It Begins

Visit my new website at www.morbidtoybox.com to read the continuation to my original #sciencefiction #horror #bassysbasilica

Movie Review: Green Book

Well, Green Book was an enjoyable movie. But Best Movie of the year is a lot of a bit much. There were too many scenes with really bad acting in it that bothered the hell out of me. And the movie moves through them a bit fast too. Also the movie was produced and co written by the son of a very successful “bull-shit artist” (his words, not mine) making it hard to trust. Also again, that same writer stresses that Don Shirley wanted him to wait until he was passed away before sharing this story, which seems suspicious to me. Plus that guy put himself in the movie, so it’s all shades kind of shady. Still, the movie is fun to watch. It reminds me of a few things. I stayed at very bad hotels for one. It reminds you how rough that time was. And it makes me realize how goddamn lonely I am in my career. So does it remind us that there is a big gap between poor, and the idealism of class. But it also shows us how we still have a lot of work to do as a nation, as there are still parts and people that are like that. I’ve been all over the country as a carnival patron, I’ve seen many different walks of life. The fact that some of this movie seems familiar to me still in 2019 is concerning. I get the time period, and the racism was thick in it, yet sadly, some of that is still around. A lot of it is so ubiquitous in some areas that folks don’t even bat an eye when such a slur or statement is uttered. I’ve been guilty of ignoring it in my early years as I was too dumb to know better. Took traveling to get it clear in my head. And still I’m learning. I recommend this film as a must see, but still a rental. Not a buy, but a rental is good enough. Don’t shit on this one completely. Maybe just a poof and a squirt, but not a full shit. This message brought to you tonight by Redbox and Crown Royal, the Rye kind... it’s on sale for Saint Patricks Day... it’s a damn deal. I should stop this review now... right! Sorry! Till next time!

News (March 9)

March has been good for me. Was struggling to find a some gigs out here in this cold season. We stumbled upon this company that brought us to a lot in Florida that appeared frighteningly penurious. But the weekend came and it was a blessing. We are making lots of money drawing caricatures which will help me to invest in my business, and my love: writing fiction. The new story is a possession. I plan to share it on my blog as soon as possible. A nice, sexy, scary, cool, and just plain fun horror series. I’m building a world strictly for my blog, and to explore strange demensions in my morbid fantasy. My goal is to break all of the rules. The project is inspired by all the things I loved about 90’s action, suspense, horror growing up. If you are a movie goer, you will enjoy what I’m making here. The project is a direct sequel to my short, Bassy’s Basilica, so be sure to check out that piece when you can, though you won’t need to in the long run. More details coming soon. 

Clinch (Sports Fiction)

This story came from a 1000 word "prompt" challenge that I participated in a couple weeks ago. I have since added some words, and changed a few things. I had a lot of fun writing this one, especially being that when I first heard the prompt I was immediately inspired as I knew exactly what I wanted to write, which doesn't normally happen so easily. Usually it takes me a few hours, sometimes even days to land a solid idea. But the beauty about this challenge is that you only get three days to think it up and write it down. Makes you use parts of your cold brain that you normally don't. A great exercise. Well here is my story...

Prompt: Matchmaker
from the Fiction War contest of Winter 2019

Hecklers jeered raucously in the back. Another adrenaline-fueled fan taunted them, and a barbaric contest of unruly language erupted in the audience. Andy Brooks went to the podium that separated his featured fighters to staunch their bleeding passions. Spectators of combative sport were always the most spirited sort. More often than not a simple press conference could just as soon become a sugar-frenzied day care center in desperate need of a tranquilizer gun. 

     Their balding host was a robust man with a flat nose and a rich taste for foppish attire. His broad shoulders came high around his thick neck—lingering features that hung on to him from a time when he was a boxer and weightlifting enthusiast. But now he looked like a pretentious Humpty Dumpty that let a few too many jabs slip past his guard. Andy whispered to the muscled athlete seated stoically to his right. He was dark of complexion, sporting black sun glasses that were beyond gratuitous in this low-lit setting, a spongy black beard trimmed neatly, and a black shirt emblazoned with the logo of his training camp. He listened closely and chortled at what was shared, apparently enjoying whatever quiet jest his boss had to share. More likely he didn’t give a fuck, but good business is often sold with good humor and amiable relations. Andy then returned his attention to his guests and selected one to share a question for his fighters. 

A vivacious young journalist stood up with a jolt of alacrity and said, “Kendra Felix, Clinch-Zone.Net. My question is for Axel.” The burly black man on Andy’s right reached lazily for his microphone to ready himself. “You are called the Bad Boy of MMA for your witty commentary and indecorous disposition.”

