Wrangler vs. Reaper: To Kill a Queen



Suggested Audio Jukebox


[1] Berlin “Take My Breath Away”
[2] Kenny Loggins “Danger Zone”
[3] James Brown “Turn Me Loose, I’m Dr. Feel Good”
[4] Timbaland “Indian Flute (Instrumental)”
[5] Blondie “The Tide Is High”
[6] Queen “Another One Bites The Dust”
[7] Yello “The Race”
[8] Years & Years “Border”



Well slap my inner thigh and call me Cleatus, I’ve only gone and made it. When it was first revealed who I would be facing for my penultimate battle, I suspected I had died and gone straight to heaven. Perhaps The Grim Reaper wasn’t such a bad sort after all as he granted me my ongoing wish of going toe-to-toe with a young man so utterly primed for a sound hiding that I even named a punch after him. The Bieber Whomp is a move that I have practised religiously back at the dojo ever since he filled his first mop bucket. Given that I cherished my own grandmother so wholeheartedly, the fact that this little snot gland saw fit to flash his junk to his own meemaw as a childish prank renders him utterly inexcusable and I have relished nothing more than knocking him down a peg or two at the first available opportunity. I have dreamed of this day ever since and the very thought of pounding him into putty makes me positively light-headed. Of course, there have been numerous obstacles en route; all manner of demonic doppelgängers, miserly Muppets and pissy puppets have littered the wrangler’s path to the fateful showdown with he most gangly but a mixture of blind luck and perseverance has seen me through safely.


I guess I’d better come clean as I couldn’t have gotten this far had it not been for my sulky support act, Bonus Brain. Sheesh he loves to feel all compulsory that glob of cantankerous cerebral goo and, the truth is, his suggestions have been reasonably sound up until now. I’d have no hesitation in tooting his bugle if it weren’t for the fact that he’s so damn crotchety but kindness doesn’t cost a thing and yet he remains reluctant to put his hand in his pocket once in a while and pay it forward in the name of team spirit. Instead he lounges around all magisterial, breaking only to make me feel like the dumb-ass in this outfit and has never once chipped in for groceries either. If I left it all up to him, we’d be simmering away in death’s cauldron right now and he’d be little more than side garnish. It’s one thing piping up whenever the mood takes you but entirely another putting in the endless legwork to reach the winner’s podium. I’m effectively his wet-nurse and I’m sick and tired of expressing the lactose just for him to latch on and bleed me dry with not so much as a solitary gracias. Do I cut him loose? Perhaps but now simply isn’t the time for crisis talks as I’m one cum face from climax right now and plan on painting the town magnolia before dawn’s early light, with or without his unwilling assistance.


Regardless of how I arrived at the place I’m stood now, the truth of the matter is, I made it. For all of their best efforts, The Hecklers couldn’t put a dent in my superiority and I escaped from Jim Henson’s workshop with little more than a dash of loose stitching and a handful of regrets over not punishing the Pigster with my purple pugil. Had time not been so pressing, then I’d be up to my elbows in grunter clunge at this very moment but you have to make sacrifices when embarking on an undertaking as perilous as this and there will be plenty of time to bring home the bacon after I’ve halted The Grim Reaper’s diabolical march once and for all. You think Usain Bolt could break the ten second barrier if he mounted every primed puta pouting from the sidelines? Focus is key here and failure to prioritize will soon see me stewing in an over-crowded cauldron so both eyes are on prize as opposed to thighs as would be a weaker man’s decoration. I shall remain the consummate professional from hereon in as it has delivered me this far and proved my mettle as a wrangler in the process. Stop now? Never. While there is breath in Justin Bieber’s lungs to poach, I cannot and will not falter. Talk of the scraggy son of a bitch, I feel it’s time we take a sturdy step towards penultima and get this show on the road, don’t you?


