Clint's author blog, where you can see original articles as well as life updates and general ranting
|Posted on May 12, 2019 at 11:00 AM||comments (250)|
“Heads up!” Olivia raised her chin toward an approaching group of people. Several longhaired men in Gothic attire flanked two women, both wearing short skirts, dyed hair, and fishnet stockings. They watched the Hunters with interest. One of the men looked at the others and laughed, showing elongated canine teeth.
“Alright fuckers,” Leonard growled. He lunged forward, his blue eyes blazing with electricity, his jaws opening wide, dagger-like demon teeth showing. One hand opened with 6-inch claws and the other held one of the drumstick stakes. “WE FUCKING WARNED YOU!” he bellowed, and then let out a roar like a pissed off grizzly bear that echoed through the park. He readied a death charge!
One of the vampire girls shrieked a terrified, high-pitched scream. The other fainted and fell face first on the grass. One of the longhaired men screamed like a girl and sprinted away like Usain Bolt. The other two dropped into frightened defensive crouches.
“Oh God!” one cried, his voice cracking. “Don’t hurt us, man, please!”
The other male vampire held the girl, who acted as if she was going to claw her way through him to escape. “Nononono! We don’t want any trouble, OK? We will just leave!”
Leonard tilted his head, breathing heavily, foam dripping from the corner of his mouth.
“Dude,” Olivia tugged on his duster. He looked down at her. She pointed at the frightened teenagers. “Dude!” she repeated.
Leonard pulled himself back together so that he looked like a big, scary human instead of a big, scary demon person. “Shit,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry, We thought you were someone else. Uh, carry on.”
“It’s OK,” Olivia stepped forward, her hands up. The teens flinched. Both girls and one of the boys were crying. The one who ran was nowhere around.
Qarinah was sitting on the ground, her breath in gasps and her face flushed. She was laughing so hard, it did not even sound like a laugh anymore. It sounded like she was choking.
“Mom?” Leonard looked at her.
“I...” she gasped. “I...can’t...” Qarinah was in tears.
The vampire kids stumbled away into the night.
“My hero,” Olivia smacked Leonard in the chest.
“Sorry,” Leonard was laughing now. “I saw fangs...”
“You saw fangs and went into turbo murder mode,” Olivia cackled.
|Posted on April 15, 2019 at 9:55 PM||comments (11)|
Qarinah stood on the centerline of the highway, long arms by her sides and her beautiful face pensive. Before her, two rumbling machines made their way up to the line. The red El Camino chirped its big back tires with a growl of its 454 and a puff of white smoke. The driver pushed back his sandy blonde hair, eyed Qarinah’s tight shorts and bikini top, and then focused on the road.
Leonard feathered the clutch and tapped the gas and Wendy’s 300s spun and smoked, drifting the nose of the black Challenger up to the line. There was nothing but calm behind his Wayfarers as he felt the rhythm of the supercharged 426 and Rammstein thumping through the Kicker system. He caught Qarinah’s eyes and nodded his head.
The sight at the end of the quarter mile stretch was unmistakable. Azrael, the Angel of Death, sat upon his great pale steed in front of the smoking Hell mouth.
Leonard did not look across at his opponent in the El Camino, but he could feel the stare back. He could feel the nerves, the fear, and the adrenaline drifting across to him. All Leonard felt was 3...2...1...
Qarinah raised both of her arms high and then dropped them, flexing at the hips and knees.
Leonard could hear tires scream beside him. He let out the clutch and eased on the gas and gravity threw his heart into the back seat. His shoulders pinned back to the seat and it felt like someone chained him to a Tomahawk missile as the tires hooked up with the asphalt. He was hardly conscious of the revs when he hit the sweet spot and shifted out of first. Second came and went so fast, it was barely a memory. His sight was a long tunnel, and he pushed and shifted like Michelangelo’s soul possessed his hand and painted its way through the gears. The roar that filled his ears became his heartbeat. The howl of the supercharger was his war song!
It was not until he saw Olivia jump high into the air as he flew past her, that he knew it was over. She waved a red bandana like a checkered flag and he could barely hear her screaming as he passed by. Leonard lay on the brakes and the Brembos howled and chattered in protest. He looked at the display. 9.66 seconds and 140 mph.
“That’s my Wendy,” Leonard smiled. “Thank you, baby!” He patted the dash with a gloved hand.
Leonard stepped out of the Challenger to greet his opponent. The stocky blonde man rose from the El Camino in his sleeveless flannel and dirty jeans.
“That’s a Hell of a fast car,” said the man. “I can’t believe I ran a 10.0 and there you were still ahead of me!”
“Yeah,” Leonard nodded. “That El Camino had me worried for a bit. I could hear that engine screaming the whole time. It was a good race!”
“Fair race!” the man nodded. He put out his hand and Leonard took it and shook, just as they had before the race, when they made the deal.
“IT IS TIME,” said Azrael’s hollow voice.
“We had a deal,” said the man. “I’ll go peaceful, you just lead the way.”
“Good luck,” said Leonard.
