Suggested Audio Jukebox

 

[1] Chris Isaak “Wicked Game”
[2] Ladytron “Playgirl”
[3] Boy Sets Fire “Release The Dogs”
[4] Urge Overkill “Girl You’ll Be a Woman Soon”
[5] Adam Lambert “For Your Entertainment”
[6] Survivor “Burning Heart”

 

I now know precisely what they mean by the ancient proverb “no rest for the wicked”. Taken literally this would suggest an eternity of hell-based torment but, figuratively speaking, it suggests that anyone even vaguely iniquitous will be required to work like a pack-horse for reasons unbeknownst to them. While I may be a dash impish at times, I’m hardly Genghis Khan thus not altogether sure why I qualify for such perpetual toil. However, someone appears to have taken exception to my occasionally unruly behavior and, as a direct result, I have been refused the possibility of remaining idle. It’s no walk in the park being the Brutal Word Wrangler and I seem destined to become a martyr for my cause. Several opponents have been lined up for my benefit and I shall be required to dispose of each in turn if I wish to face the grim reaper and end this misery once and for all. Are there better things I could be doing than going toe-to-toe with death’s vile entourage? While in possession of a cock and two smoking balls, one will always instantly spring to mind, but it’s hardly likely to help me here. No I must do my duty, defeat this philistine by fair means or foul, or damn well die trying. Apparently that’s my destiny. Next time I see fate, I shall plant my big toe right in its poo tube and I have no intention of trimming my nails beforehand either.

Needless to say my primary opponent, Monsieur Heureux, also qualifies as wicked and this is wretched news for me in particular. You see, this disagreeable doll and I have history and there’s no love lost between us. For those not already in the know, it all began way back in September 2013 when I rattled this morose marionette’s cage for the first time. Here, I shall provide a quick refresher course just to set the tone but, be warned, it’s an ominous one at very best and unlikely to leave you feeling chipper.

The Uncanny Yarn of Monsieur Heureux

 

I recall the day that my parents donated
this short lifelike scourge who appeared cruelly fated
to bring suffering not once understated
a pain so insane it consumed me

 

Hatefully carved with the blackest of souls
a dark heart within this most heinous of dolls
malignant no figment pure life-force annulled
with designs to both taunt and groom me

 

Too fearful was I to accommodate this
His eyes were so bleak and each glare an abyss
I dare not allow myself into such tryst
with one so shrouded in terror

 

You may call me foolish or even erratic
To banish Monsieur Heureux up in the attic
the punishment set for me being pragmatic
was to pay with my soul for this error

 

As I lay in my bed contemplating my actions
this hollow vortex of dissatisfaction
taunted me only to see my reaction
absorbing my fear for amusement

 

A ventriloquist’s dummy no voice-box inside
so why did I feel it compelling to hide
my worst fears confirmed as he then vocalized
much to my deepest bemusement

 

I’ll carve out your innards with lashings so deep
you’ll not hear me fumble you’ll not hear me creep
I’ll quench myself on life-force while you sleep
with not a soul any the wiser

 

They’ll just put it down to an unexplained death
and little they’ll know that I stole your last breath
I’m biding my time but I will manifest
see I’m killer not just terrorizer

 

The very next morning I gave him away
as the attic seemed too close to keep him at bay
an old antique store is where he spent his days
and it seemed I’d unburdened myself

 

But I lay here right now and still feel consternation
knowing each fretful glance further fuels his elation
and it is with the most grim of realization
that he’s staring once more from the shelf

 

Now do you see why my sphincter is currently clenched? At the time I considered this verse sufficient closure but he always threatened a return and I guess deep down I knew this day would eventually come. Given the tale of the tape, you’d be forgiven for thinking this something of a mismatch and akin to snatching candy from an infant. The thing is, Heureux isn’t hot on clemency and has never forgotten being banished to the attic so unceremoniously. Back then he vowed his foul revenge and is the very reason I sleep with one eye open even now. Worse still, I can feel him close by as we speak. Having taunted me from his dusty platform every night without fail since being ostracized, it is time for him to step up his wicked game and take shit to the very next level. I’ve tried everything to rid myself of this curse so it seems ironic that he should head up the bill tonight. What goes around eventually comes back around, I just wish it had dragged its heels a little more as I possess a crank which isn’t yanking itself dagnabbit.

