Thursday, April 26, 2012

Snippet: The Generalist - The Battle at Brownstone

So.  I figured out what my muse wanted me to write.

She wanted me to write this.  And start up on The Generalist.

Interesting, since my Muse inspired me to write it up in the first place, and my muse followed up by throwing a temper tantrum until I wrote this out, looked at the overview and felt her calm down.

Don't ask which is which or who is who.  Don't worry 'bout it, just enjoy it as it flows along.

So, without further adieu, here's my first attempt at writing in such a format since...god, I don't want to think about how long it's been since I've written in an actual story-story like this.

I should warn you, plenty of spoilers ahead.  This is basically the lead up to the ending fight sequence,  and by now it's generally accepted that Dash takes care of the physical troubles, and Frank handles the rest.  The rest happens to usually be the big baddies anyway, so it evens out.

Also I normally don't write at the end of the story as if the reader needs to have certain explanations - I did that for the sake of the snippet, and the intro especially will be somewhat re-written so I don't have to point out what Holy Diver or Benediction is, nor what the Overdrive is by now, things like that.  Not to mention that Karsiel is...and Howard Montenegro...or why...uh...well, shit.  I'm not going to spoil THAT much of the story, this is technically for the second or third book, y'know?

Anyway, please let me know what you think of this snippet from The Generalist - The Battle at Brownstone.


Frank frowned at his leather trench coat, the hood down, as he patted its' various pockets and inner blessed kevlar lining for his favorite knuckle.  Holy Diver was nowhere to be found amongst his calculated arsenal, and that had him nervous - though its' various blessings and divine powers wouldn't do much against an Angel-gened, the basic strength boost of the weapon would do him in good stead.  The elevator filled with the sounds of creaking leather and rattling as both he and Dash continued their pre-fight checks.

Dash looked over at Frank for a moment while checking his own oversized, custom-fitted jacket, unleashing the Big Boy bat and ensuring its' charges of kinetic energy were primed and ready.  His own favored brass knuckle-enhanced Artifact gauntlets were well-fitted and oiled, ready for the beating he was about to deliver.

Frank looked over at Dash while checking his own gear, then both stopped, locked eyes and looked up at the top of the elevator, both of them reacting at the same time at the tinny elevator muzak being piped in.  The Girl from Ipanima.  Dash shook his head with a muttered curse as Frank once again busied himself with his checks, frustrated at having left behind Holy Diver when both looked up again at the elevator speaker, then each other, each one trying to come up with a conversation starter.

"Uh, we're...uh, we're gonna whup some ass, yeah?"  The troll grinned nervously, straightening his gloves for the tenth time, pulling on the high-tension silver thread underlining.

"Yup.  All...once we get...up to fifty floors.  Yeap.  Gonna whup some ass, once we get up there," Frank double-checked his humongous six-shooter, Benediction, was filled and ready with its' special loads of silver bullets filled with blessed oil, garlic, rosemary, thyme, and silver shavings.

The Girl from Ipanima droned on as the elevator ascended, the two men eventually running out of things to do before the big fight and simply fidget.  From time to time Frank glared at Dash, and other times Dash glared at Frank while the other directed his glare elsewhere.  Eventually the troll coughed into an armored fist.

"Dude, is it me or is it hot in here?!"  Dash frowned at his own question.

"Nope.  It's pretty freakin' hot in here."

"Huh," the troll-man fidgeted as his human partner slipped his fists into his trench coat pockets and jingled the loose items in there about.  Dash wondered at what they were - from the sound of it it could either be loose silver shavings or coins.  For a moment his green eyes began to glow with a reddish glow as he grew increasingly frustrated at not knowing the source of the jingling sounds.

"Hey, dude," Frank, not realizing his friends' growing ire and frustration, spoke without taking his gaze away from the elevator doors, "You sure about this elevator?  I mean, it IS the private one, right?"

"Heeeey, man!"  Dash frowned at him, resisting the urge to bury his own oversized, inhuman hands in his jacket pockets, "My source is good, and we're in here aren't we?  I'd say my end of the bargain is good, yah?"