The man just nodded.
Azrael turned his horse and rode into the Hell mouth. The man walked behind him, his back straight and his head held up high. Leonard took off his flat-brimmed black cowboy hat and held it to his chest as he watched them go. Soon the Hell mouth closed up and they were no more. Leonard felt a small body slip underneath his duster and an arm curl around his waist. He leaned down and kissed Olivia behind her ear.
“Don’t ever do that again, lover,” said Olivia.
“Do what?” Leonard smiled.
“You bet your soul on a race!” Olivia glared at him. “That could have been you, being led down there!”
“No I didn’t,” he said.
“The Hell you didn’t!” Olivia was annoyed. “I saw you-“
“That wasn’t a bet,” he said. “It was a boon. I knew he was going to lose and so did he.”
“Then why did you do it?” Olivia narrowed her eye at her fiancée.
“Every time we meet these fugitives, they are cowards,” said Leonard. “They go out pleading and crying at the end of Azrael’s chain. This one wanted to go out like a man, with his head held high. I decided give him a shot, to let him be a man instead of a screaming little worm, like Howe was.”
“Well it still scared the shit out of me,” growled Olivia, but she pulled Leonard tighter. “Don’t do that anymore!”
“I won’t,” said Leonard. “I promise.”
“Good,” she gave two pulls on the lapel of his duster, which meant, “bend down and kiss me.”
Leonard lowered his head and closed his eyes. He felt her hands on his face, then her nose and finally her lips pressed against his. He opened his mouth a little and he felt her tongue slip between his lips and search for his. He touched her tongue with his and she made a contented sound.
“Good race, son,” Leonard felt Qarinah’s hand on his back. He looked up from his kiss. “We have work to do,” she said.
“Of course,” said Leonard. “New Orleans.”
|Posted on April 6, 2019 at 11:00 AM||comments (14)|
“Turn around and go home, Chief,” said Cliff. I don’t want any trouble.”
“So keep your hands away from that shotgun,” said Chief Kowalski, “and there won’t be any.”
Cliff glowered at the two interlopers.
“Tell your friend to lower his rifle and come out,” said Chief. “I’m not here to arrest you. We just want to talk.”
“Think about it,” said Father Frank. “If he wanted to arrest you, why would he bring a priest?”
“I’m also about a thousand miles out of my jurisdiction,” said Chief.
Cliff looked at the tall, silver haired Chief and then at the younger, redheaded priest.
“Hey Harper, come on out.” A tall, lanky man came out of the cabin’s doorway. He stood a head taller than Cliff and had long brown hair. His face showed scars similar to his friend. He looked nervous. “Fuck it,” said Cliff. “You guys want a beer or something? You came a long way.” His sarcasm was palpable.
“Do you have any coffee?” asked Frank.
“Sure,” said Cliff. “Hey Nicole?”
A young, heavyset girl with mouse brown hair peeped around the doorway of the cabin. She looked barely old enough to be out of college. “Is everything OK?”
“Yeah,” said Cliff. “Can you put some coffee on for our guests?”
Nicole came out and looked at the cop and the priest. “I’m Nicole,” she said. “This is my place.”
“We know,” said Kowalski. The Chief reached into his motorcycle jacket and pulled out a book. “Father Frank and I just read a really interesting bit of fiction. It was so realistic, that we decided to come up here and see if the author would sign our copy.” Kowalski displayed the book’s front cover. The title read, the Acolytes by Nicole N. Volta, and the cover art depicted a hooded face with a burning building in the background.
Nicole’s hands began to tremble slightly. Cliff noticed and took one of them, guiding it to his shoulder, holding it there.
“It’s OK, babe,” Cliff said. “Just get them some coffee.”
“Black, please,” said Chief.
“Likewise,” said Frank.
Nicole quickly disappeared back into the cabin. “So that’s how you found us?” Cliff directed his attention back to the priest and the Chief.
“If you want to stay hidden,” said Chief, “you should make sure all the personnel records are destroyed before you leave. We identified most of the bodies; including ones, we found in common graves. You two just seemed to fall off the face of the planet. Then by chance, I see an ad for this bestselling book,” Chief turned the novel in his hands. “The theme struck me as familiar. You see, I was there.”
Cliff’s partial remaining eyebrow went up.
“I saw what was left of the place after the fight," said Chief. "You and your friend here were very lucky.”
“Not lucky,” said Cliff. “Smart.”
“So you know it was really werewolves?” Harper interjected.
“It was werewolves,” nodded Father Frank, “and a vampire, and a trio of demons you really don’t want on your bad side. Your so-called prophet messed with something he didn’t understand.”
“You really believe it!” Harper exclaimed. “You know the Pr- uh, Howe really came back from the dead!”
“I do,” said Frank. “I also got up close and personal with the ones who sent him back.”
Nicole brought out two cups of coffee and handed them to Frank and the Chief. Both nodded their thanks.