Okay so this shouldn’t pose too much of a problem on paper. I stand tall at 6″1 and Heureux is practically a pygmy in comparison. That said, there is such a thing as little man syndrome and I can almost smell the chip fat on both his moth-eaten shoulders. I may fully intend on lopping off his timber top block and punting it swiftly and mercilessly into the big blue beneath but I’m not tallying my poultry just yet and expect no easy ride from hereon in. It is my understanding that he is well within his rights to bring along his “boy toys” to assist him in his pre-planned retribution. Well allow me to inform you right now Heureux that I’m ready for whatever cruel curve ball you can pitch me. Got my pitcher glove on and I’m primed for the strike; whether Charles Le Ray or those dastardly Demonic Toys they’ll all be returning to factory settings soon enough. However, I’m under no illusion when it comes to you Heureux; no such settings exist in your hollow cage and your vitality surges straight from the very hell beneath us so I’d better be on my A-game.

 

I have to say, the mise en scène fashioned for our epic skirmish is quaint to say the very least. The sun’s tepid beams burst through the cloud formations above, sending benign signals which aren’t in keeping with this pint-sized punisher’s natural environment. With no shadows for the skulking, flanking me shall not be the elementary pursuit you have planned little man. Having scrutinized the battle roster further, I am now clear as to your elected entourage and seven deadly sins is one more than half-dozen menstrual hags than I could do with right now. These blackened wenches go by the names Gluttony, Avarice, Vanity, Lust, Envy, Sloth, and Wrath – and not a solitary one of them has ever put flannel to vagina so I’ll have to be on the lookout for untraceable STDs and the like. Should I commence scratching at any point during our skirmish, then I’ll only have myself to blame for spending too long on each fraternization. These seven supposedly deadly sins can suck my bat and balls as I have no intention of slipping in the finger without first sliding on the mittens. Come get some of daddy’s mutton you tiny bitches; you may just find a little gristle waiting when you do. And as for you Monsieur Heureux, I’ll deal with you last you nanoscopic nincompoop.

My primary discernment of the sins provides confirmation of the exact opposite of what I had anticipated. Expecting them to make the seven dwarves appear lanky and each resemble Grumpy, it is with decidedly obnoxious whammy that my peepers receive far more dubious intelligence. The septenary of provocative hellcats before me stand tall in ten-inch heels and shoulder-to-shoulder as I begin to navigate the thorny path to my nemesis. This pungent data is barely processed and my monster has already begun to stir like the sinuous serpent that it is, frothing over with giddy glee while spitting at the prospect of getting down and dirty with these barbarous concubines. Cautiously I unsheathe my demon and stride forth into the fray with the most rancid of intentions. Gluttony, Avarice, Vanity, Lust, Envy, Sloth, Wrath – all are present and correct, each clad in their relevant battle colors and baying for my disembodied head on the tip of their rampant rabbits. Mind out of the gutter Wrangler, these slags will punish me greatly for popping a solitary nut from my zipper. As for Heureux, he is wisely staying at a safe vantage while his soiled suffragettes prepare to get their freak on. Time for my chosen taunt methinks.

“I got seven brothers for you, you bellyaching bow-wows”

 

Not bad from the top of my head if I do say so myself. Not quite Schwarzenegger caliber, more Chuck Norris, but it should remind them that the Brutal Word Wrangler is here not for pleasure, but bloody business. Should you have clicked on the Audio Candy, then you should be en route for the first chorus by this point (just you wait for the bridge) and thus, just as primed as I for a dash of dangerous liaison. That means petticoats which equates to an additional layer of frilly fabric separating me from the gaggle of grinding goose flaps that lie beneath. I may just slice off all fourteen of their curtains, build me a beefy ankle bracelet, and parade that shit around like Tits McGee on a treadmill for my own shits and grins. You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth! Don’t ask me why I just said that, as the jury certainly ain’t out on these odious clinkers. Hell knows I could do with a few good men right now and please refrain from snickering in the back rows as the acoustics out here are staggering. Makes me want to slap on Saving Private Ryan and storm Omaha Beach in stereo but I have my own privates to protect and, having just watched Interstellar, know better than to put myself out for Matt Damon as he’s downright ungrateful.

