DEATH!
As I told you, I was going to kick off a creative writing stint. Well, here it is, in all its glory. But before I start, a little foreword. My teacher's only instructions on the following piece was that it had to end with me dying. That left a lot open to exploit, which I think I did to an extreme degree. Here we go:
Blood dripped down my face as I stared back at my nemesis. A lot had happened to get me this far, and I wouldn't die without retribution. "Time to die," I uttered with a dire grin, tensing my grip on the combat knife in my hand. It was covered with fresh mustard. Cajun style. My nemesis, Commie Dave, waved his rubber chicken at me menacingly, a rusty nail impaled through its head. "Not if I set my watch back," he replied, his thick, almost stereotypical accent resonating through the cold air. "Then I guess I'll have to keep...you..from...changing it!" I exclaimed, throwing down a high-heeled shoe that I just happened to be holding in my left hand. "We'll see about that, comrade!" he shouted, tearing out a large tuft of his beard deftly. "I know your weakness, you Pinko son of a bitch!" I replied, waving my knife fiercely, "you have no gall bladder! Your body can't handle spicy food!" Commie Dave just laughed. "That may be so, but you have never defeated a man with an asymmetrical face!" he said with a maniacal laugh, revealing his gruesome visage. His torn beard left his face uneven, as the prophesy foretold. Much like Ho Minh of the Exploding Fist clan had foreseen, I was destined to fight a man with a "not quite so even face," one whose misshapen facial hair would inevitably spell my doom. However, I wasn't afraid. Ho Minh couldn't even see that well, and besides, I had a trump card in my back pocket: a habanero pepper. Of death! We stood on the brink of life. Both of us walked the earth as though dead, shut out from reality until this very moment. One of us would die, breathing life into the other. Or maybe neither of us would die, which would just be plain awkward. The hot mustard dripped off my blade, landing in the snow below. "It's morphin' time, bitch," I uttered coldly.
How had I gotten to this point? What could convince such a normal man to go this far? What had happened to make me come to Antarctica, to wage bloody war against three men using nothing more than a high-heeled shoe of justice, a condiment-drenched knife, a really hot pepper, and my bleeding ogre belt in Awesome-Fu? The answer is simple: it doesn't matter. I'm just mysterious like that, and besides, that part isn't even exciting or non-cliché in any way. All totally predictable and skippable. The only thing that mattered now was killing the three men responsible for my social and psychological prom night gone ugly: Commie Dave, the aforementioned leader of the group; Billy Ray Cyrus, country musician turned deadly assassin; and Steven Seagal, who I didn't have any real beef with except that he made terrible movies and annoyed the hell out of me. But where were Commie Dave's right and left hand men? "Commie Dave, where are your right and left hand men? I have a bone to pick with at least one of them too!" I said haughtily. As if on cue, Billy Ray Cyrus exploded out of the snow nearby, his choice (weapon)resting firmly in his grip. Steven Seagal stepped into sight from behind a giant, inflated Mountain Dew can balloon, which I had previously assumed was just for decoration. I guess in the middle of an arctic wasteland, shameless product ads were all he could bring to the table. "Three on one, eh? Looks like I'll have to triple the stakes!" I said defiantly, stomping the snow in slow motion. I utilized the "douche physics" I had learned from Mission: Impossible 2, and the crossbow that I had just happened to have buried there when I was visiting on a hiking trip years ago exploded out of the snow and into my hand. "It's boltin' time!" I shouted, firing the crossbow at Seagal. The bolt sunk into his chest, striking a mortal blow. "I may have a pseudo-tough exterior," Seagal gasped, "but on the inside I'm a sad, lonely little boy." He collapsed to the ground, dead. That left two. Billy Ray eyed me coldly. "I'm gonna achy break your heart," he said with a deadly serious gaze. I quickly picked up the high-heeled shoe and tossed it like a throwing knife at him. The heel stuck in his throat, ending his already dead singing career. "I'm afraid conventional methods will not serve you here," Commie Dave said with a chuckle, "Cyrus is no normal man." Cyrus pulled the bloody shoe out of his neck and tossed it aside. His blood sizzled in the snow, and the gash in his neck healed almost immediately. He was obviously a demon. "There's still only two of you. Guess I'll just have to...double down!" I said fearlessly. Cyrus looked back at Commie Dave. "I just don't think he'd understand," he said with a sigh. I understood alright. I made a mad dash for Seagal's limp form. I had only one chance to do it right, or I would have to try again, significantly lowering my self-esteem. I wrenched the bolt from his chest. "Do you think I could be loved, on the other side?" he asked weakly, apparently