“So while I’m going through this book,” Chief smiled. “Father Frank here gets a phone call from a preacher friend in Flathead telling him that some people went missing. They found partially eaten remains and one living person who was acting bat shit insane! ”
Cliff and Harper looked at each other and back at Chief. Despite the disfigurement, Father Frank saw nervousness reflect on their faces.
“So I go online and look up Ms. Volta’s author bio,” Chief continued, “and sure enough!” Chief opened his arms to their surroundings.
Nicole began to cry and buried her head into Cliff’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed.
Cliff shushed her, “It’s OK,” he said, glaring at Chief Kowalski. “It’s not your fault. It was gonna happen at some point. I just wasn’t expecting it so soon.”
“Don’t worry,” Father Frank said to Nicole. “We aren’t here to hurt you.”
“We needed to make sure your friends here,” Chief, indicated Cliff, and Harper “aren’t up here trying to start SDS Chapter two.”
Father Frank shot a glare at Chief. Damn it, Chief! This was not supposed to be an interrogation! He thought.
“Oh holy fuck!” Cliff growled, slamming his beer down on the table. “Are you kidding me? Harp and I came up here to get away from that shit! We wanted to be as far away from ‘prophets’, demons, werewolves, and all that other shit as we could! We wrote the fucking book because our faces look like modern art masterpieces and getting a damned job in customer service is pretty much a no-go!”
“Yeah, man,” Harper nodded, his eyes far away as if watching a distant movie. “We saw those...things come over the wall. It was the most terrifying shit I ever saw! We are glad Victor Howe got sent back to Hell! We want nothing to do with any of that! We would never go back to that life!”
“Then I have some bad news,” said Father Frank. “You don’t have to go back to it. It’s coming here.”
Cliff and Harper’s faces went pale.
|Posted on March 19, 2019 at 8:15 PM||comments (12)|
“What the Hell just happened?” Leonard looked up from the stone floor. He sat in the middle of a large copper circle. About the circle burned white candles. He noticed blood on the copper.
“We have been summoned,” sighed Qarinah. She, too, sat in a circle like Leonard’s, marked with similar candles.
“Silence, Demon!” A tall young man stepped forward. He wore greasy black-dyed hair and a leather jacket. “We have summoned you to do our bidding!”
Several other people in their late teens to early twenties appeared out of the darkness of the basement. There was another boy, taller and skinnier, with glasses, and two girls. One of the girls, a blonde with pigtails, and a black spider web dress slinked up to the one who spoke, and snaked her arm around him. She had a lollipop in her mouth. The other, an overweight brunette in a black trench coat stood alone.
“Where are we,” asked Leonard. “Your mom’s basement?” He stepped forward in defiance, but ran into something solid. “Ow!”
“I am Eric!” said the first boy in a commanding voice. You will be silent and do what I say!”
“Shh!” Qarinah cut him off. “They have summoned us,” she said in a soft voice. She looked around. “And it appears they have done a fairly good job. That is a very good summoning circle!”
Leonard cocked his head. Mom has a point, he thought, No way in hell these mall-Goths came up with this on their own. This whole thing stinks on ice.
“They got our sigils right,” Qarinah continued, “and look! Libations!”
Leonard looked down on the floor. There was a toy car and a pack of Prince Albert pipe tobacco. He picked up the toy car. It was a Mustang. Worst of all, it was red.
“D-minus on the libations, kiddo.” Leonard threw the toy car. It bounced off the force field of the summoning circle and clattered to the floor. “MOPAR or no car.”
Qarinah picked up a glass of amber liquid and smelled it. She made a sour face and dumped it on the floor. Leonard never saw his mom actually make a stank face before. He chuckled a little.
“Blended Scotch is for peasants,” said Qarinah flatly. “We aren’t helping you, Eric, if you are going to insult us.”
“Don’t put up with her shit!” the blonde with the pigtails hissed. Eric ignored her.
“What is it you desire, demon?” Eric asked.
“Call me Qarinah,” said the succubus with a smile. “We do have names, as you well know. This is Leonard.”
“Lord Leonard, Master of Nocturnal Orgies,” said Leonard. “That is my official title now, thanks to Olivia. Speaking of whom, when she finds us, and she will; she is going to hand you your asses.”
“Leonard, be nice,” said Qarinah. “They are just inexperienced.”
Leonard was about to ask his mother if she felt ill, because Qarinah was usually the last one to tell people to be nice. Then he realized what she was doing. He looked at her and nodded.
“I want that,” Qarinah pointed to the blonde girl.
“You want Stephanie?” Eric seemed perplexed.
“No,” said Qarinah. “The candy. It’s a Blow Pop, yes?”
Stephanie popped the lolly out of her mouth. It was indeed a red Blow Pop. “I’m not-”
Eric took it from her.
“Hey!” she glared angrily at Eric.
“It’s OK, Steph,” said Eric. “Think of what they can do for us. Don’t you want the infernal power?”
“True,” said the geek with glasses. “If all she wants is candy, why not?”
“That’s right,” said Qarinah, staring into Eric’s eyes. “Think of what I can teach you. All I want is something sweet in my mouth.” She licked her lips seductively.