"Yeah, yeah, no doubt m'man," Frank chuckled, patting his afro with one hand while jangling whatever it was that was in his pockets.  What WAS that making that jangling sound?!  "And even better, we'll bypass most of the security.  With you handling the goons, I'll make the first strike against Karsiel and you can follow-up if I fail to do enough damage while he's still in human mode.  A good plan, bruddah, a good plan."

"'S just..." Hopkins glared at Frank's free hand as it once again buried itself into his trench coat pocket, the jingling-jangling sound doubled once again as the troll continued to talk, "Y'know...I think we're just too tensed up for this kind of thing.  I mean, this is a slow-assed elevator; shouldn't we be on the thirtieth floor by now?!"

"Naw, these kinda things are meant to make you relaxed and shit.  Presidential elevator onry, y'know?  The ambiance of the thing, all the red velvet and gold, and that song-"

"Okay, that does it.  That DOES it!"  Dash jabbed his finger into the emergency open button, his patience at an end and his desire to yell at Frank about the jangling too great, "I'm callin' it.  I'm takin' my damned ball and going home."

"Wait, you're going to what?"  Frank blinked, honestly puzzled at his friends' sudden change of heart.

As soon as the elevator doors opened, Dash immediately stepped off and turned around smartly, flipping Frank off, "Fuck this, I'm taking the stairs!  I've only got, what, ten more flights LEFT until the end, meet you there man."

As the doors closed, Frank groaned and pawed weakly at the air, "But...but...take me with you~!"

Kicking the door to the forty-eighth floor open, Dash blinked in surprise as a hallway full of guns bore down on him, his entire armored body covered in lights by the equally surprised guards and goons, all kitted and armored out with full riot gear.  To either side the hallway led into the rest of the forty-eighth floor, filled with what Dash could only see were bodies and cubicles.

Getting down onto one knee, he clasped his hands before him and looked up with beatific glory in his dark green eyes, he intoned loudly, "Oh, OH lord!  Thank you for this BOUNTIFUL feast I am about to receive!"

The guards, about to rush the troll-gened man instead fell back as Dash became a blur of motion, immediately springing into their midst with a crouching shoulder-rush, dropping one guard before grabbing a goon in a headlock, his arms and legs whirling and lashing out at all directions.  The guardsmen, packed as they were in the hallway, began to fall back but to no avail - Dash kept wading into the midst of a particular group to his left, keeping bodies between him and the other guardsmen who had succeeded in putting space between them.  Cackling with laughter, he slammed his elbow into his captive before whipping his fist into a nearby photo-copier, sending it flying after another target before hurtling his dazed prisoner at the second group, hounding at his heels as they were in the hopes of getting a clear shot.

"Yes, YES!  Gimme more, someone gimme someone to-GAH!" Dash roared as several men piled onto him from behind, their weight bringing him to one knee and forcing him to once again concentrate on the fight rather than merely enjoying it.  Growling, he considered activating the Girdle of Troll Strength as two more men sought to bring him down.

At the last moment he gave way completely before the brunt of the guardsmen, curling within himself, utilizing his greater flexibility and inhuman physique to gain purchase within the squirming mass of men before flicking fists and feet out, drawing them back into the troll ball he had made of himself, the super-close-range nature of the dogpile ensuring that his targets had no way to block or escape.

Rising from the mass of unconscious bodies, Hopkins felt the maglights of nightstick-bearing guards and laserlights of useless tranquilizer rifles pick him out of the darkened hallway, his eyes glowing with a reddened bloodlust made all the more terrifying by the moans of the bodies already piling up about him.

"Oh, oh YES!  The appetizers done...time for a bit o' that main course!"

Roaring, he rushed forward from a complete standstill, his trollish muscles catapulting him into the other group of guardsmen even as his hearing picked up the sounds of bootsteps on the stairs beyond.

Howard Montenegro's body floated in a graceful dance about the expansive office, taking up the entire fiftieth floor of the Brownstone Skyscraper.  He performed every dance he could think of that one with a human body could do, and throwing his body about, his limbs jangling in a vulgar display of celebration was all he could come up with.

