bad, but 99.9999% of them are. How about we boycott terrible movies for a year? If they stop making money, Hollywood will stop making these kinds of movies. They’ll realize that the only way they’re gonna survive is by making good, original movies. 

Now, this isn’t guaranteed to work. But, it’s a start. I for one am sick of bad movies. Aren’t you? Don’t waste your time on terrible movies this year. And just remember, there are TONS of good movies made before the nineties. Need a recommendation? I’m full of ‘em. Obviously, good movies aren’t the only thing needed for an awesome year. But they sure help. Not everybody is as big of a movie geek as me, but we can all enjoy good entertainment. 

Music is another thing we need to work on. Don’t stick to one genre please. All you listen to is gangsta rap? Try some Elvis on for size. Screamo all that you’ve ever really tried? There’s some pretty intense classical music out there. Justin Bieber more your thing? There are plenty of cliffs in the world, do us a favor. 

Raise a glass to 2011, and prepare for an awesome year. For those about to rock, I salute you.