Leonard sat Indian style on the floor and packed his pipe with the Prince Albert. He wished he had added popcorn to his list of libations. He saw the overweight girl look at him. She was actually quite pretty. Who says a chubby girl can’t rock the vampire look? He thought. He winked at her as he lit the pipe. She smiled at him.
Eric walked over to Qarinah, Blow Pop in hand.
“Wait!” the chubby girl stepped forward.
"What, Janice?” Eric growled.
“If you give her the Blow Pop, it will break the circle and she can attack you!”
Eric’s face became pensive. Qarinah shot an annoyed glance at Janice.
“I promise I won’t attack,” said Qarinah. “
“She’s lying!” shouted Stephanie.
“I do not lie!” Qarinah scowled at Stephanie.
“She’s right,” Leonard blew out a smoke ring. “If our kind makes a promise, we have to abide by it. Otherwise, bad stuff happens to us.”
“Yes,” said Glasses. “I read this in one of my occult books. “They have to honor all of their obligations. It’s like, a rule, or something.”
“OK then,” said Eric. “Promise me, Qarinah, that you won’t attack and you won’t escape from the circle!”
“Of course,” Qarinah smiled, batting her long eyelashes at Eric. “I promise I will not attack you, nor will I try to leave when you open the circle to give me the candy.”
Eric looked at his friends. Janice and Glasses nodded. Stephanie scowled. Leonard puffed his pipe and tried not to smile too much. He focused on Janice and blew her a kiss. She bit her lip and blushed.Eric carefully approached Qarinah. He used an Athame to draw a doorway in the force field surrounding the succubus, and offered the Blow Pop, extending his arm. Qarinah took it gently and extended her long tongue. She gave the lollipop a long lick and sealed her full, pretty lips around it.
“Thank you, Eric,” she crooned, staring into his eyes. His eyes went glassy. Qarinah ran her fingernails down his chest. “You have done so well, my beautiful boy. Let me do something for you.” She opened his leather jacket, took him around the waist, and pulled him to her, inside the circle. She took the Blow Pop out of her mouth with a popping sound and placed it between his lips. “I want something else in my mouth,” she smiled. Her hand caressed his erection through his pants. He shivered and placed his hands on her soft shoulders. She slowly settled down to her knees. Qarinah looked around him at Stephanie. She licked her lips and winked, keeping eye contact with the blonde as she unzipped Eric’s pants.
Stephanie completely lost her shit. She charged the circle screaming and seized her boyfriend by the shoulders, yanking him backward. Qarinah hung on and as Eric fell back, he dragged her out of the circle. Eric fell to the floor, flat on his back. The only thing standing was his hard dick protruding from his open zipper. Stephanie ran at Qarinah, who immediately brought herself to her full 6 foot height. Stephanie leveled several punches but Qarinah avoided them all, twisting her body in a graceful dance. Qarinah slapped Stephanie with a backhand and sent the blonde sprawling.
“YOU LIED!” screamed Stephanie.
“No,” said Qarinah. “I kept my promise; I said I would not attack Eric. I did not. Quite the opposite. I said I would not try to leave. I did not. It was you who dragged me from the circle, child.”
“Mom,” Leonard looked at Qarinah.
“Oh yes,” Qarinah walked over to the circle, which held Leonard. She kicked over the candles and kicked dirt over the blood. The force field dissipated and Leonard stepped out, pipe clenched in his teeth. He looked, and all of the young ones crouched and pinned themselves to the walls.
“Alright, kids,” said Leonard, a serious look on his tattooed face. “What did we learn today?”
No one spoke.
“I ASKED YOU A FUCKING QUESTION!” Leonard bellowed, drawing Spike in a flourish of bone and steel. He pointed the massive revolver at Eric.
Janice raised her hand, as if in class.
“Yes, darlin’,” Leonard grinned, his teeth looked like 16 penny nails.
“Never summon demons?”
“A-plus!” said Leonard. “You get to live. Next question. Who taught you to do this and had you summon us? Not a damn one of you even knows who the Sisters of Mercy are, much less how to summon a demon. Who told you Hot Topic shopping motherfuckers to do this?”
“Other demons,” said Glasses, “twins.”
“Cloaks, armor, ugly?” asked Leonard, “They carry hammers with them?”
They all nodded.
“Shit,” said Leonard. “I knew it. Now listen, kids. Those assholes killed my best friend and got another one of our friends all shot up. Now they are going after my fiancée. I do not think I need to explain how pissed off I am going to be if they hurt the love of my life! Now who has a Goddamn car?”
Eric held up a set of keys.
“Barn door’s open,” Leonard took the keys. Eric stuffed his limp dick back in his pants.
“How romantic,” Janice stared after Leonard with a dreamy expression.
Qarinah and Leonard walked out of the basement, said hi to Eric’s mom in the kitchen, and Leonard took a Hot Pocket from a baking sheet. They walked out of the house.
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” said Leonard.
They squeezed into the raggedy, blue and primer colored Volkswagen beetle and peeled out of the driveway. Leonard drove with one knee on the dash. Qarinah sat in the passenger seat with both knees touching the dashboard.