He had won!  Against all odds, and in the name of God, had he won.

Karsiel smiled with Montenegros' face, panting as he reached out to touch a window, his eyes gazing out upon the blazing red horizon of Los Angeles.

"El Ciudad De Los's all mine.  Mine.  The prophecy of God, the foresight of has all led to this."

Karsiel turned and once again capered about, throwing himself this way and that, pouring his Angel-gened soul into his dance, heedless of the furniture he flung aside carelessly, knocking over an expensive vase as he made his way to the center of the office.

And stopped, cold, his entire being caught off guard for the first time since the dawn of his creation.

Frank Todd looked up from where he crouched in a runner's start, his fingertips pressed against the floor of the private elevator as the doors opened, murmuring aloud, "Time...stand still!"

For indeed, in the space between seconds time stood stock still, the angel's shocked expression frozen on Howard's face.  Todd's muscles bunched as he entered the first phase of the Overdrive, knowing he'd have to push it further than he'd ever done before.  The air shimmered about him from the exertion of his barely-held kinetic energy before he flung himself forward, the air pudding-thick as he struggled against it.  Leaving behind multiple after-images of himself, he continued to hurtle himself in a full-throttle run, putting every ounce of willpower, strength, and stamina behind it.

He had only one shot, and he HAD to make it count!

His after-images trailing behind him, Frank leapt over furnishings, the air growing heavier and his body already entering into the first state of both physical and psychic shock as he pushed the Overdrive further, getting closer to his target.  With a strange, delicate precision he hunkered down once he got within the angel's personal space, his arms forcing themselves forward to catch him as soon as his senses once again slowed down to normal time.

Outside the Brownstone Skyscraper a sonic boom rocked the fiftieth floor, exploding out from within and causing the entire glass wall to shatter and fragment, two forms hurtling out from within it to begin their deadly free-fall.  For a strange moment, Frank saw things as if from an outside perspective: the glass shattering, the tiny shards falling like rain to the ground as the two men careened out of the exploding skyscraper floor, heavy furniture and more flying in the wake of Frank's Overdrive-empowered suicide run.  He could see quite clearly Karsiel's look of supreme shock and fear, of defeat striking while one reveled in victory.  Frank himself was used to the feeling of failure, and it felt damned good to see it in the face of the angel, even if he WAS being manipulated.

Karsiel's eyes widened into saucers as he twisted this way and that as he fell, the power of gravity aided by Frank's kamikaze cannonball already taking hold.  Closing his eyes in order to force metamorphosis, he never had a chance to counter Frank's whip suddenly snaking around his ankle.

Frank snarled through his pain, feeding on his hatred of Karsiel's manipulation and Montenegro's imprisonment, his empathy amplified as it was by the Overdrive.  His biceps tearing through his trench coat, he reigned Karsiel in, keeping one hand on the pommel of his whip as he reached out with a gloved hand, grabbing Montenegro's hair before slamming the pommel of the whip into his face several times.

"IN THE NAME OF THE ANCIENT COVENANT AND BY THE WORD OF JEHOVAH, I ORDER YOU TO-OOF!"  Frank curled in on himself slightly as Karsiel brought a knee up sharply into his midsection, roaring back at Frank mindlessly as he sought to tear away from the whip, intent on activating his Monster Form.

"SINNER!  MORTAL!  KARSIEL DOES GODS' BIDDING, BLASPHEMER!  IN THE NAME OF GOD, I'LL DESTROY YOU!"  Frank screamed unashamedly as Karsiel grabbed him by the temple, emphasizing his psychic strike with physical touch as well.  The cutting waves of psionic energy, as sharp as any surgical knife, tore through most of Frank's defenses with the first surge itself.  He brought his knee up sharply into Karsiel's crotch, making a mental note to apologize to Howard later on even as he slashed out with his elbow in a close-range rap at his temple, breaking the hold and kicking him away only to reel him back in from another angle, the skyscraper speeding by at ever increasing velocity.