still alive. "I'm not sure if time can heal the wounds your acting has inflicted on yourself and the world," I said grimly. He was fading fast. "Bryan!" he said, clinging to my arm and dear life, "don't forget to...do the Dew..." With that he was truly gone, fulfilling his contractual obligations to the very end. I knew what I had to do. Cyrus had been transforming his guitar into a machine gun while I was busy. I always knew that damn guitar was really a Decepticon. How else could it produce such evil tunes? "Oh shit!" I exclaimed, diving out of the way as Billy Ray opened fire. His bullets riddled Seagal's corpse with holes and struck the giant Mountain Dew can balloon. The inflated advertisement promptly exploded, throwing Cyrus and Commie Dave to the ground. I acted quickly. "Quick, soul-searching clergyman, sprinkle this bolt with holy water!" I said to my other self. Thank God I was a schizophrenic, and further that Nayrb (my other self) was a holy man. "Sure thing," he replied, stomping the snow in slow motion. The vial of holy water he had just happened to have buried there years ago on a hiking trip exploded out of the snow and into his hand. He quickly dumped the holy water on the bolt and handed it back to me. "It's holy boltin' time!" I exclaimed aloud, firing the crossbow and Cyrus. It plunged right into his achy breaky heart, wrenching the life out of him. He looked down at his chest in pain. "Just might blow up and kill this man," he uttered at his dying organ. His heart followed his final order, exploding more promptly and spectacularly than the Mountain Dew balloon. Whatever demonic country singers bleed rained from the sky. Only one thing left to do. "Both symmetrical," Commie Dave said with a sigh. "Both tizzerminated," I replied. "You can't win. You can't defeat your destiny," my nemesis said, whipping around his rubber chicken like a rubber chicken. His crushing statement held water. I almost gave up hope when I remembered what my mentor, catch phrase-loaded John Bunnell, always said when he was criticized: "Ignore the critics." "Ignore them," he would say, "except the ones who have done more 'x-treme cop videoz' than you, which would be no one but me." "Besides, I made Fox what it is today damnit, and if you try to take that away from me, I'll remind you how I became a Level 54 Grand Dragon Master of Death-Fu!" he would rant. Then he would get drunk and beat some more character and personality into me. But that was another story. "I may not be able to beat my destiny," I said, brandishing my knife, "but I just might juke him out and make a sweet lay up!" "Wait...what?" Commie Dave replied, puzzled. "En guarde!" I said, running towards him. He reached into a pouch and quickly tossed Arabian sand in my eyes. "Argh, Arabian sand!" I screamed in pain, dropping my knife and clawing at my eyes. I guess it would have to come down to my mastery in Awesome-Fu. I just hoped my fists were spicy. "Flying Toe Jab!" I shouted, simultaneously leaping into the air, stabbing Commie Dave in the forehead with my big toe, and ripping off the Matrix. He flew into the ground, the impact bone-jarring. Since I couldn't see, Nayrb had to acta s my eyes. Since I was too busy using my mouth for enunciating move names and taunting fiercely, he was going to have to communicate through telepathy. Unbeknownst to many, unlocking the clergy's latent psychic potential is the first thing the Church teaches. That's what makes them such great assassins. And politicians. "He's about to smite you with his imitation poultry. I suggest you utilize your Mexican pepper of unrivalled spiciness," he uttered calmly into my mind. He was right. I quickly snatched the aforementioned pepper into my hand, and the nail that my other self warned me of pierced through, squirting pepper juice in all directions. Commie Dave screamed in agony. "Pepper?!?!" he shouted, "impudence!" "Get ready for the indigestion of your life!" I proclaimed triumphantly, jamming a severed half of the pepper into his mouth, "taste freedom!" Commie Dave burst into flames, melting into human ash and blowing away. I couldn't think of a clever or even nonsensical quip, so I just smiled. I had defied destiny. I began to head home when I heard a click. A bear trap lunged out of the snow, tearing into my leg. I remembered burying it there years ago on a hiking trip in case a bear was following me. I continued to limp along. It was only a flesh wound anyway. I kept on lurching when I heard another, distinctly different click. That's when it all came back to me. Years ago on a hiking trip, I knew the bear trap wouldn't kill a polar bear. That's like the pimp of all bears. So I planted something that would kill even a polar bear: a land mine. I also planted a crossbow, just in case I had to stun it. Unbeknownst to many, polar bears take hits like cargo trains run over loose change and drunk bums. Another realization hit me: when I was burying the environmentally-friendly animal vaporizer, I had begun to grow a misshapen beard. "Aww, lame!" I said, realizing the irony. I slowly lifted my foot. The explosion must have been spectacular.