“This is the most uncomfortable car in which I have ever ridden,” said Qarinah.
“Not made for a couple of 6-footers,” said Leonard. “I can think of someone who would love it though.”
|Posted on February 19, 2019 at 9:25 PM||comments (2)|
Good news! The first draft of my latest novel, The Hunters of Gehenna is complete! I have the front cover finished as well. As soon as it clears my beta readers and my own arduous editing process, It will ba available for preorder.
It sits right now at over 100,000 words, which would be almost 400 pages. I will be cutting it down, hopefully to closer to 80,000 words to make it easier for my readers to digest. Fear not, however. All of the cut scenes will be made available as exclusive content for my patreon supporters!
|Posted on July 8, 2017 at 10:10 PM||comments (25)|
It may come as a surprise to you, but there are a lot of stories and ideas about James Bowie's famous knife that are complete nonsense, Texas tall tales, if you will.
One legend is that the Bowie knife was made from a meteor. There is no evidence anywhere to support that. Now it's not impossible as meteorite contains a lot of iron and nickel and they have been used to make tools and weapons, but if this were the case for Bowie's knife, no one ever mentioned it.
Like a lot of men, story tellers tended to exaggerate its size as well. I've read stories of the knife having a fourteen inch (ha. you wish) blade or having been similar in size to a short sword (that's what she said). In fact, the blade of the original Bowie was nine and one fourths inches. Hell, that's pretty substantial, but definitely not a sword.
Here's one you may not know about. It's probably the biggest fuck up of them all and damn near every knife maker who has made a "Bowie" is guilty of this inaccuracy.
Most people think a Bowie has a big guard and a clip point like this...
Well, most people are wrong as hell. It actually looked nothing like this. So what did it look like?
How 'bout this, Tex?
No I'm not kidding. Bowie's original knife was a hunting knife designed by his brother, Rezin Bowie, that resembled a large butcher knife with a straight, single edged blade, almost no guard and definitely no pronounced clip point. It was designed, according to Rezin Bowie, as a hunting knife and was used as such for quite some time before James Bowie took it to the infamous duel on the sandbar. It had no fancy silver bolsters or brass guard. It was just a basic big knife for butchering and skinning game. It wasn't until James Bowie butchered the fuck out of two guys on the sand bar that it began to change.
After that fight, Bowie and his big ass knife became famous and everyone wanted one.
And that's how things got all screwed up.
You see, every blacksmith and cutler on the planet was besieged by people wanting a "knife like Bowie's", and they would make you one...for a price. The problem is, almost none of them had actually seen Bowie's knife. All they had heard were peoples' bullshit stories about a seventeen inch super blade, made from meteors with a brass spine and huge guard to help parry attackers' blades and perfectly balanced so that you could throw it at a buffalo and kill it. No shit. People actually thought that.
So a bunch of enterprising blacksmiths and cutlers made a bunch of ridiculous nonsense and called them "Bowies" and a bunch of suckers paid for them.
OK so now you are getting all red-faced and angry cause granpappy bought his *cough* Bowie off'n Jim Bowie himself who certified it is real and now he has passed it down to you. "An granpappy ain't no liar!"
Well granpappy may not be a liar, but he is a sucker.
The good news is, there are actual real Bowie knives out there, that were commissioned by the brothers Bowie and given as gifts to different people. They retained the basic butcher knife design, but added some silver hardware, ebony handles and fancier sheaths. You will probably never stumble upon an antique outside a museum, but you could have a historically accurate Bowie made for yourself that in terms of steel and construction, could be better than the original.
This is the Shively Bowie. One of the earliest existing commissions by Rezin Bowie.
The Searles-Fowler Bowie was another Rezin Bowie design that looked pretty cool. There are a few modern companies out there today that make reproductions of this one.
There was also the Stafford-Searles Bowie, which looked a lot like the one above.
There are other pieces claimed to be "original Bowie knives" or "Bowie's Alamo knife" but for those I will leave you with this quote by Rezin Bowie himself.
"The improvements in its fabrication and state of perfection it has acquired from experienced cutlers, was not brought about through my agency."-Rezin P. Bowie
|Posted on April 24, 2015 at 6:40 PM||comments (17)|
April 24, 2015 at 5:41pm
I know what you're thinking.
"Hey Clint. It's supposed to be 'Damsel IN Distress' not 'OF Distress!"
Well then you must not have met the girl I'm talking about.
In Dungeons and Dragons, the table-top Role Playing Game that every geek has played at some point, it is important for your character to be able to carry large amounts of loot without becoming encumbered and losing the ability to move effectively. This is where the "Bag of Holding" comes in. All players make sure and score one of these as quickly as possible. What it does is store all your stuff in hyperspace so you can carry ridiculous amounts of gear without it weighing you down.
If you've played more than a couple of campaigns, you or another character has probably encountered a "Bag of Losing". This works in a similar way, but anything you put in there gets lost and you don't get it back. It's a mean prank DMs like to play on some players who get too uppity.