The fighter grimaced as he scoffed, “Indecorous?”

“…Now that you have earned a title shot, I wonder: will you be more inclined to act as a better role model for the young kids that may look up to you.”

Axel paused, rubbing his chin with pensive consideration. Then he sucked his teeth and said, “Man, who letting these kids up so late to watch cage fighting? I ain’t no role model, ya know what I mean? I’m just a dude from the street tryna get paid.”

A surge of laughter rolled through his audience, as well as some more taunting mixed in. 

Andy quieted them and then picked another.

A tall, lanky gentleman wearing business-casual denim pants and a loosely worn plaid shirt took the microphone. Adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, he said to the challenger and star guest left of Andy, “Fight News Media, Ryan Holt. There are some who seem to believe that you have returned to the cage, a different fighter from your golden days. Are you?”

The wrestler opposite from Axel and Andy glared at him darkly. He had a blond goatee, close-cropped hair, and cruelly callused cauliflower ears, and protruding brow marked with indelible scars. He offered the reporter a long thoughtful gaze. It was a bone chilling gesture. Then the muscles in his square jaw flinched anxiously, as he seethed through his gnashed teeth, “Am I what?”

“A different fighter?”

The pale beast of a man glanced over at his boss. Andy set an unhappy glower on him in return, remembering.

     Mark Stroeman was only five minutes alone in his locker room at the end of a rigorous judo session when Andy Brooks stormed in. He snarled at his prized heavyweight contender—newly redeemed after serving a yearlong suspension that had marred his once perfect reign over the division. Andy hurled a file of papers at his wide chest. The haughty fighter spared only a perfunctory glance through its contents. Recognizing exactly what it was and knowing all too well what devil was in those details, he tossed it aside and went back to disentangling his wrist raps. 

     Blithely, he said, “A mistake.”

     “A mistake?”Andy’s eyes were just about bulging out of his red face. “After everything you went through…why would you do it?”

     Mark dropped his heavy arms in his lap and asked, “Do what?”

     Andy could only gawk at him, nonplussed.

     “If I am not mistaken, the anti-doping agency is in your pocket, is it not?”

     “You expect me to just sweep this under the rug?”

     “Yes, I do,” Mark said coldly, peeling his gi-top off his stout shoulders. “You can’t afford another blow like this. You are praised as the king of money matches. You know exactly who should fight who and when. That is your talent. Yet somehow, your brand is fading. Youneed this fight. You need me. I made well enough to live out three lifetimes even with my lofty penalties. And I have no doubt this admonition is only for show, as I am sure you’ve already paid the right people to make this unfortunate setback go away.”

     To this he could say nothing. He was absolutely right. There was no point denying it. Still, “Why then? Why come back?”

     Mark gave an insouciant shrug and said, “Because I like to hurt people. Here is the only place I can do it. Butcutting weight is hell. So, there’s your answer.”

     “So is prison, Stroeman.”

     The big man chortled and said, “Well then, best you make sure it all goes away well and good.

     The next three weeks before competition were spent smiling on television with Andy’s top man at the Anti-Doping agency assuring the world that their fighters were clean, healthy, and ready to battle with no qualms.  

     The champion wrestler sneered at this reporter in the denim pants and loosely worn plaid shirt as he answered him at last, “You’ll have to wait and see.”

***

     What they would see in time is a record-breaking attendance, with spectators fired up to see the most popular martial artist in the world reclaim his long lost title. 

Five grueling rounds of merciless punishment feasted their primal hunger. Axel evaded near certain defeat three times early in the contest, but Stroeman was unstoppable. Every moment that Axel had him well out of gas, he unchambered another burst of tainted energy. He frustrated the kickboxer in a tight clinch before slipping under and suplexing him as though he were weightless. In the third round Axel caught the dexterous wrestler in a corner, seemingly depleted of vigor, and undone. He snuck in a gorgeous combination that sent his wayward opponent careening. Stroeman was beaten bloody and panting heavy. But he survived. Somehow, he always survived. The next two rounds he was like a man possessed with rage. Slam! Trip! Slam! Axel was good at getting back to his feet in bad situations, but mortality was in him. He saw the light drain from his eyes when Stroeman trapped his back and snaked an arm firmly beneath the chin. He held on until the man in his clutch went limp. Then the referee intervened. But Stroeman would not let go. He squeezed on, gnashing his teeth like a feral creature possessed by a species of wild anger. The referee tried to separate them by force but could not break them apart. Hard muscles vied for control. When he at last loosened the hold, it was too late. They pulled the thrashing monster away from the still body of his opponent. The ravenous spectators were no longer cheering but fell silent with disillusion. Then a trumpet of boos filled the air. Cups and balled up cards were hurled into the cage. Stroeman writhed violently on the canvas floor, as officials poured in to restrain him. Axel was dead, and Andy Brooks was on his feet staring with stunned eyes. The color had gone from his face. He was finished—the matchmaker made his last match and gambled away his life for one final money fight that would cost him everything.    