073[amolenuvolette.it]1848-1891 delaunay jules elie david et goliath

So here’s the thing. On paper it would appear we’re set for perhaps the greatest mismatch in fight night history since David pre-loaded his slingshot and caught Goliath on an off-day. By all regular accounts, this could well prove a woefully anti-climactic final warm-up, and I half-expect to have victory wrapped up by the time I can relinquish my leather belt from its loops and wrap its business buckle around his puny calves. It’s hard to help suspecting that death has shot his spoiled load here by pitting me against a mere phlegm drip when the stakes are at their uppermost lofty. Should you have asked me outright who I wouldn’t wish to face en route to my showdown bout then I’d have blurted xenomorph before Kane’s water broke. I imagined myself tip-toeing through the ova, avoiding huggers of faces and bursters of chest cages along the way to a big-budget skirmish with the “bitch'” herself. While I would’ve willingly taken extra tutorials on how to evade the talons of this maddening menstrual mama, instead I’ve practically received a bye to the gold medal match. Or so it would seem at least. You see, the wrangler is beginning to learn that, more often than not, everything is not what it appears so frosty is my elected thermal climate this night. After all, since when has it ever been that elementary?


So then, on to Queen Bieber himself. It remains unsubstantiated whether man or mutant, but one thing certainly isn’t open to question. This festering flea-felcher has provided me with such a sprawling plethora of motivations to desire the most vicious of pummelings to his oily punnet forecast. It’s not that I mean to single him out when other irritants get away scot-free with their indiscretion but there is something special about the new JB. Drawing comparisons to The Godfather of Funk himself, James Brown, and grunge messiah, Kurt Cobain, hasn’t helped his cause and implying that Anne Frank could have been a “belieber” was a plain moronic dick move, no matter how benign its intention. Meanwhile, churning out godawful mashed-up Pop/R&B drivel is another misdemeanor of which the lad is accountable. But nothing needles as much as his inability to realize what an absolute plum rudder he actually is. The problem with stumbling across worldwide fame as a virtual sperm is that it leaves your tailgate wide open to getting caught smearing Purina® Chow over your testicles and screaming out “sick ’em softly Marmaduke”. This is precisely what has happened as the boy has “grown-up” under the spotlight but not all parts of him have made that transition so smoothly.



Granted, those abs are pretty immaculate if that sort of thing strokes your artichoke but how’s the shaving going anyway Justin? Then there’s the whole Schlong-Gate debacle and allow me to shed a little light on this supposedly prized Leberwurst. You see, Bieber decided it would be good publicity to get “caught” by paparazzi strolling naked across the balcony while on vacation in Bora Bora. Faster than Miley Cyrus can fire ping-pong balls from her vulva into a ming vase from thirty yards, the whole world was fooled into beliebing that this young buck is hung like a Kentucky thoroughbred when anyone straddling a banger will know what a few slaps can do in preparation for the all-important “cheese” moment. That’s right teenage girls, I happen to possess a porker prod. No Justin you don’t, your fame just affords you hot shower water. Now dare to pull that shit in high-tide Höfn, Iceland and we’ll see what kind of golf ball and none iron you’re packing in your caddy sack sonny Jim. Now go and wash those armpits before they revolt any further. See you in the shower block Bieber and I’ll be the one prowling over by the lockers with a sopping wet Egyptian towel in case you’re wondering.


Come to think of it, perhaps it’s his agent that needs the sternest talking to here. After all, any advice that pissing in a bucket publicly and then bragging of your exploits is a wise career move is surely both misinformed and not to be taken as gospel. Ultimately however, every young man on the perpetual cusp of puberty must be responsible for his own actions and, until which time as Justin takes the reins, I shall continue to pitch repeated sly digs his way. Moreover, in a few moments I aim to knead his malleable noggin to a fleshy pulp and then roll it into multiple Mini-Biebers with the sole purpose of destroying at will and beyond. Nothing personal son but business is, after all, business, albeit with a healthy dose of immense personal gratification and vague waft of arousal. This will be likely over faster than Trump can construct a wall across the Mexican border but playing fields are as even in war as they should be in love and I won’t be parping my Flugelhorn just yet. There is too much at stake for complacency or cockiness. I’d expect both from him but he ain’t this wrangler’s Piper.