The Damsel of Distress is a lot like the second one.
This chick is ALWAYS in distress of some type. She's always having a breakdown, being the victim of some kind of trauma, one day past her rent and someone stole her money(which she could have used to just pay it last Friday instead of waiting), psycho-stalker ex is following her again (never mind she texted him like 46 times the night before). It's always goddamn something. Guess who gets to "save" her every time. The lucky knight in shining armor boyfriend, that's who! If you are a codependent idiot male, this works out great! You get to save her over and over from all of her mostly self-inflicted problems and you get to finally have some self-esteem.
True, you're running in circles, wearing yourself down to a nub and accomplishing absolutely NOTHING productive, either in life, or the relationship, but it FEELS like you're doing something right? Of course you're doing something! Otherwise you wouldn't be broke or exhausted all the time.
Plus the sex is great. You are getting laid aren't you? Well, if she ever runs out of problems long enough to get down with you, it's going to be awesome. Trust me.
OK enough bullshit. Dude. She's manipulating you. Have you noticed that every time "something comes up" it requires a little more than you were really prepared to offer? I'm sure you noticed that she gets all crabby when you insinuate that she needs to take some responsibility for her actions? No? Of course! It's not her fault, is it? And have you noticed feeling a little resentment yourself, when after the 50th time you "rescued her" she just hopped along to the next thing without really appreciating what you did? Maybe you got in a fight over it? Again?
Yes sir! What you got yourself is a Damsel of Distress! She is a human Bag of Losing.
Before you ladies get your knickers in a knot and call me a sexist, let me assure you I'm not done. You see the Damsel of Distress has a male counterpart.
He is the World's Unluckiest Man. Normally you'd just call a guy like this a fuckin' bum, but that's not fair, because nothing that ever happens to him is his fault.
He lost his job. Again. Because he doesn't have a ride. This is because he crashed his car. Because he was drunk. Again. And it really doesn't matter anyway, because his driver's license is suspended. What??!! Oh yeah, there was that DWI he got a few years ago and he never bothered to pay his fines. Wait. It wasn't that he never bothered. He just didn't have any money. Why? He lost his job. Again.
So you take him in. You're gonna "fix" him, right? Because you're Super Girlfriend! Not like his other 27 exes who all threw him out before he could get things together and just abandoned him, broke and owing back Child Support on 3 kids...
Oh yeah, he had 2 kids with ex number 3 and 1 with ex number 15. But they were terrible people. So he had to keep changing jobs so the Attorney General wouldn't catch up with him and send him to jail.
Uh-Oh. He just called you from jail. He got caught driving with a suspended license, after crashing YOUR car and then the Attorney General stepped in and now he's facing charges if he doesn't pay $10,000 in back Child Support.
But you have some money stashed away, right? For your kids' college? He'll pay you back, of course...Riiiight.
The sex was good, though, right?
Human. Bag. of. Losing.
Anything you invest in these two people is lost. FOREVER.
So how do you avoid these people??
First you should talk to a psychologist about your own codependency issues.
Normal healthy people don't waste time with these assholes. They give them one chance, two tops. If they get fucked once, they don't let it happen a second time and the don't extend themselves to the point that they will get caught up in this kind of mess. They don't allow those people to impose upon them like that. They say things like "Sorry, dealing with this shit is outside my ability to help". and "No. You can't move in with me. I really don't know you that well." and "No. I don't date bloodsucking leaches."
To sum it up, they have boundaries. Healthy boundaries. Boundaries that prevent people from screwing with their emotions.
If this kind of talk is alien to you, or sounds really insensitive, because you HAVE to help people, or you JUST KNOW you can fix them this time, you are a walking target for these people. They are emotional vampires and you are a walking sack of O Negative.
If you want to know where to start. Start with this one word: NO. (It starts to feel good when you learn to say it to people).
|Posted on December 22, 2014 at 1:30 PM||comments (9)|
December 22, 2014 at 1:31pm
If you’ve spent any amount of time on gun forums or on YouTube looking at shooting videos, you will inevitably run into discussions on how much gun is sufficient for defensive use. This is one of what I call the Never Ending Arguments that always occur among gun owners and end up going nowhere. Other versions of this are the classic 9mm vs. .45ACP argument and the dreaded “Stopping Power”discussion.
In order to find the answer to the question, we first have to define the word “need”.For the purpose of this essay, I’m going to define “need” as that which would be reasonably sufficient for use in situations consistent with the average defensive encounter in which a firearm is involved. We have to rule out what is extreme, because self-defense situations have a lot more to do with where you’re going and what you’re doing there than what kind of weapons are available or needed. I’ve been in more defensive encounters with weapons than most civilians(meaning someone whose job is NOT to run at the source of incoming bullets). I’m not some kind of street warrior. The truth is that growing up I had a tendency to go into places I had no business going in order to have fun. Usually survival just meant obeying the rules of whatever environment I was in.Occasionally, it meant I had to be a bit of a bastard.