Unraveling (short fantasy)

In a world of strings there is a story I know.

Trixy was a simple doll, who liked simple things. She was woven together with a rich ball of yarn, threaded with values; threaded with love and care. But her brother Mischief, he was a troublesome thing. Neglected by his forbearers, but fat with ego. He was made of material from a dusty drawer; a very old and forgotten drawer. Petulant and querulous, he was as rotten as the yarn that forged him, stuffed with hatred, and hemmed by impetuous hands. Hard times would draw him apart. Trixy tried to keep him together. She wrapped him up, and she closed his wounds. But no matter how hard she worked, Mischief would pull apart again and again. After some time, Trixy left him. He needed too much, and she could give no more. All of the needles and yarn in the world would not satisfy. But Trixy was convinced that her brother was fine. He was just how he was, and that should not be her problem. 

He came undone. And Trixy could only watch in despair. His strings spilled out, and he caught others in the tangle of his mess. He pulled them along and they went with him subserviently. He ripped the fabric of their kingdom and drank their souls. Trixy couldn’t bear to look at what he became, and so she turned away. She went about her days blissfully ignorant to the disaster closing in around her. Mischief rolled and rolled and grew and grew. Before long, all the dolls in all the world were trapped in his web of loathing and grasping indignation. The bad yarn, from the old, dusty drawer, forgotten long ago had strung up everything they once loved as Mischief continued to unravel. Soon there was nowhere Trixy could go to pretend that her brother was just how he was and that was his problem. Soon she was caught too, stuck in an impossible knot no one could ever undo.

Cauldron of Forever (a fantasy)

a Fantasy

for ages 17 and older

Inspired by Celtic Welsh, and Irish mythology.

3470 words

#amwritingfantasy

#celtic

for my Pagan friends

Cauldron of Forever

Long ago before even time its self, there was a cauldron of power. It fell from the sky and stirred the heavens, its potion brewing on the fires of the firmament. A golden tail flagged in its wake like that of a spirited stallion, charging across the clouds. Sent by the Gods, the cauldron traversed the vast reaches of a great Sunless Sea from the shores of Avalon for a year and one day. The waves carried it, filled it, and delivered it to a world called Annwyn, where a war was soon to come. 

     Fire and ice clashed beneath the shadow of the tumbling cauldron. Smoke and steam whorled, dancing like lovers—like warriors. A sword of light pierced a great stone, sending a wail of sorrow across the earth, lacerating her icy flesh, drawing forth massive pools of smoldering blood. Her crystalline lands turned to ponds, lakes, and oceans, encapsulated by great hills, and peaks. Soon the abyss mounted a titan of wind that called a challenge, and so lead in a joust with the fury of Earth’s fire. The impact of her great lance struck hard and true, sending a splash of crimson-rock and water high, just as the cauldron whisked by. The blood cooled, and a mountain was born, then another, and another. As sure as the potion in the cauldron brewed on the heat of the battle, the oceans of the earth boiled, cooking life into her crest. A new dance began upon the alps and lands: a wrestling of elements. They summoned new partners, who too brought with them lovers, and singers, and other patrons of dance. They would forever revel around a hearth that would forever feed the cauldron with living flame. 

Once long ago there was a race of Men born on war, as so was the life before them born in an endless tangle of limbs, caught in an endless dance at the call of a cauldron said to be the source of eternity. Undry, it was named by the ancients, and it would turn hearts to stone, as so it had once summoned life from ice. And it would begin under a cloak of darkness.

     A comely young man sat alone in the night. His hair was black, his eyes bright and kind. He had a heavy jaw with a thick beard, and lips that sang with a voice as sweet as they tasted in the mouths of the many women he had bedded in his young years. Promiscuous he was; for as a warrior of Men there was no end to battle quite as lovely than that which came from a woman’s touch. Stripped of his armor he relaxed in the warmth of the fire, wearing only his tunic, boots and breeches. His sword was set aside with his pack, as he played a gentle song on a wooden harp. Somewhere off in the distance a raven cawed from the trees. He answered the bird’s song with a sly grin that curled at the corner of his mouth as he played on. He knew who was coming. He wanted her to come. He was summoning her. 