Twisting in mid-air despite the unbearable pain, with the skyscraper whizzing by Frank reeled Karsiel in close once again, bringing the ridge of his hammer-like fist down upon the angel-genes' collarbone, breaking it with a crunching noise lost in the wind.  Screaming, Karsiel writhed and tried to kick away only to be reeled in once again, the exorcist intent on keeping the battle as close as possible.

"Can't let him access his wings!  Can't let him get into Monster Form," Frank thought frantically as the angel-gened clawed at him.  Holding Karsiel at arm's length and using the advantage of his greater armspan, Frank began to hammer at the other man's face and neck, counting on the incredible regenerative capabilities of the activated Angel Genes to keep Montenegro's body living despite the lethality of his attacks.  Karsiel, for all that he was able to survive the various esophagus-crushing blows and bone-shattering hammer strikes, focused only on getting away, scratching and striking at Frank's arms, the very idea of calling upon his own empowered strength completely forgotten in the frenzy of the moment and the absurdity of the mid-air fight.  Frank, more sensing then seeing how far they had fallen by then, delivered his favorite attack and headbutted Karsiel directly in the middle of his face, stunning the angel completely limp.

Howard's head lolled slightly as Frank dragged him under himself, willing the Overdrive to activate to a new level, reinforcing the flexibility and suppleness of his body as he kicked off of Karsiel's chest, drawing his knees under himself and willing himself to only focus on his inner space, the street below already coming up at them with unbelievable speed.


Karsiel groaned as he got up and clutched at his already healing head, unwilling to believe that Frank had risked such a gambit to get to this point.  He glanced about the dim area and realized he was in one of the new underground subways that Brownstone had built under Los Angeles.  Gazing up at the massive, torn hole in the ceiling he realized that this was part of Frank's plan, using both the ground and Montenegro's body as a buffer in order to not only do an ungodly, amazing amount of damage but also to possibly survive.

If so, he apparently had not planned for his own death.  Karsiel chuckled weakly and staggered out of the rubble that lay strewn about him, seeking Frank's body for visual confirmation.  A man like that wasn't one to die so easily, and Karsiel wanted the pleasure of seeing his soul burn for this blasphemous trespass.

Frowning, he looked about once again, noting the tasteful chrome columns and the cleanliness of the area (despite the newly-made rubble and hole) with a small amount of pride before turning swiftly in reaction, the oncoming train's horn sounding clear enough to surprise him.

He then grunted in pain as a pair of booted feet slammed into the back of his head, sending him staggering onto the rails.  He looked up for a split second and saw Frank getting up from the missile drop-kick he had just landed, then all went black as the train hit him at full force.

Dash panted, as happy as he ever had since becoming a troll.  The entire forty-eighth level, a series of interlocking cubicles and offices, now lay in ruin, bodies strewn about in various poses of unconsciousness, concussion, or wracked with pain, clutching at broken limbs or limping and crawling to get away from the carnage.  Dash patted the Big Boy bat, its' charges already expended, against his leg and caught his breath for a moment after the wonderful exertion.

The troll-gened creature cast a baleful, red-glowing eye at his work and chuckled wickedly.

Oh.  Oh baby.  Was it GOOD!

"So what, no more?" He growled at a nearby guard, still conscious despite having both his arms shattered in the trolls' cruel grip, "Is 1that really all ya got?  I mean...are you this bad, or am I just THAT good?!"

He began to race towards the hallway that would take him back to the stairs and the elevator, only to hear more bootsteps echoing in the stairwell.  Growling at himself, he decided to head upstairs and check on the fiftieth level first, wondering at the battle between Frank and the powerful Karsiel.

"Bet he's havin' the time of his life~!"

Monday, April 16, 2012


Closing down to ghost properly.  If you don't catch me around the usual places (chat rooms, here at the blogosphere, faecbawks, twitter/twitlonger, etc) then it's because I haven't regained communications yet.

Don't worry though~!  I still got plenty of stuff for you guys once I get back - the usual bevvy of song lyrics and poetry and even some actual, GASP, writing~!!  Like stories and shit.