To avoid the gun forum “what if” bullshit, complete with mall ninja stories and the fictitious exploits of people like Gecko45, I’ll stick to what available data I can find on defensive encounters and dispense with feelings, paranoia and tactical monkey nonsense. The problem I face with that is that the “data”about these things is usually collected and reported by barking moonbats. Simply put, the data is gathered by people who are only gathering data to support a pre-conceived conclusion. The National Crime Victimization Surveys only considered a short amount of time, six months as the focus for their surveys.This leaves no room for fluctuations in crime over several years or the fact that 20-40% of people who use a firearm in self-defense don’t report it. It also only counted as self-defense incidents,where the criminal also had a gun. This leaves out an untold number of incidents where a home invader was repelled or the criminal had some other weapon. The 2.5 million statistic most gun owners are familiar with , as reported by Kleck and Gertz, have the problem that a slight classification error, even one as small as 1% can cause the mistake in the statistic to be larger than acceptable margins. Then you have the problem that the sources for all of this data was from surveys taken in the 1990s.
For the purpose of this article I’m going to go with the 2.5 million statistics.Not because it’s gospel truth, but because this is the one recognized by the majority of gun owners; those for whom this article is written. It being the more generous statistic, it will help me to better make my point. Also, since there has yet to be any actual proof of bias errors in the surveys as alleged by its critics, it’s good enough for now.
The adult population of the United States is approximately 200,000,000. This means that self-defense incidents, in which a firearm is, used account for about 1.25% of the adult population. This means that out of every 100 people you know, you would have to roll d100 (in nerd speak) and hit a natural 1 in order to find yourself at the end of this problem. This is assuming you are not going somewhere stupid and being an idiot. Anyone who has played Dungeons and Dragons and hit a natural 1 against a really badass enemy knows that critical 1s do happen and they suck, so there is a good enough reason to possess a means to defend yourself.
But as the title of this essay asks, how much gun do you need? John Lott, famous pro-gun guy and author of More Guns-Less Crime conducted a survey in 2002 which estimated that 95% of the time, simply brandishing a weapon was sufficient to stop the crime. This means that 95% of the time you need 0 rounds of ammunition if a defensive firearm incident occurs. The chance of you having a defensive firearm incident at all is a whopping 0.0625%. But since carrying an unloaded gun is dumb, we’re going to decide to put bullets in it anyway. If they call your bluff, an unloaded gun is nothing but a very expensive club. There are still about 125,000 of you that will need to fire your weapon and that’s a lottery you don’t want to win.
OK,you say, but when those 125,000 guys have to shoot, how many rounds do they need? According to a 2007 report, 62% of the time six or fewer shots were fired, with the 1/2 of those shots being two of fewer. This means that .002375%of you need a weapon that fires more than six shots. This is the lottery that 47,500 out of 200,000,000 are going to win this year. This is not a significant number of people, statistically speaking and does give pause to the thought that a more intimidating gun may actually be better for you than ones that hold more rounds. If you are willing to gamble that you are one of the “lucky” ones, more power to you, but you can probably stave your chances by just not doing stupid things and going places where you don’t belong.
My recommendations for self defense are as follows. For home defense, I recommend a .12 gauge,pump-action shotgun. There are even pump shotguns that hold more than six rounds if you are worried about that. For carry, I recommend either a large caliber revolver (.44 S&W and on up) or a .45 caliber semi-auto. I carry a 1911. I choose these not because of any magic caliber or stopping power bullshit. Using quality, modern self-defense ammunition will make more difference now than bullet diameter. I chose these because a bigger barrel means better intimidation factor and failing that, what’s behind it will be just fine for defense. Learn safety and marksmanship and never fire warning shots. If your life is in danger, you shoot. If not, you have no business firing a weapon.
Naturally,you should assess your own individual risk as well. If you have a dangerous job, a stalker or live/work in a bad neighborhood these risk factors mean more than any statistics ever will.
As always, these are my OPINIONS and not gospel truth. Just remind yourself of these figures the next time some guy says you need to take some tactical ninja class or wants to sell you some foo foo to put on your weapon or some bozo on an internet forum tells you that you are vastly under-powered and can’t survive a “real” gunfight without a bayonet and 200 rounds of ammunition
|Posted on October 20, 2014 at 7:25 PM||comments (2)|
October 20, 2014 at 7:47am
Here is how I explain the "Gateway Drug" issue with Cannabis legalization opponents.
Is it a Gateway Drug? In the U.S. it is, but not in places where it's legal. Why?
When I was in my early teens I lived in Germany. Like most kids, I played video games. In the U.S. video games were a kid's thing. We had huge arcades, Showbiz Pizza (later Chuck E Cheez), roller rinks and a host of other fun safe places to play. Not so in Germany.
In Germany in the early 1980s the only places you found video games (aside from American military posts) were bars, whore houses, peep shows and the like. They had no arcades or Showbiz Pizza.
So guess where I was hanging out on the weekends? Not at the library, I can tell you that. Liking video games put me in the Red Light District on a regular basis and this put me into contact with pimps, hookers, junkies, gangs and houses of ill repute. My favorite game was now a video version of Strip Poker and I used to see if I could get the girl naked before the owners of the place figured out I wasn't 18 and threw me out. I got pretty good at it!