     Before long more birds were squawked and crooned, they liked his playing. A rustling came from the woods all around him—a tumult of woodland creatures in frenzy. His smile widened as he quickened the tempo. The forest became garrulous, talking louder and louder. Branches trembled, bushes stirred, the green canopy that enveloped him was wild with activity. Then suddenly it all came to a still. The forest fell silent, and a soft loving sigh floated on the wind. He knew that sound well. It was one he heard many times before, but never from a goddess. A curious, feminine voice then chimed, “That song—what is it, dare I ask?”

     His deft fingers finished the song. Then he peered intensely through the whipping flames. There he saw the light of the fire reflecting from a pair of big, wonderous eyes floating weightless over the shadowy silhouette of the trees before him. Intrigued, he laid the harp aside and answered, “My dear sweet stranger of the night, forgive me for my impertinence, but I am forced to answer your inquiry with a question of my own—that is, does it truly matter?”

     The mysterious eyes shifted from he to the magical harp, and then she answered dolefully, “I suppose not. Tell me then, how is it you—a foreigner from the Southern realm—come in hand with this ethereal gift of The Gods?”

     He turned to admire it a moment. Then, with a coaxing, handsome smile he answered, “The Uaithne—it was called by its previous owner… He paused a moment, as to consider how to put his next words. “’Twas given to me as a reward in a tourney when we first arrived here some years ago. I was chosen to battle with a great warrior of the Fomorians. That was long ago. I have long since forgotten his name.” 

     “The Dagda, I know you,” there was suddenly contempt on the stranger’s lovely voice, the way she said it. The glowing eyes set a stark glower on him. “The Fomorians are my people. You would do well to remember that, Sir Dagda of The Worlds Beyond.”

     “I am known by the title of The Protector by my own,” he said arrogantly. 

     The woman then stepped into the light. She was so very striking with her long and silky black hair, creamy pink skin that was almost blue under the moonlight, and her piercing blue eyes. She wore a long garb of black lace threaded into the shape of flowers; they moved as she did, like they were nodding in the breeze. The gauzy dress formed to her hourglass body, only covering some parts from the wan light, but not all. Her petite frame accentuated her sinuous curves and made her a mouthwatering feast for the eyes. The dress she wore fell down the length of her body like a close-fitting gown, bearing most of her womanly glory. Her scowl darkened on the knight called, Dagda, she offered, “A protector ofyour own—as am I.” Boldly she sauntered around the hearth, closing in slow with her bewitching hips swaying seductively. “Why have you summoned me here, O’ knight of the peoples of Tuatha Dé Danann?” 

     “Why,” he said with a pause that only seemed to entice her even more. “To know you, my sweet Lady Morrígan. I have heard the stories. I lust to know your truth. For I am yours; since the first I heard of your claim from the lips of my fallen enemies, I have always been. They call you their shield; they call you their‘goddess of war.’ And so, I am naught but a man of war taken by love.”

     “You are naught but a man of lust taken by desire.” She spat in return.

     Suddenly he was standing, wrapping his arm around her full hips. A startled gasp slipped from her lips in his presence, a task not easily achieved from her by any mortal man. But in his touch, she knew then: this was no mere mortal. His sangfroid composure cooled the fire in her wrath, and fueled the fires of her passion. His mouth only moments from hers, he breathed a tantalizing whisper that said, “My desire only takes what it needs. And I need you.” 

     He went for a kiss but paused, testing her. She shuttered, but did not pull away; her wanting lips parting ever so slightly. When he pressed himself against her, his strong hands seizing her at the small of her back, she told herself to turn and flee, but her legs only opened more, and more. And then when he kissed her, she told herself something else, though she couldn’t quite recall what it was her conscience had said—something of treachery; something of a lie, but it mattered not. She was lost. Caught in his lover’s tryst like a fly in the tangle of a web he ensnared her, and that night he took her. He gave her his seed. In turn, she gave him her love, and on the morrow she would give him his victory.

     Long after, as they lay together naked under the stars, he told her what it was that he truly wanted, and with his sure victory to come she knew she would give it willingly. There were many treasures that the old peoples possessed; treasures like The Uaithne. Some were of great power. Others were for wisdom. But there was only one that could fill a cup as empty as Dagda’s: The Cauldron of Forever. And his was a covetous need to lay claim over it. He will have it all, or he will destroy it all. The notion left her with a fear that would swell in her heart. But her love was once a powerful thing, as so often did it dabble in the affairs of Men and War. It blinded her from what he truly was: a deceiver.     

