Hypothetical (and Fictional) Violence

So help me god, I'm going to murder someone tomorrow. I'm going to stab someone in the fucking eye. Or maybe I'll stab myself. I'm staring at the "exercises" in this pitiful excuse for a grammar book with which our teacher sought fit to punish us over the weekend. This is, of course, on top of the journal entry that we're to write each night - Katie has told me that we were only required to write one entry over the weekend, and I'm going to believe her, although I don't know whether that's true or not. Anyway, these grammar exercises (tonight's menu offers five scrumptious morsels) are difficult precisely because of how stupid they are. I'm not kidding, just figuring out what the fuck this devil-bound packet actually wants me to do is about one thousand times harder than doing the menial exercises that are lodged, filthy and maggot-like, in its stapled and barely legible pages. Once you've cracked their code, the real meat of the exercise is often something like "ask the question in a different way." No, not any way. A specifically different way that none but the most unbelievably close-minded sycophant could possibly understand. There is no reason to do any of the torturous exercises in this aborted hack of a workbook. None of it means anything. Let me make this clear: I don't give two good goddamns about any of the five different ways of posing questions using "Ne...Que" and "Ne...Jamais." It doesn't matter. You can only use one at a time. Writing the same sentence five different ways works for eighth-graders, not fucking French Literature majors. Here, I am imagining the repeated scrawling of inane phrases on the proverbial chalkboard, and as I look at the three exercises I have already completed on a ridiculously cramped and unusable piece of their fucking omnipresent graph paper, I feel like bursting into tears. Tears of hatred. I am in hell, and this book is Satan. I am going to need to clean myself after working with this thing. As in it needs to be burned, and my hands need to be scrubbed with lye and bleach to rid them of its vile, putrid stench.

As a side note, work on "Alastor Sinncraft: Manfist's Revenge" has been put temporarily on hold. Now, wait. Before those of you contemplating suicide at the thought of its delayed arrival do something drastic, I can at least offer you several juicy tidbits. You will notice that the story is extreme, but also tender. It's like Romeo and Juliet, only set in a futuristic Post-Apocalyptic desert-world full of Darkness and Danger and populated by Future Witches. I hope that you await with bated breath the release of what I am sure will be one of the biggest and most successful instances of outright plagiarism and that the internet has ever seen. I do fear, in my heart of hearts, that the tidbits I have extracted may be too juicy; that in showing them to you I doom my own creation to failure, and you will be left with no desire to read the rest of the thing - a sentiment with which, despite my status as author of the blasted text, I can commiserate:

If you are not aware of what, exactly, a Magnabike is, I urge you to google it with all available haste:

“Alright, Xerian,” said Alastor Sinncraft to his Magnabike, for that was the wild creature’s name, “it’s time to take it off the hook.” The panels of the Sandcycle fell away to reveal Extreme Flame-Red flanks and a cockpit that extended to wrap around Sinncraft. The bike elongated and lowered to the sand. Fire shot out of six massive chrome exhaust pipes at the back of the cycle, and as Sinncraft revved the million-beastpower Devil Motors, the Magnabike roared and shot into the darkness howling like a warthog-banshee. He grinned darkly, the thrill of the speed lifting his spirits as almost nothing else could. But then he heard a noise behind him. Another Magnabike! That could mean only one thing: The presence of a bandit Sorcelator, with enough Power to reign in a techno-beast as fearsome as a Magnabike. The night had just gotten Extreme.

Here, we see a glimpse of Alastor Sinncraft's arch-nemesis, Lieutenant Manfist:

Alastor Sinncraft looked at the man’s six robot arms, each clutching a lit xyberwand. He was half-man and half-machine, and all Badness. His totally Extreme persona was underlined by the Rad biker boots he was wearing, and the Totally Sweet way that his cloak was flapping in an invisible breeze. He had ammo belts strapped across his chest, and a Big Ass Gun was slung across his back.
“Lieutenant Manfist,” said Alastor Sinncraft in his gravely voice. The cyborg chuckled. “In the flesh,” he replied, in a totally Mysterious way. “Or at least...partly,” he smirked. “What the hell have you done to yourself?” Asked Sinncraft, darkly.
“Unfortunately for you, Sinn, I have been totally Pimped Out. As you can see, my power and awesomeness, as well as badness, have increased Megaly since the last time we crossed paths. I’ll admit, it’s my new master – not me – who had the interest in you, but you see…I owe him for these.” Lieutenant Manfist flexed his robotic arms. “You Rad Bastard,” said Alastor Sinncraft, broodingly, “That’s totally off the Hook in badness.”

Alastor Sinncraft ponders the best way to defeat the cyborg before him:

Alastor Sinncraft knew that his Megaly Rad foe was wicked sweet, and he also knew that to defeat him he would have to do something totally Off the Hook. His manly mind ticked over darkly, pondering the best way of defeating the cyborg before him, as he continued to Light It Up with both wands. He knew what he had to do. He was going to have to take it to the Limit Extreme. He began concentrating, feeling the Awesome Power in him growing to Totally Extreme levels. He could sense the Extreme being channeled out of the living earth and into his Hot and Toned body that was Throbbing darkly and dangerously with Rad Magical Badditude.

And one of my favorites:

The bartender, who was struggling to crawl towards the door with two broken legs, cried aloud as Alastor Sinncraft’s Merciless Boot stomped down on his back and forced him to the ground, mercilessly. “Now,” said Alastor calmly, “you’re going to tell me where to find Rex Brustar.” “I…I can’t!” Yelled the bartender, “I don’t even know, I swear! No one does! I’ve never even met him! He sends a guy who takes his cut and drops of the drugs and leaves! That’s all I know!” He howled in Pain and Agony. Alastor Sinncraft ground his Merciless Boot into the small of the barman’s back. “I believe you,” he said, his gravelly voice making a sound like manly gravel in the quiet bar. “When I leave, you call this guy and you tell him that you have a message for Rex Brustar. Can you do that?” “Yes, yes, anything!” cried the man. “What message?” “You tell him,” Said Alastor Sinncraft, “That it’s time for Rex to pay for his Sinns.”

I felt pretty good about that last line. And that's only from the first twelve pages. This story is going to eat your face off. Badical.