Also, collabs.  Fo shizzle, my nizzle - don't wanna give it away or nothin', but apparently there's a coupla projects that might star yours truly in it.  In the very least, I'll be involved.  Hopefully I won't be the towel boy or fluffer again - I should be able to at least headline my own video, y'know?!

In all honesty, sometimes I really wish I accepted the porn job over at Vivid Video.  At least I'd be having more fun, yah?

In the meantime, get caught up with my other blogs, or just stalk me on the usual social media bullshit, yeah?  Hey, I'm good all over!

TWITTER: @ThatBastardFB
FACEBOOK: : /ThatBastardFromBellingham (
GOOGLES+: ThomasDuder

The Sound Byte Page (though really all you gotta do is just follow me at Youtube, y'know?)

The Pen Is My Sword

That Bastard On

KAOS: Chaos Party Radio

Sooth(e) Your Freaking Beast

Man-Flavored Milk

Netflix This!

The Bellingham Jerk

Legion HQ! (currently disbanded)

P.S. -

Funny story  time.

Our Main Street Pub and Grill live gig video?  For Anubis Unit?  When we opened up there?

It got us 48 new subscribers and 1,660 views.

Imagine what that photo shoot would've done?

Well, that's neither here nor there.  Just gonna hafta rebuild and go ahead after I move back to Bellingham.

Monday, April 9, 2012

Battleworld - Horde Design Notes

Battleworld Design Notes - Horde Individual Characters and Units


King Aliester Bertrand

Age: 45
Ht: 5'9"
Wt: 160 lbs.
B/W/H: Sexy/Manly/Duuuuude.
Hand: Fighting - Right.  Sex - Ambidextrous.
Eyes: Purple
Skin: Pale, lightly blue pigment
Hair: Depends on his mood.  Either short or really long, but either way a lustrously black, that kinda black that almost borders on dark blue.
Musculature: He's actually somewhat slim and lithe, yet he has shown surprising bursts of strength.  This is due in part to the Necromorph transmogrification, but it's been noted that he's been physically strong ever since he began to come into his own.

Demeanor: Pretty much all the Horde follow in his footsteps in wordplay, twisting just about any situation or phrase into a double (if not triple) entendre.  Walking sexpots, the Horde (generally speaking) live to charm and to seduce. Al is no different, seemingly as flippant as even the most experienced succubus, yet he's fiercely loyal to those who have earned his trust.

Also hidden behind that easy smile of his is a necromantic genius, one of the founding creators behind the Necromorphic Transmogrification and the resultant sciences behind it, not to mention the byproducts that have benefited the Goblin King himself.

Ultimately he's a bright genius who likes to come off as dim and playful, while at the same time he really is a dim and playful playboy who eagerly devours sex as easily as he does decadent foods.

Description: Liquid sex poured into a graceful form, King Al has been groomed for leadership ever since he was born.  He has also exceeded all expectations of him, even impressing The Beauty herself, a woman who has experienced so much in her long life that she's actually bored with quite a bit.

It's often said that a Horde person is at their most dangerous after being vanquished.  Subjugation only turns them on and, invariably, they figure out ways to worm their sensual desires into their conqueror, feeding on their soul and energy until they're drained dry, a veritable slave to the whims of the Horde person.

Because of this, no matter how willing the Horde actually is to ally with others, they're always viewed with outright distrust and speculation.  To make matters worse, his own people have been incredibly vocal that he should stop straying from proper Horde lovers and simply be happy with his Queen, the Harem, and everyone else he's put his penis in.

For a short while he was downright vicious in his decision to chase after the stubborn yet beloved Makiko Kraze, even to the point where he stopped sleeping with everyone until, one day and seemingly out of the blue, he capitulated and calmed down (relieved sighs EVERYWHERE at a civil war averted), though to this day he refuses to say why he did.

Though he loves Mama Loa and his citizens truly, one can only guess at his motives when it comes to Makiko Kraze and whether or not things will still once again boil to the point of civil war.

For true love, he would do no less.