Anyhoots, my date with death is looming ever-larger and, with Monsieur Bieber reportedly planning to return to the studio any minute to receive his quarterly wedgie from Usher, it’s time to place my money where my lips flap. Arriving at what can most closely be described as one of the sets from Glee, I know instantaneously that he’s been plotting some kind of chorus line for my big entrance. So here is where ten pints of blood and the equivalent in mucus will be spilling is it? Whatever fondles your fruit basket felon, I’m prepared for your A-game and shall raise it with my very own. Hopefully he won’t attack with his signature move, a rendition of any of the pieces of compacted audio trash he has shat out into the Multiverse since before the first pubic straggler poked through his clearing. That would be potentially devastating as I’d hate awaiting my final melee with the reaper whilst humming one of his banal cyber-ditties. Fortunately I have negated to have my ears syringed for the past five years so I’m banking on a build up of cotton-bud fluff to act as a buffer.


Begrudging credit where due, Bieber wastes no further time in fleecing his own advent as is customary. That said, being lowered by an industrial crane on a harness while plucking a pocket harp is mere showboating in my book and punishable by death most horrid in these parts. Eventually, after becoming snagged on release and sobbing like a widow as he dismounts awkwardly and sprains both ankles, Queen Bieber takes to his imaginary throne before me. He hovers but a smattering of yards from the knuckle sandwich I’ve prepared as an appetizer and I long for nothing more than to reshape those features some and feel his brow bush stroke my knuckles as I depress his nasal flume back into his sorry appetite. The mere thought is almost sufficient to rupture a Kenny Powers moment in my jockeys as I’ve waited so long for this moment to arrive and it just seems so dang inviting. However, in the great tradition of fair fights, I shall first narrate him a dittie I fashioned all those months back, without the help of Bonus Brain I hasten to add. Bring Me The Head of Justin Bieber was me drawing first blood and, in true wrangler fashion, I’ve tweaked that shit just to crush his spirits further. Bonus Brain, if you would be so kind as to pass me the lute please old bean. Fine, I’ll get it myself.


Bring Me The Head of Justin Bieber




Bring me the head of Justin Bieber
and I shall commence my charge
I’ll throw his nut to the wide receiver
watch it pop with a shoulder barge


I’ll lob his drab nut in a deep fat fryer
bring it gently to the simmer
then sauté that shit into party-sized segments
and refuse to consume it for dinner


Pass me the noggin of this little ass wipe
no requirement to do so all kindly
my days of enduring this pube sprout’s exertions
are a lifetime of shuffles behind me


Just lob his top box in my general direction
and I shall ensure this is done right
and once on my mantle it won’t see a lick
of tap water or natural sunlight


That’s what one does when a lad shows a face
so embarrassing to the whole species
so I’ll kick it around like an old hacky sack
and into the next pile of feces


With vulcanized sandpaper I shall commence
to erase that smug grin from his face
then as he recoils I’ll throw in some oils
to the tune of a few sprays of mace


I shall insert him into a llama’s rectum
let it marinade deep in that rump
Hell I’d wait around for a month of Sundays
just to witness that beast take its dump


should I twist anti-clockwise it’s bound to come off
I will just need to give it a tug
there’s bound to be gore as he drops to the floor
but I plan just a solitary shrug




It appears that the G thang is goin’ on now
seems the Bieber believes he’s a gangster
so I’ll hollow his skull out as it would provide
a nice exercise ball for my hamster


Beady eyes are no prize mere lychee supplies
but I’ll pluck out both using a spoon
then it’s over my knee ’til that dung-clogged hiney
bears the hue of a backed-up baboon


Perhaps I am being a mere dash unkind
do his crimes really warrant such meanness
and besides isn’t sanction severe as it is
nice abs but you call that a penis