     The war ended with a mighty blow to the aboriginal forces of the Fir Bolg: the Old Tribe of the Fomorian peoples. Dagda took them by storm, leading a host of thousands into their camps while they slept. It was a slaughter. Indeed, they invited the masters of their adversaries to inspect their arms for a fair battle only a fortnight ago. However, the manner of their attack would never be unveiled until their blood was long spilt from their wounds. With The Morrígan at their side, she summoned a great fog by which blinded the watchers of the Fir Bolg, thus availing Dagda’s advance into their lands. She sang a song to call on the wind, filling his sails and bringing his ships to mast on the beaches of Ireland where the war had began. Before long he and his brothers followed their King into a malicious onslaught that the Morrígan was not sure to forget. She had betrayed her own for love, and as she watched her lover put the sword to her kin, she was taken by despair. Her guilt brought tears to her eyes—tears that rained from the sky to cleanse Dagda’s armor of her people’s blood. And the rain lasted for days and nights. And it filled the banks. And begot her an offspring—a rival paramour. The Dagda looked upon Boann as she stepped out from the swollen rivers of the land and was seduced. The Morrígan soon fell scornfully from his favor.  

     His King Nuada fell victim as well, but he took up the crown and finished the deed, driving his enemies into the river to drown. He razed their kingdom and stole it all for his Tuatha Dé Danann. At the weeks end he claimed all of Ireland his own by conquest, and so he decreed that all men and women of the land show him fealty or perish. Boann drank the blood of the defeated greedily, and fat with her meal she made the country fertile again. 

They who would not bow down to their new king were left for Boann to feast upon. The many nights to follow were soon filled with dreadful screams, as no man, nor woman of the Fir Bolg were so craven to submit to his demands. They were a strong, and proud race; even until their end. Morrígan would watch sorrowfully as the last of her people were whist away by The Dagda’s latest love.

     Soon a celebration was had. To honor Dagda’s ascension as King of Ireland his men seized the Fomorian cauldron, and of its magic they summoned a great feast of soup and wine, lamb and mead, boar and ale; the generous cauldron never failing to answer their ravenous needs. For days and nights the revelry carried on as lively as ever. The King indulged in a surfeit of food and drink until his gluttony became him, and he was so fat he could scarcely fit into his own breeches. Drunk and mad with lust he took Boann against her wanting. She thrashed, and roiled, but in the end, she could not deny him. He would lay with her and bear a son, and he would lay with others and bring forth bastards. His men joined him. Without a sense for humility they took harlots and robbed the innocent young of their maidenhood right there in the open before the Great Hearth. The Morrígan watched it all, weeping until she could cry no more. She had herself become well with child, but the father had abandoned her. Her god of Men betrayed her, and his deception turned her heart to stone, as was the nature of those who lust for the Cauldron of Forever.

     One day in the forest where she had first met him, her Dagda, The Morrígan was lying alone on her back, writhing in agony. She tore away at her garb of flowers, allowing the tattered pieces to hang from her waist like the branches of a willow, flapping in the frigid gales. She heaved a scream in the grating voice of a banshee, arching her back skyward. Suddenly a mass of heavy chains sluiced out from her womb and whipped wildly about her like the slithering arms of a squid. A storm gathered above, and lightning streaked across the sky, as her once beautiful blue eyes faded into nothingness. Again she wailed, spitting up blood, black as tar. Then she heard the cry of a babe and she suddenly fell silent. Her lip quavered as her jaw hung in awe. She was screaming, but without a voice. The only sound being that of the keening song of a newborn infant. Then there was no pain, nor sadness—only hatred. A flock of ravens gathered around her, alighting on her, covering her, and then they took to the air, The Morrígan gone with them. 

     Dagda and his men tarried for a time at the Great Hearth, their carousal never ending. He quaffed a tankard full of ale when a queer sound came bubbling up from the cauldron. He sent his exhausted bride from his side and went swooning his way after it. Something like boiling pitch was gurgling sickly inside. His haggard face turned ashen at the acrid stench of it, a putrid smell that wafted densely at him. He drew back just as a loud pop came from within, and two black feathers floated out. All eyes were on the hearth—curious and terrified. For a moment, all of the cheers and joyous laughter came to a sudden end. 

Then a creature rose from the cauldron, the black liquid lathering her long, stringy black hair. The woman stood with a mass of black feathers hugging her body. She opened her wings, and the expanse stretched over all in attendance. Men and women stirred with fear, cowering away from the hearth; their king joined them. The woman was clad in black armor, and dripping mail, with rusty chains snaking out of the cauldron, possessed with terrible life. Resting soundly in her arms she bore a new born babe, ensconced by her coiling chains and tattered lace: it was a girl. 