Blood dripped down my face as I stared back at my nemesis. A lot had happened to get me this far, and I wouldn't die without retribution. "Time to die," I uttered with a dire grin, tensing my grip on the combat knife in my hand. It was covered with fresh mustard. Cajun style. My nemesis, Commie Dave, waved his rubber chicken at me menacingly, a rusty nail impaled through its head. "Not if I set my watch back," he replied, his thick, almost stereotypical accent resonating through the cold air. "Then I guess I'll have to keep...you..from...changing it!" I exclaimed, throwing down a high-heeled shoe that I just happened to be holding in my left hand. "We'll see about that, comrade!" he shouted, tearing out a large tuft of his beard deftly. "I know your weakness, you Pinko son of a bitch!" I replied, waving my knife fiercely, "you have no gall bladder! Your body can't handle spicy food!" Commie Dave just laughed. "That may be so, but you have never defeated a man with an asymmetrical face!" he said with a maniacal laugh, revealing his gruesome visage. His torn beard left his face uneven, as the prophesy foretold. Much like Ho Minh of the Exploding Fist clan had foreseen, I was destined to fight a man with a "not quite so even face," one whose misshapen facial hair would inevitably spell my doom. However, I wasn't afraid. Ho Minh couldn't even see that well, and besides, I had a trump card in my back pocket: a habanero pepper. Of death! We stood on the brink of life. Both of us walked the earth as though dead, shut out from reality until this very moment. One of us would die, breathing life into the other. Or maybe neither of us would die, which would just be plain awkward. The hot mustard dripped off my blade, landing in the snow below. "It's morphin' time, bitch," I uttered coldly.
How had I gotten to this point? What could convince such a normal man to go this far? What had happened to make me come to Antarctica, to wage bloody war against three men using nothing more than a high-heeled shoe of justice, a condiment-drenched knife, a really hot pepper, and my bleeding ogre belt in Awesome-Fu? The answer is simple: it doesn't matter. I'm just mysterious like that, and besides, that part isn't even exciting or non-cliché in any way. All totally predictable and skippable. The only thing that mattered now was killing the three men responsible for my social and psychological prom night gone ugly: Commie Dave, the aforementioned leader of the group; Billy Ray Cyrus, country musician turned deadly assassin; and Steven Seagal, who I didn't have any real beef with except that he made terrible movies and annoyed the hell out of me. But where were Commie Dave's right and left hand men? "Commie Dave, where are your right and left hand men? I have a bone to pick with at least one of them too!" I said haughtily. As if on cue, Billy Ray Cyrus exploded out of the snow nearby, his choice (weapon)resting firmly in his grip. Steven Seagal stepped into sight from behind a giant, inflated Mountain Dew can balloon, which I had previously assumed was just for decoration. I guess in the middle of an arctic wasteland, shameless product ads were all he could bring to the table. "Three on one, eh? Looks like I'll have to triple the stakes!" I said defiantly, stomping the snow in slow motion. I utilized the "douche physics" I had learned from Mission: Impossible 2, and the crossbow that I had just happened to have buried there when I was visiting on a hiking trip years ago exploded out of the snow and into my hand. "It's boltin' time!" I shouted, firing the crossbow at Seagal. The bolt sunk into his chest, striking a mortal blow. "I may have a pseudo-tough exterior," Seagal gasped, "but on the inside I'm a sad, lonely little boy." He collapsed to the ground, dead. That left two. Billy Ray eyed me coldly. "I'm gonna achy break your heart," he said with a deadly serious gaze. I quickly picked up the high-heeled shoe and tossed it like a throwing knife at him. The heel stuck in his throat, ending his already dead singing career. "I'm afraid conventional methods will not serve you here," Commie Dave said with a chuckle, "Cyrus is no normal man." Cyrus pulled the bloody shoe out of his neck and tossed it aside. His blood sizzled in the snow, and the gash in his neck healed almost immediately. He was obviously a demon. "There's still only two of you. Guess I'll just have to...double down!" I said fearlessly. Cyrus looked back at Commie Dave. "I just don't think he'd understand," he said with a sigh. I understood alright. I made a mad dash for Seagal's limp form. I had only one chance to do it right, or I would have to try again, significantly lowering my self-esteem. I wrenched the bolt from his chest. "Do you think I could be loved, on the other side?" he asked weakly, apparently still alive. "I'm not sure if time can heal the wounds your acting has inflicted on yourself and the world," I said grimly. He was fading fast. "Bryan!" he said, clinging to my arm and dear