Had there been arcades and whatnot, I never would have seen the inside of those places.
This is Marijuana in the U.S. In places where it's legal, you can go to a cafe' or a store and go somewhere safe to indulge in a drug that is itself far less lethal than alcohol. Where it is not, you get to hang around the guys who are selling crack, meth and heroin.
So is it a gateway drug? No. We have a "Gateway System".
|Posted on September 22, 2014 at 1:55 AM||comments (17)|
September 21, 2014 at 12:53pm
As a gun owner, there are things that are said about various firearms in the media that just burn my ass. Mainly because, either out of ignorance or willful fear-mongering, they are spreading garbage information that makes it impossible to have intelligent discussions with people about guns. In some cases, I am positive that this is intentional, but I'd say 90% of it is just ignorant people being ignorant. Here are some examples.
Making a big deal out of a rifle being "semi-automatic":
This is often accompanied by a completely unrelated video of someone firing a machine gun full-auto. Why this burns my ass is that being "semi-automatic" doesn't make a firearm more powerful or deadly. In fact, if you go to any given gun store, the vast majority of all the weapons minus the shotguns in there are semi-automatic. All it means is one trigger squeeze=one bang without having to manually cock the hammer in between shots. That's it.
All black guns are "Assault Rifles/Assault Weapons":
No. No. No. There is one distinction between "Assault Rifle" and "Just another rifle". This is a selector switch that allows the operator to fire either in full-auto or burst mode, in addition to semi-auto. If you go to your local gun store, you will likely find very few to no Assault Rifles. The only way a civilian can own one is buy paying a huge ass tax and subjecting his or herself to law enforcement scrutiny and red tape. It is cost prohibitive for most people and honestly, most gun owners don't care to own one because they are relatively useless for anything other than a range toy.
Calling an SKS an "Assault Rifle": Despite a superficial resemblance to the AK-47, the SKS rifle was NEVER issued with the capability to fire in full auto. In fact, it is a semi-auto only weapon with a 10-Round magazine! You can't even call it "High Capacity" unless you modify it by removing the spring-loaded/clip fed box and buy special detachable magazines designed to fit in the goofy magazine well. Even then you only have 2 of the necessary 3 requirements of an assault rifle.
Calling a rifle or pistol a "military weapon" or "military-grade": You may find this hard to believe but virtually EVERY pistol or rifle you can buy, including semi-autos, single/double action revolvers, all shotguns and even flint-lock muzzle loading rifles either were themselves used or employ a design used by the military at some point. EVERY WEAPON either is or was formerly "military grade". This extends to calling 9mm or .45ACP "Military Ammunition". Rounds as similar to and small as the .22 Short were used by the military. The BIG cartridge at one time was the .38 Special!
"Clip" vs. "Magazine": GRRRRRR! Don't even get me started.
Calling an AK-47 or AR-15 a "High Powered Rifle": Nope. Despite the scary image, these are not high-powered rifles. The AK and AR both use an INTERMEDIATE cartridge (Ones adapted to shoot .300 Win MAg or .50 Beowulf may be an exception). The whole reason they were adapted by the military to use intermediate cartridges was because High-Powered cartridges like the 7.62x54 Russian and the .30-06 were not very useful in close-range fighting. Try firing a Mosin-Nagant inside a building at a target 25 feet away and you'll see why. Wear hearing protection. Lots of it!
Referencing "Armor Piercing Capability": Sometimes also phrased as "Cop Killer" Ammunition, MSM sources often refer to various rounds, usually rifle rounds, as Armor Piercing. This is a huge misnomer. In military terms, "Armor Piercing" usually refers to Tungsten or Depleted Uranium cored rounds designed to pierce the armor on TANKS and ARMORED VEHICLES. There is no ammo you can purchase easily or inexpensively that can do this in the civilian world. "Armor Piercing" is occasionally used in reference to rifle rounds, but these are also usually tungsten cored rounds used to pierce light armor, including plate-enforced body armor. It is fairly uncommon. When the MEDIA uses the term, they usually reference the ability to pierce Police body armor. EVERY RIFLE ROUND BIGGER THAN A .22 LR ALREADY HAS THIS ABILITY. Police body armor is designed to stop handgun and shotgun rounds. Even grandpappy's deer rifle is "armor piercing" by this definition.
Hollowpoints "Explode" on Impact?: I've actually had someone ask me this. No. A Hollowpoint is designed to EXPAND quickly upon impact, causing the round to dump the majority of its energy in a shorter, but wider wound cavity. The purpose for this kind of ballistic performance is to cause incapacitation (note: I said incapacitiation, not death. Civilians and Police do not "Shoot to Kill". They shoot to STOP THE THREAT) using fewer rounds. This is to REDUCE the threat to bystanders by preventing over-penetration and too many rounds flying through the air.
I'm sure I will edit and add to this note as time goes on. Let me know what aggravates you about firearms in the media!