Her canopy of feathers then broke apart, transforming into many thousands of screaming ravens that dove for the patrons, chasing them from Dagda’s royal camp. The king gave a startled look to his Boann, but she paid him little mind as she went scurrying off with their son cradled to her breast. Standing before the nightmarish faerie he went for his sword. However, before he could draw the blade from its scabbard a deafening voice boomed, “You dare take your greatsword to your own?”

A mysterious force sent the bulbous man tumbling, his golden crown skittering across the dirt. Fear unmanned him as he stared up at the beast with widened eyes and his pleading hands trembling before him. 

The Morrígan glared down at him through the strands of dripping hair that fell over her face. Black blood ran down the length of her neck from her sliced lips—scarred by his traitor’s kiss. Her glowing eyes flashed as she said, “You are a fool, King Dagda of The Worlds Beyond. You are no protector!You are a liar and a fraud. You slay your own to gain your prize. You spoil the fruits of Undry to poison your soul. You are a blind fool. Do you not see this Cauldron of Forever as the gift that is Annwyn—your generous mother earth? Do you not see how you take from her as you have taken from my land? Verily, you do not!” She looked down at the sweet child in her arms. The babe awoke, yawning innocently. She smiled her way. Broken, her mother spoke sadly, “As so, you do not know the like of your own flesh and blood: your daughter and all that was once my love.” 

The king looked to the girl in her arms. She was beautiful. She was Light—the very same Light he had once seen in The Morrígan on that first night. The Light that had been extinguished from her now steely eyes. 

“She is the exalted one!” The Morrígan decried, her voice booming again, echoing across the heavens. “She is the fire of dreams, and she is the bridge betwixt the Fomorians and the Tuatha Dé Danann that will return the strays of Men back to The Light. She is the hearth, which burns through the night, and the forger to mend all things broken. She is the banshee that will keen for the fallen. She is the milk from the breast of goodness; the honey to sweeten the sour hearts of the exiled. She is life, love, sorrow, and joy. Behold, she is Brigid, and the sun stands still in her name.”

The king crawled to his knees. In the sky, the curtain of the heavens parted to show down upon them the brilliance of a lost sun. Its loving warmth upon him, its swimming light igniting a glow of shimmer in the tears that filled his eyes. His voice cracked with emotion as he prayed, “Dark Queen, forgive me. I shall take her, and rear her as only a good father can. I shall show her the love and care, I wish only I could have shown you. For she is all I could ever dream a princess of my own blood. My daughter. My sweet. My Brigid. Forgive me…”

He reached out his arms to accept his child, but The Morrígan hesitated, staring at the girl with her cold eyes. She was all that was once human in her, and soon she would be forever gone from her touch. Though the shell of The Morrígan was to never again know sadness, nor joy, nor love, somehow, she felt the last flicker of her humanity inside as it faded. She gave him the child. An icy tear broke from her rigid lashes, but it soon turned to steam against her fiery white skin. Then without another word, she vanished into a black shroud of retreating ravens, leaving Brigid and Dagda alone for the rest of their living days. 

Many moons after, a desolate Morrígan found herself wandering a beach at the edge of the world. A curious song on the southern winds had called her there—a beguiling song. She soon found herself at the break of the ocean where the waves plumed like warring clouds. A faint shadow was moving abreast the shore under the waters. It swam with the elegance of a porpoise, but she could see it was a woman. The submerged stranger had long green hair and a scaly body marked with dancing streaks of light from the sun’s rays. The creature came to the surface but did not peer out. Instead, she launched her silky, lissome arms out from the water, her clawed hands closed around the golden hilt of a longsword with a crystal pommel. The droplets ran off of its perfectly crafted blade like glittering diamonds falling from a beaming silvery steel. The Morrígan marveled at it for some time, her breath stolen by its beauty. She knew well what this sign marked, and so she saw the coming of a great war on the horizon: a war to shatter lands and mend them as one—a war that would call forth a new King—a child king. The Cauldron’s work was far from done, its ever-turning waters driving an ebb and flow through the waves of life toward. Pushing them all toward another chapter waiting anxiously to be read. A chapter to come. A song to sing… a Dream yet to be dreamt.    

The End

It's Called Horrorcore?

#MNE
#TWIZTID
#HORRORCORE
#ICP


One question was about to change my life forever…

“You never heard of the Insane Clown Posse?”