Dog Breath

Age: 2 in mortal years, 24 in dog years.
Ht: 6'5"/7' (in Werewolf Mode)
Wt: 250 lbs./400 lbs.
B/W/H: Thick/trim/spring-like
Hand: Left
Eyes: Violet/Red (in Werewolf Mode)
Skin: Pale, almost blueish (in werewolf mode he has pitch-black fur)
Hair: Jet black and lustrously long
Musculature: Incredibly balanced with a powerful torso, his limbs have been described as tree trunks, and his body fat content is damn near 0.  Aesthetically speaking, he's completely perfect yet it's a body that's designed for battle as well as aesthetics - think "nullboxers" from the Gorgon's Child books.  His body can handle incredibly torque, zero-g fighting, and can perform super-human feats of gracefully muscular acrobatics.

Demeanor: Tries to come off as stern and serious, but can easily be distracted and is actually pretty quick to both happiness as he is to violence.  He still has moments of contemplative silence and unlike his tweaky twin sister he can meditate fairly well for a few hours at a time, a skill that has taken him long to acquire but useful in his usual job as a male model.

Description: Dog Breath and his twin sister Cat Butt are the result of the necromantic sciences that begat the Necromorph Transmogrification itself.  As an experiment, he is amongst the first wave (and most successful) of those who underwent transmogrification, having been a Necromorph from birth.  As a friend, he's intensely loyal to King Al, viewing him as the older brother he's never had.

As he grows older, Dog continues to grow in strength and speed, constantly seeking to improve his abilities and ever to be a proud Hordeman and friend to Al.

Outside of battle, he usually stays in his humanoid-zombie form, but in combat he immediately goes into Werewolf mode, gaining all bonuses from that zombie type.

Like all Horde members he's incredibly skilled at seduction and sexual pursuits, but views them secondary to his martial pursuits.

In Werewolf mode he grows claws, tough fur over his body, his muscle mass (especially the rib cage and back muscles) double in density and size, and his hands and feet grow larger.  Strangely enough, all Werewolves are double-jointed at the knees, able to maneuver as a normal human or as an extended foot.

Cat Butt

Age: 2 in mortal years, 28 in cat years.
Ht: 5'5"/6'0"
Wt: >moves to fast to be weighed, and can be quite violent if asked<
B/W/H: 35/24/35 (increases in Werecat mode)
Hand: Right
Eyes: Dark purple/Red
Skin: Pale blue with a rosy tint/ darkens slightly at her shoulders, back and underside.
Hair: Blonde/White at the tail, hands, feet and at her whiskers.
Demeanor: Is prone to fidgeting, always moving, will sometimes simply lay down and sleep wherever she wills.  Can become possessive at times, and is as flexible as an acrobat.  Is normally playful and can even joke around on the battlefield.  Extremely loyal to those she claims are hers, and is the only known person who honestly believes that every single member of the Horde belongs to her (with King Al's consent nonetheless).

Description: Audacious in her beliefs and irrepressibly cute, Cat Butt is nevertheless an excellent warrior who uses her obscene speed and movement ability to her advantage.  Unlike her more serious brother, Cat Butt has absolutely no desire to think about the future and simply loafs about the court.  Is sometimes a member of the Harem.

It's said that Cat Butt is only ever serious about sex, sleeping, eating, and fighting.  There might be some truth to that.

Like all Weres, she goes into Werecat mode before entering battle, her hands, feet, and head hair becoming larger and hairier, also gaining a tail.  Unlike a werewolf though, werecats actually grow slightly thinner and can become insanely flexible.

Enjoys all sibling bonuses with not only her brother but also King Al as well, though Dog Breath doesn't.

Upon being added to The Harem, gives them an immediate bonus to their movement and speed.

The Beauty

Age ???
Ht: 5'0"
B/W/H: 36/24/36
Hand: Ambidextrous
Eyes: Purple
Skin: Pale, lightly blue pigment
Hair: Length depends on her mood.  Either short or really long, but either way a strawberry blonde, a bit more strawberry than blonde.
Musculature: Though she seems slim and beautifully female, it's been noted that her hand-to-hand and weaponshandling is superb not just for its' grace but for her surprisingly physical strength.  It's also been said that her incredibly physicality stems entirely from her sexual prowess, and much like other Horde members she sometimes cannot discern one from the other.