While it may seem a little bit mean on my part
to treat Justin with such cruel disrespect
metaphorical son I won’t lay a finger
beyond simply snapping that neck


Nay I’ll polish that head with the finest hot wax
and if acne appears then I’ll mask it
I’ll be mighty nice I promise I will
should you have a request then just ask it


How could I so much as sleep tight in my bed
if I messed up your most cherished feature
that quiff may be stiff but let’s see how it fares
up against my man-made alopecia


Thus I’ll fluff up some pillows make them seem all inviting
switch the channel to Trump’s keynote speech
then I’ll leave your numskull to its hamstrung devices
with remote inches out of your reach


In truth Justin Bieber you’ve done me no wrong
your crimes really aren’t all that heinous
but you just have that face one so easy to punch
and the thought of it just entertains us




The time has come for me to step up to his grill, close enough to catch two pungent nostrils of his rapidly soiling diaper and deliver any knockout blows in the name of global security seasoned with a dash of my own sick amusement thrown in for good measure.

“So Justin…I’m curious…how does it feel to be such a sniveling berk?”

Have some of that Bieber, a flurry of blows to the dome to get things rolling. Let’s see how you come back from that one.

“I… erm… I’m just misunderstood. Y’know like Gandhi”



That’s all the encouragement I need and my right-wing sets flight, fist firmly clenched, and burrows into the youngster’s frowned brow. He literally flies backwards and I’m all set to deliver the second shot when something utterly untoward occurs. Do any of y’all remember a film named The Gate per chance? Remember the odd-job man? Remember what happened when he hit the floor? No? Okay then, how about Gremlins? Well imagine knocking back 2 am jello shots with a famished Mogwai and you should have a vague idea where the wrangler is headed with this. Reproduction is all fine and dandy but I hadn’t banked on severing nearly five dozen umbilical cords when I bust out the lute.


Queen Bieber bursts wide open like the world’s most pathetic piñata, plummeting headlong to the hard ground and, upon impact, his shell breaks into a small army of “beliebers”. Now one Justin Bieber I can deal with and even a beast comprising eighty nobbled knees leaves me relatively disaffected. However, at last count, there are presently 57 tiny Justins darting about my sock rims and that is absolutely no joke! Please allow me to furnish you with a crumb of perspective. You see, two hundred Sandra Bullocks would be preferable to this tally. Hell, even 350 Steve Zahns would be less of a vomit-inducing proposal than this many JBs in the same zip code. I may well have met my match in the cruelest of manners and I guess that is what you get for bullying one so spine-free as he. Before I can lodge my objection, these fiendish fractions procrastinate not in beginning to wriggle up my trouser leg and the onus is definitely on me now to pull something humongous out of the bag and sharpish.


I flick the first cluster of these miniscule micro-fucks over the cliff ledge and man-handle any caught clambering above the knee but, at this rate, they’ll have overrun my fortress in the time it takes to shatter a piece of Bieber vinyl over one’s patella. I don’t wish to rely once again on Bonus Brain as he is already getting ideas well above his station but, alas, my options are sparse and time is of the absolute essence so, with tail tucked between my thighs like Snipes in To Wong Foo, I swallow what pride I didn’t squander during my adolescence and call on him.

“Bonus Brain, I may need your assistance one last time for the road old buddy”


My timing is spot-on as I hear him returning from the fridge with a freshly prepared Greek salad and even he can’t turn his back on such a well-mannered and impassioned plea.

“I gotta ask, what would you do without me?”

That’s a typically vainglorious rejoinder as he casts aside his Alfresco and leisurely approaches the bench. Getting a smile out of Bonus Brain is akin to endeavoring to catch Bill Cosby in the act. That said, as he minces lazily into my airspace, a shit-eating grin begins to spread across his frontal lobe and traditionally sarcasm isn’t far behind it.

“Aha. I see you’ve bagged yourself a relatively severe case of the Biebers. Grim!”