The question came suddenly and caught me unprepared. I would not know then that it was a question that would move my world into a new horizon for years to come. I was young, and just starting to understand that I enjoyed music, especially rap. If you asked me why now, I’d tell you that I was attracted to the rambunctious culture, and the fuck-you-I’ll-say-what-the-hell-I-want attitude that stained my soul over the years. But the truth is, it was trendy. The Thug Life era was just coming to a close, ushering in the age of Dr. Dre’s Aftermath, Missy Elliott’s weird fish-eyed-lens music videos, and Busta Rhymes’s apocalyptic fast word-play. I didn’t know what I liked as far as music went, but I was impressionable, and I was at a fertile age that was ready to root some new seeds. Eminem’s first mainstream album had just exploded into our not-quite-ready-for-that-nasty eardrums. I couldn’t possibly know at the time that he had flung open a dirty door that would send in an inundating flood of potty-mouth art to mold an entire generation. All I knew for certain was that I liked it.

The only albums I owned then were the Blade Motion Picture Soundtrack, the Bullworth Motion Picture soundtrack, and something else, who knows. I was still asking for action figures for my birthday then. So when I met my buddy James and he introduced me to the world of time-to-get-into-your-teens-now I was not ready for this question. As far as music went, I only listened to what my sister liked. She was older, she was an influence, and she taught me about Rap. Eventually I would get to appreciate the Gods that came before, such as 2pac, Biggie, and the Wu-Tang Clan, but I did not know shit back then. I understood that a new paradigm shift in music had been born. I remember the impact when 2pac was killed. I did not get why his fatality was so important, but I remember vividly when mom told us like it was some life changing political news.

But this question, I was not ready for. It was such an alien thing then. Rapping clowns? What!

“Ummmm… Who?” That was all I could manage.

James rolled his eyes, like I was some sheltered creature hidden away from the sunlight all of his life. He told me about the wrestling, he told me about the Disney conspiracies that had been blown way out of proportion from hearsay. But it all sounded stupid, because it was.

“That sound’s wack.” It came with a disparaging laugh I hadn’t meant to slip out. I also did not know that it was pretty much the general consensus on this particular topic. Still, I never meant to offend.

Indignant, James huffed and puffed and made me listen to a track called Piggy Pie from their album The Great Milenko. I was actually very impressed after the first listen; however, I’d like to add one note: It really is not fair to start a fresh palette on a new flavor by playing only one of their best pieces off one of their most critically acclaimed albums. But I digress.

I wasn’t quite hooked just yet. James was cool, wild, and very much a bad influence. He would fade from my life forever, and faster than Thanos can snap his fingers. But that song stuck with me. I held on to that experience for a long time. It was like my first taste of a drug, and it had that very same effect. Your first high was always the strongest, and then you hunt desperately to maintain that same high. And will fail. But with the Clowns, I needed time.

My mom loved comics. She took us out to the comic book store to check out the new releases almost every month. I only just started getting attached to one publication. I loved Image Comics. It was mostly for Todd McFarlane’s Spawn, but still, I enjoyed everything they put out. It was like a dark take on superheroes and antiheroes, and beyond. I always loved the bad-guy story, and Image delivered. This time at the shop I stumbled on a new release from Chaos: The Insane Clown Posse and their Comic book debut Raze The Desertz of Glass. Now they crossed into my territory of interest. I bought both versions of that special issue. I remember they came with a special Pendulum album track on cd for every issue. Collecting all the issues got the entire secret album which would later be released gradually on their Forgotten Freshness cds. I thought it was a neat promo grab to get people to buy. But I actually really liked the artwork as well. I enjoy that visceral, gritty, ugly look in illustrations like that. It was why I always loved Todd McFarlane’s work. The grimy details were always fresh as fuck. Chaos Comics did a hell of a job bringing to life their free rolling mythology too.

I remember coming back home all excited because finally I got it. But I didn’t. I was a noob, in a sense. And I only made it not cool, if that can even be a thing considering. But these were the building blocks toward a foundation that would eventually shape everything I would grow to be.

James fell out of it, and I stuck to it.

My next cds were the Riddle Box, and The Amazing Jeckel Brothers, which was their new release at the time. On that album I saw an advertisement in all comic-book glory fashion for Twiztid’s first mainstream release: a remake of their street classic Mostasteless. That fucking cassette ended up becoming one of my most cherished possessions for a long time. Then, hearing what they were saying like “blow up the white house” and using the word without a care for consequence was both shocking and crudely inspiring for me. My mom didn’t care, she got me them for Christmas, (though Twiztid I had to discover on my own). She heard a rumor from some party spoiler at her work that admonished her for buying me them, and mom delivered that warning to me. I took it the same way a smoker acknowledged their surgeon general’s warning that they were going to become creatures if they kept being a chainsmoker. Thanks mom! Well, going to my room to listen to my jams.