Gluttony arrives first, right on queue, and lunges straight towards the red zone like the greedy little pussy fart that she is. Needless to say, I step back to evade her lunging incisors as she apparently views me as a gingerbread man of sorts. Sorry sapling never saw my deception coming and stumbles over my knee, straight into spanking position. I’m under no illusion that this is a cunning ploy to seduce the Wrangler but, little does this harpy realize, that it presents me with an opportunity to set my stall out to the ladies from the very offset.

This presents me all the opportunity required to introduce myself to the ladies. Hoisting up her underskirt in full view of all six of her sisters, I slide her laced bloomers down from her plump peach cheeks and prepare to commence the tomfoolery, tanning her bare derriere nicely as I await Avarice’s advance. If it sounds elementary then let me tell you that it sure as sugar and spice isn’t. You see, little girls just happen to be made of all things nice, one of which being the ass dimple. I feel bizarrely drawn to Gluttony’s cleft and almost unravel the tongue for a swift slather but mercifully she farts as I do and it would appear she is unfussy about how much roughage she consumes daily. Judging by the potent brew she just excavated, I’d hazard a guess at thirty portions of her compulsory five and heaven knows how many brussel sprouts have found their way into her twisted colon. Each fires like a bronzed bullet cloud directly towards my flared nostrils. This explains the mystery of why curiosity killed the cat as we just can’t resist a quick sniff can we? Negative, I hold my breath valiantly, and slap those rosy reds until they resemble two Alopecia-stricken albinos in a heat wave. Next up I unsheathe the steel.

However, I am interrupted from branding my primary prey with my customizable iron, by the incoming Avarice and Gluttony will need to be placed on the back-burner momentarily as I deal with this fresh threat. Cunningly, I reposition the blade and use it to lop off her sorry noggin before she can enter into my personal space. By that estimation that leaves six sluts to slice, dice, and possibly ride like Seabiscuit through the death rattles. Moreover, the battle with Gluttony has already been won in the mind and stomach cramps should prevent her from posing any discernible challenge from hereon in. Scoff those brussels in sufficient quantity and you roll the dice as she has discovered to the tune of a brace of tanned nectarines and squandered spirit.

Ordinarily I’d be donning my crimson cod-piece and pulling off all number of slides and spins for their bemusement, but there is too much work afoot for any floccinaucinihilipilification. These damsels yearn distress and I’m holding the golden ticket in my sweaty palm like Charlie Bucket. Fuck Grandpa, I’m taking my second-cousin Annabelle to Wonka’s knocking shop as I can’t be dealing with changing bed pans or massaging bunions when there’s everlasting gobstoppers to masticate. Besides, while that Gloop kid is busy stuffing his cheeks at the chocolate estuary, I plan to take full advantage of the whole “distant relative” thing and pop some cock candy in her colon. I must take advantage of my front footed posture by further making an example of Avarice so, after rotating her disembodied head by the scruff as though it were a trophy, I give it a hasty toe-punt directly into the path of the consolidating sirens. How’s that for a statement of intent you mangy minxes? Better yet, I assure you, I’m just getting warmed up here.

I finish fashioning the infamous CQ brand on Gluttony’s peachy buttocks and proceed to take a pungent nostril-brace of asphalt and charring flesh. Then, with nasal flumes stilled gaping, I release this skanky tramp from my knee perch and rise to my apex in the same manner as the yellowish mushroom cloud she just relinquished and plump for my next voluptuous victim. Said obstacle is Vanity but she is far too busy admiring herself in her hand-mirror to even spot me approaching.

“Take that you noxious twat!”

Refusing to fall for her last-ditch selfie pout, I reveal my ankle-blade, before proceeding to jam it straight into her cranium, spoiling her looks and sending a satisfyingly sickening spray of deep red and lip gloss all over her finest evening gown. Now I don’t wish to fondle my own junk or anything but I’m rather proud of myself for denying Vanity the chance to activate her debilitating perfume. One puff of fragrance and I would have been mutt scraps. Instead, I’m top dog and the remaining sins damn well know it too.