That is of no assistance in the slightest and right now, with three Biebers abseiling up my spinal column crooning Baby Baby, it’s in the worst taste imaginable, perhaps even worse. Nevertheless, choosing my battles wisely equates to opting to suffer his ignorance on this occasion.

“Any gems to impart then?”

Given that I have asked so politely, it’s only right that he cough up the gemstones and, true to form, one such rough diamond comes hurtling back my way in the blink of a Meerkat’s eye.

“For one to beat a Bieber they must first learn to wear Bieber like a cut-price rental”

Unless I’m mistaken and with a handful of nanoscopic narcs currently up to their cuticles in my back fat, been there and done that. Throw me bone #2 I beg of you.

“Play some Death Metal you dimlow, it’ll act like kryptonite to him”



That’s BB 1 JB 0 methinks. While being overrun with these morose munchkins is unlike no picnic I’ve ever attended, I do have the little prick cyst just where I want him, right up in my groaning pores no less, and I’ll teach him good for breaking the terms of his curfew. I scuttle to the nearest 78 player faster than Pete Parker can slide his tights on and commence rifling through reams of vintage vinyl in a desperate bid to unearth some Septic Flesh or Cradle of Filth to blast in all thirty-six of his remaining eardrums. Al Jarreau, Rick James, Fleetwood Mac – nothing noxious enough to snuff out the Biebers currently nestling into my chin dimple.


If a solitary one of these little inhuman abscesses finds its way inside then it could be cataclysmic and, to Bonus Brain’s credit, he is alternating from ear to ear firing cerebral arrows in a last-ditch attempt at keeping these impish Biebers at bay. Deacon Blue, Oran ‘Juice’ Jones, Milli Vanilli. Stall the stallions! I’ve just had a crazy notion, so utterly ludicrous that it may just be genius. What about if I were to play Girl I Know It’s True backwards? Maybe it will confuse any stragglers just long enough for me to remove each minute-threat once and for all. It works with Ozzy Osbourne records after all. On second thoughts, playing it forwards should be sufficient. If only I’d packed my cycling shorts.



To my monumental delectation, it works. Cannibal Corpse it may not be, but those hair extensions are admittedly hypnotic when flung with such meaning and purpose. This has befuddled the last clutch of urchins adequately for them to drop to the ground like discarded phlegm from an Olympic springboard diver’s nose rifle. Who would ever have thunk that denouement by manufactured pop bilge would spell victory? I’d have sworn blind he would have been immune, given the puke he churns out during recess. Anyhoots, Queen Bieber is dead. I have taken every last punishment dished out and nothing has beaten the Brutal Word Wrangler. It is now time for the final leg of my bloody pilgrimage. The Grim Reaper, the boniest bastard ever to flick me the big with his elongated pick stick, and I’m primed for the chime dagnabbit. Or is he? Defeated I mean. You see, any little goose egg as putrid as he will invariably feel endorsed in his attempt to land the final word. As a matter of fact, he has a trio.

“Cyrus Roasts. Assemble!”



Oh dear lord, give me strength. Begone at once Miley, my beef isn’t with you. That said, if you keep wiggling that tush suggestively, I may well produce a zingy highland broth from my fleshy baster. It would appear that Bieber’s last line of defence is a girl to fight his battles for him and I can’t say I’m altogether surprised. Of course, in the interest of sexual equality, I shall extend this Cyrus virus the same courtesy as I did her half-pint pimp daddy. She is currently flapping her way over for her opening charge and I’m not about to give thanks for this particular turkey.