The poison was in.

I grew up. The last joker’s card came out and I was confused by the grand finale. James went on to become a cult leader or whatever. I went on to jump in and out of the following. Then I graduated, got a job, and I forgot. But my dad brought it back. One day on our way to work he played the fuck off song on Jeckel Brothers. From that day on we used that song as our coffee to start the morning. I rediscovered my taste for it. I went back to my old cds and threw them in to the old disk jammer. It was late, but I rekindled the candle for that dark wicked-shit horror themed hiphop, and I wanted more. So I got more. Picked up ICP’s Bizzar, Bizaar. Bought merch at Hot Topic. And I repped that shit proudly. Most people never cared about it because they did not know. Eventually that would become problematic, but not yet.

Soon I would learn about ABK, Blaze Ya Dead Homie, Boondox… Boondox was a funny one. I scoffed the infamous Scarecrow and his shoddy gimmick, until I saw him in concert and finally shut the fuck up. Now he is one of my favorite acts. My first concert was The Tempest tour featuring main acts Twiztid, and Insane Clown Posse. In that show my homie Brandon made us do it. At first, I was nervous. Never been to a Psychopathic Records show, and I heard nasty stories. And when we got there, we went straight for the barricade and stayed there until the war was done. And I mean War. Everything was chill until Twiztid took the stage. When the lights went out moments before their opening song the ocean of people behind us began roiling. They pressed us against that barricade until our ribs felt as though they might burst. When the lights hit, the base filled our lungs, and the mist flew out, they materialized under a veil of swirling fog. Then they hit that “Axe murderaz! WE DON’T DIE!” That’s when we felt the full force of the mob behind us. They crowd surfed, and we got kicked in the face, but it was awesome.

We have gone to a thousand shows since then. There was this one Twiztid show in Philadelphia Pa where a chubby, but haughty security guard wanted to talk bad about everyone that was set to perform that night. Brandon and I caught him punching audience members at the barricade. We caught ahold of one crowd surfer and together we launched his ass at that security guard. The next moment, the guy we threw was back on his feet Whoop-Whoop’n unbothered, and Big-Mouth security guard was being walked out with tears in his eyes. Apparently we shattered his arm. At the Gathering of The Juggalos we got a brutal first-hand taste of global warming as the sun beat the shit out of us and saw Tila Tequila get bags of piss to the face. Actually, we only heard about that the next morning. Whatever, the point is: It happened and she deserved it. Hate if you want; that woman dissed the Fam and took the stage anyway when clearly nobody wanted her there.

I used to be very proud and vocal about the culture that I would later learn was known as Horrorcore. The legendary Esham the Unholy began it. ICP emulated him with their clown faces and murder themes, Eminem exposed them to a broader audience, and they collectively paved the way for horror rappers of all walks of life. Soon there would be too many experiences and acts to count, but I enjoy a good bit of them. I think these days the legendary Tech N9ne and Twiztid are my favorites in this category. But I feel like a new face (forever face, rather) is about to revitalize the industry. They’re like a true honest to god Horror Movie if it was transformed into rap. I am referring to a new phenomenon called Alla Xul Elu. There is also G-Mo Skee (who adds a nice Eminem like flavor to his work), Gorilla Voltage, Lex The Hex, Hopsin, Lo Key, Scum, and as I said, too many more to mention. Alla Xul have a massive following already, and now that Majik Ninja Entertainment (Twiztid’s new rap label) have provided them a hot spot light to show off their work I think they are destined to become equal entities to their founders, and the high-rise foundation they have made.

I have met everyone from the old Psychopathic roster except for one act. So I bought the VIP pass for Frightfest 2018, and at last I got to talk to Twiztid in person. Drew them a couple of caricatures, and they were just like two excited, grateful kids to have it done. And I was greatful for that reaction as I just kind of figured they have gotten better art before. But they seemed genuinely impressed by my technique, and the small time it took to complete. They invited me to consider drawing at their convention early next year, and it was an all around great experience. I am 33 years old now. Been listening to these guys since 1999, and now, everything has become like a new chapter turning from a novel that had begun with a single question. Thanks James.

Happy Halloween! Stay wicked, stay true to you. Think for yourself dude, and don’t do what they do. Just do what you want to do. The haters are going to hate anyway, so you might as well just have fun with it.

Whoop Whoop!