life, "don't forget to...do the Dew..." With that he was truly gone, fulfilling his contractual obligations to the very end. I knew what I had to do. Cyrus had been transforming his guitar into a machine gun while I was busy. I always knew that damn guitar was really a Decepticon. How else could it produce such evil tunes? "Oh shit!" I exclaimed, diving out of the way as Billy Ray opened fire. His bullets riddled Seagal's corpse with holes and struck the giant Mountain Dew can balloon. The inflated advertisement promptly exploded, throwing Cyrus and Commie Dave to the ground. I acted quickly. "Quick, soul-searching clergyman, sprinkle this bolt with holy water!" I said to my other self. Thank God I was a schizophrenic, and further that Nayrb (my other self) was a holy man. "Sure thing," he replied, stomping the snow in slow motion. The vial of holy water he had just happened to have buried there years ago on a hiking trip exploded out of the snow and into his hand. He quickly dumped the holy water on the bolt and handed it back to me. "It's holy boltin' time!" I exclaimed aloud, firing the crossbow and Cyrus. It plunged right into his achy breaky heart, wrenching the life out of him. He looked down at his chest in pain. "Just might blow up and kill this man," he uttered at his dying organ. His heart followed his final order, exploding more promptly and spectacularly than the Mountain Dew balloon. Whatever demonic country singers bleed rained from the sky. Only one thing left to do. "Both symmetrical," Commie Dave said with a sigh. "Both tizzerminated," I replied. "You can't win. You can't defeat your destiny," my nemesis said, whipping around his rubber chicken like a rubber chicken. His crushing statement held water. I almost gave up hope when I remembered what my mentor, catch phrase-loaded John Bunnell, always said when he was criticized: "Ignore the critics." "Ignore them," he would say, "except the ones who have done more 'x-treme cop videoz' than you, which would be no one but me." "Besides, I made Fox what it is today damnit, and if you try to take that away from me, I'll remind you how I became a Level 54 Grand Dragon Master of Death-Fu!" he would rant. Then he would get drunk and beat some more character and personality into me. But that was another story. "I may not be able to beat my destiny," I said, brandishing my knife, "but I just might juke him out and make a sweet lay up!" "Wait...what?" Commie Dave replied, puzzled. "En guarde!" I said, running towards him. He reached into a pouch and quickly tossed Arabian sand in my eyes. "Argh, Arabian sand!" I screamed in pain, dropping my knife and clawing at my eyes. I guess it would have to come down to my mastery in Awesome-Fu. I just hoped my fists were spicy. "Flying Toe Jab!" I shouted, simultaneously leaping into the air, stabbing Commie Dave in the forehead with my big toe, and ripping off the Matrix. He flew into the ground, the impact bone-jarring. Since I couldn't see, Nayrb had to acta s my eyes. Since I was too busy using my mouth for enunciating move names and taunting fiercely, he was going to have to communicate through telepathy. Unbeknownst to many, unlocking the clergy's latent psychic potential is the first thing the Church teaches. That's what makes them such great assassins. And politicians. "He's about to smite you with his imitation poultry. I suggest you utilize your Mexican pepper of unrivalled spiciness," he uttered calmly into my mind. He was right. I quickly snatched the aforementioned pepper into my hand, and the nail that my other self warned me of pierced through, squirting pepper juice in all directions. Commie Dave screamed in agony. "Pepper?!?!" he shouted, "impudence!" "Get ready for the indigestion of your life!" I proclaimed triumphantly, jamming a severed half of the pepper into his mouth, "taste freedom!" Commie Dave burst into flames, melting into human ash and blowing away. I couldn't think of a clever or even nonsensical quip, so I just smiled. I had defied destiny. I began to head home when I heard a click. A bear trap lunged out of the snow, tearing into my leg. I remembered burying it there years ago on a hiking trip in case a bear was following me. I continued to limp along. It was only a flesh wound anyway. I kept on lurching when I heard another, distinctly different click. That's when it all came back to me. Years ago on a hiking trip, I knew the bear trap wouldn't kill a polar bear. That's like the pimp of all bears. So I planted something that would kill even a polar bear: a land mine. I also planted a crossbow, just in case I had to stun it. Unbeknownst to many, polar bears take hits like cargo trains run over loose change and drunk bums. Another realization hit me: when I was burying the environmentally-friendly animal vaporizer, I had begun to grow a misshapen beard. "Aww, lame!" I said, realizing the irony. I slowly lifted my foot. The explosion must have been spectacular.
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