Pluck Me The Feathers of Miley Cyrus



Pluck me the feathers of Miley Cyrus
and I shall produce my drummer
conveniently I’m feeling quite peckish
it’s hungry work being a strummer


pass me the tush of this once Disney princess
and I’ll slide it right under my scanner
Unless I’m mistaken she has long since shaken
the mantle of Hannah Montana


Once this is confirmed not a second I’ll spurn
with gratuitous huffing and puffing
left too long to congeal I’m convinced that my sperm
would make rather delectable stuffing


I’ll bend her right over my knee with great haste
and insert digits one thru to five
nah fuck it my fist seems a sad thing to waste
so ten knuckles will not be deprived


After freeing up space to the tune of her innards
and adding all relative seasoning
my very next act will be postponing dinner
and this my dear friends is my reasoning


Granted turkey is dry but you cannot deny
that it fills quite the gap when you’re peckish
thus I’ll squirt all my cranberry sauce in her eye
realizing my lifetime long fetish


Now I’m sure we’ve all heard of the word of this bird
metamorphosis none less than freakish
should you wish to learn of her bean’s signature curd
there’s a wrecking ball signed with her seepage


I don’t wish to shake her come across a muckraker
but I fear for the girl’s reputation
seemingly overnight she became a rump shaker
now her front bottom needs fumigation




Who knows the diseases as she does what she pleases
just to shake off that squeaky clean image
when she opens up wide we know just where the breeze is
such a vast battlefield for this scrimmage


Yet I shall not resort to bombarding her fort
with my battering ram on this day
as I hear that chlamydia can’t be uncaught
and her kitten has been known to spray


So what do I do as I bid to break through
as she seems quite intent just to linger
well my fist ain’t about to risk Miley’s fondue
but there’s no harm or foul in one finger


I’ll dip it then lick it seems a shame just to skip it
I’ve explored all options and fuck it
there may well be claymores in this soupy thicket
as this bird has one helluva bucket


I feel we have learned not a second we’ve spurned
in our quest to discern her intention
it’s mere homework as far as the wrangler’s concerned
and I’m airing on swift circumvention


Fifteen more in the kiln and she’s ready to squeal
like a pig in a blanket no less
stab her rump with a knife before copping a feel
as it mimics a hydraulic press


Should much force be applied then there’s no place to hide
and I’d recommend standing well back
as the thing about Miley’s that she won’t be denied
’til her bush is sufficiently whacked


Where do I stand in this well a kiss is a kiss
but not when those cold sores start rising
after dipping a toe I’ll give this one a miss
as this fowl ain’t the most appetizing




You guessed it, I’m outta here faster than Hugh Hefner’s sailors come time for his bi-daily bed bath. Not that I wish to come across all lily-livered having already scarpered from The Hecklers in the none too distant past. But I’m sick and tired of the goalposts being moved whenever death feels like cranking up the ante some. I agreed to Bieber and did so without a stammer, but squat was mentioned about a turkey shoot. Besides, I haven’t got any particular bugbear with Cyrus as she’s little more than a benign tumor as far as I’m concerned. I’ve lanced far too many boils with the Justinettes to squeeze any more weeping vesicles. Heaven knows I’ve earned myself a breather and I’ll be needing every last ounce of might if I wish to take on The Grim Reaper for future ownership of my soul and chess bragging rights. He has littered my pathway with danger, and I’m no longer feeling the stranger. But I’m more of a talker than battle-hard walker, no desire to act all Texas ranger. Will my dignity remain intact? Tell you what, I’ll let you lot decide my fate, how does that sound? However, while the court is in session, please allow this digression, as I think you owe me at least that much after the distance I have ventured thus far.


You see, I’ve known my fair share of heartbreak and sorrow in my forty-one years and there have been times when continuation has felt an utterly futile endeavor. When my beloved father elevated almost a decade back, it took some time to discover that he wasn’t, in fact, lost as I initially suspected. Instead he acts as overseer and swoops in each time the Crimson Quill bleeds intent. Indeed, when I was donated the mantle of Brutal Word Wrangler, it was pops who taught me how to remove the safety.


Every last upturned bean can I’ve capsized during my tenure, daddy dearest has been right where it counts, steadying my aim while reassuring me that I will be alright. Fending off demons is something I can now do with eyes wide shut as he has my back unerringly from an unseen, but always felt, vantage. I’ve had my fun and games, been right to the very border, now I’d say I’m primed to go grab me that checkmate wouldn’t you?


Click here to read Wrangler’s Last Stand




Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014




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