 

The menstrual Lust wastes not a moment more in flanking me, scratching at my skin with ten manicured nails of dire desire. She incites my monster with each arrogant laceration and it chomps through the teeth of my codpiece ferociously, slipping inside her foolishly unlatched chastity belt and ram-raiding her podgy puss with a decisive injection of mounting frenzy. As I’m a sucker for detail and, because this is my fantasy dammit, my 12-inches plus change (give or take) Bratwurst nestles in around her baby maker while my Phantasm-themed plums assemble to batter her platter. You heard me correctly, two chrome-skulled death-bringers rigged with all sorts of vicious gadgetry. I guess that makes my Johnson Angus Scrimm and what better way to honor this legendary man than by boring a hole through her ovary. Carving Lust’s organs into fleshy ribbons with my globes of annihilation, I yank free my bullish brute, crafting a tidy little inverted Chelsea smile on exit. She recoils back with a blood-curdling scream, riding the ultimate convulsion to her sorry fate. And then there are three.

Moreover, I believe I may well have caused a dash of disenchantment in the ranks as this cock-hungry crony represented perhaps their best chance at sexual corruption. That may be true but my head still needs to be on a swivel as Envy clearly isn’t about to sit back and watch that tramp soak up all the sweet honey nectar. As projected, she flies at me akin to Mrs. Baylock, albeit with disarming green peepers and minus the hell hounds, promptly plunging her biting gear into my exposed shoulder-blade. Before I can muster a wince, she slides a seven-inch bread knife into my waist, narrowly avoiding spearing my kidney in the process. Instantly I drop to my knees in the same manner as Lust would have done had she not procrastinated too long on her choice of lip liner. However, as one door closes, another opens and I sink straight into the vicinity of the narcoleptic Sloth who is enjoying a quick forty winks, oblivious to the carnage around her.

This means easy pickings as opposed to the slim ones forecast and my barbed glove grants her the eternal rest she seemingly craves as I cram it into her brow, popping both eyeballs like lychee. On the plus side, at least she no longer has to concern herself with morning conjunctivitis.

 

Buoyant from my gifted conquest, I turn my attention back to Envy but do so this time tasting the very carbon on my tongue. I rise to my feet once more as she prepares to land a far more conclusive blow but, this time, I’m ready for shenanigans and she never gets there as I slide my sullied steel sub-naval, before dragging it tantalizingly northwards. This fashions an almighty canyon right through her center-point and, as I twist the business end of my weapon in her larynx, I discern the seventh of these deadly sins glaring at me wildly. Standing before me is Wrath, the leader of this cursed coven, shrouded in inky apparel and looking to end me at once.

Perhaps most ominous is the name that precedes her. Unless I’m mistaken, it translates roughly to furious anger and she is sporting her Jheri curl deep down in her haunch like an upside-down Jules Winnfield. While I’m all for a tasty burger, dense and wiry pubic hair doesn’t make for the best of relish. This bush is a shoe-in for accidental fire and tumbleweed has never looked less appealing than it does now.

Sensing my temporary weakness, she digs her nails straight into the fresh abrasion on my midriff, causing lightheadedness as the pain becomes too intense for even the Brutal Word Wrangler to stomach without first conceding a suitably sniveling yelp of derision.

“Ouch!”

Alas, that is the sum of my available vocabulary at this moment and I feel great shame at being forced into such a cliché rejoinder but “Ouch!” pretty much gets it on the money all things considered. Delighted by my simmering misery, she raises her bingo wing aloft and I sense this being time to either shit or vacate the pot. By way of knee-jerk reaction, I flail my arms wildly and, in an instant, am gifted total tranquility. I’m a tad disappointed if I’m honest as I had been expectant of one shrill banshee cry or another but, instead, there is but eerie silence. Have I delivered some knockout blow that I’m not even aware of? I could swear my arm didn’t make contact so what’s with the quietude anyway? Moreover, do I really wish to find out? There is such a thing as “calm before the storm” and I’m not imprudent enough to fall for such lulls towards false security.

Indeed, it is with trepidation unparalleled that I am finally reintroduced to my arch-nemesis Heureux as it is he who holds Wrath in his icy grasp, having just snapped her cervical vertebra as though it were a fleshy fortune cookie. I wonder what it reads – likely something typically inconclusive like “Error 404. Fortune not found”. If I’m poking around for positives, then how do you like these apples? Wrath’s dead eyes find it fruitless to conceal her immense dismay at being snuffed out without prior warning and this should present me the upper hand in the upcoming scuffle with dollman. So why then do I feel sick to the pit of my abdomen like I’ve just polished off a box of nine McNuggets and washed them down with a triple thick banana milkshake? Tell you what, I’ll fill you in for free.

The moment has now arrived for me to do battle once more with this ever-lingering demon. Considering “You’ll not hear me fumble, you’ll not hear me creep” were his precise words as he sat perched in pride of place on my mantle plotting my demise night after night, I’m a little unnerved by the fact that I have not seen him coming as prophesied, true to his wretched word. He missed a trick if you ask me as he had the perfect opportunity to go all Pet Semetery on my Achilles tendon with a box cutter. However, while I should be feeling an overwhelming sense of relief, no shit-eating grins are forthcoming. Perhaps this is, in part, due to the fact that his following move has also not been pre-forecast. With a dead twinkle in his glass eye that I know all too well already, Heureux produces a polythene bag from his short-stacked sleeve and slides it over my head before I can raise objection, pulling it in tight like a head scarf and cutting off my precious oxygen in the process. At least you can ignore flatulence, asphyxiation is far tougher to turn a blind one to and he has secured it like a freaking boy scout.

 

Gasping for anything resembling breathable air as I roll about the ground hysterically, I feel my eyes begin to well up with crimson tears and everything commences to move in slow motion. Not nearly eventually enough for my comfort, those final desperate pants begin to subside as the oxygen dissipates entirely and it appears all is lost for the Wrangler. The next few seconds seem to last an eternity but I use them well, recalling Rocky IV and, in particular, Balboa busting out a montage in some frozen outpost while he builds up for his incoming bout with Drago. Now imagine if you will, the Russian, all seven-foot of him, coiled up in the corner the whole time Rocky trained, gathering intelligence and learning every one of his opponent’s weaknesses, all to the admittedly rousing soundtrack of Burning Heart by Survivor. That’s the vantage Heureux has been gifted. He sat there nonchalantly for aeons, taking in every breath I took and move I made so as, one day, to use it all against me. Worse still, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Putz!

In an allegedly futile eleventh-hour attempt at self-defibrillation, I rapidly consider three encouraging facts and the fog begins to clear from my radar as the tale of the tape tells unquestionably of my favor:

Despite his worst attempts, Monsieur Heureux is essentially a tiny little man with no penis. I can take whatever he throws at me as I’m fairly assured I could emerge victorious from an arm wrestle with Warwick Davis as long as his Ewok friends aren’t on hand to tickle my sides and turn the tide in his favor. Actually, I’ve always imagined Warwick to be hung rather well, but that’s by the bye as I’d still kick his booty before his opening “oompa”.

I’m not twelve any more and dolls don’t freak me out the same now. Apart from that one in Dead Silence which is admittedly mildly terrifying and he did look strangely similar to my current company. Nevertheless, I reiterate. I’m a man, not a boy. Whether vaguely pathetic or not doesn’t come into this.

I have Justin Bieber as a reward should I make it through the next three rounds and that is far too saccharin a sweetener not to binge upon freely. The idea of plucking his ribs like a harp is more than enough motivation to consign this childhood toy to the attic once and for all.

Last gasp now. With the anthemic verse “the unmistakable fire” burning in my thoughts I grab Heureux by the scruff of his timber neck and fling him over the cliff-side like a Butterfinger wrapper on the freeway. Then, after wrestling the polythene mask from my face, I scuttle wearily over to the edge, just to ascertain his final resting spot and now I know how Dr. Loomis felt as I am greeted by…nothing. Crashing waves may well be ahoy but there is no sight of my opposite number and this alone invites a little brown enemy to my rectal gates. Should’ve known it would not be that easy; I fear we have not met for the last time and will sure as shit be ready for our next encounter whenever that may be. For now however, and despite how dreadfully weary I currently feel, I’m primed for the announcement of the next brace of combatants – the rooks. As yet I remain in the dark as to their actual identity but I taste the tang of blood on my gums now and won’t halt until face-to-face with that reaper schmuck once more. Fuck stalemate with a rancid bishop on steroids, I’m taking the king dagnabbit, and there are only a handful of things left that he can do about it. Poke it you bony bugger.

 

Click here to read The Rookies

 

 

 

Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

 

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014