Her sheer physical prowess (second to her magical abilities)  is such that she has cowed battle-hardened warrior vets with heavier musculature than her own.  It doesn't help that she's amongst the oldest beings in Battleworld either, and she herself a battle-hardened warrior veteran with thousands of successful skirmishes and battles under her belt.

Demeanor: The Horde are supreme lovers, not only in a physical and spiritual sense (especially the romantic and biblical sense) but above all of secrets.  Secret information, technology, magical techniques, special attacks - the more secretive the more turned-on and interested a Horde member can become.

The Beauty (her very name a secret) is indeed one of the greatest hoarder of secrets, and has only ever shared them fully with two men: King Al and his many-times ancestor.  It's from those secrets that the insanely powerful Necromorph technology came about (an old ritual, but only realized with Al's necromantic genius), and also from those secrets that the Horde has ever kept their much-stronger enemies at bay.

Playful yet smokingly hot, her every move is pretty much calculated, liquid sex.

Description: The Beauty is a figure of legend from a time when epic legends were commonplace.  Today she's one of the few surviving relics, though none would call her that - as a warrior, she is queen of the battlefield.  As a lover, there are exceedingly few who can live up to her expectations.  As a figure of power, there are few who can openly stand against her will and whims.

Altogether, The Beauty is a force of nature in Battleworld, and it shows as ancient enemies and allies alike both pay her the dues she deserves.

It's only when she meets the brutal force of the Krieg Army, greater than anything she has ever witnessed, does she find herself falling under someone else's charm...

Improves the Harem's offensive capabilities upon being added.

Corpse Courier

Age 20
Ht: She's like a giant Cadillac made of corpses.
Wt: She's run over every single census taker to try and find out.  Even as a car she keeps up the Feminine Conspiracy.
B/W/H: She has multiples of all three.
Hand: She multiples of both, and it's been noted that she seems to like the left ones more.
Eyes: The face that's inset within the grill has purple eyes.
Skin: Strangely enough for a necromorph, the flesh of the corpses that make up her body are all a healthy pink color.
Hair: Oh jesus, what?
Musculature: She's pretty much pure muscle.  She's a fucking car. you get it?  Muscle car?  Eh, fuck you, that's funny.

Demeanor:  Corpse Courier is incredibly loyal to Al, The Beauty, and her friends amongst the high council.  She's a valued member of the team, for all that she has NO way to really communicate beyond a strange kind of "body language."  Apparently can communicate with Handjob, though no one knows how.

Has moments of wanting to be cute (and indeed, the main face that's set in the grill DOES have a cuteness to it), but ultimately appears to be a fierce warrior and a powerful vehicle.

Description: Fiercely loyal, powerful, strong, and a real monster amongst monsters.  She has excellent stats, has the highest mobility of all the Horde high council, and is the only one able to carry Mother here and there.  Unlike other Horde members though, her defense is slightly crappy and she doesn't benefit from any of the Charisma bonuses the others do.

Her Necromorph ability changes the skin color of the corpses that comprises her body into a reddish-purple, and flames burst out of her headlights and tires.  She also leaves behind a burning trail behind her that harms any that come into contact with it for a few rounds.

There seems to be a story that lays between her and Al, and but none of the higher council members will ever talk about it.  It's generally accepted that her fierce loyalty towards Al and the Horde in general are beyond doubt, and her abilities speak for themselves...I mean, she's a fuckin' car.


Age 1
Ht: 6'5"
Wt: >the census taker was torn apart and has been replaced by a new one<
B/W/H: (has two sets of breasts) 38, 28/18/24
Hand: Which one?
Eyes: Violet.
Skin: Pale, blueish
Hair: Long and a sheen so dark it's almost blue.
Musculature: Long-limbed, densely muscled especially at the shoulders and the two long, praying-mantis like arms on her back.

Demeanor: Despite her freakish nature, she's genuinely happy and even charming in her own way.  She was made to be a particular breed of sex slave, but took it upon herself to toughen up and become a weapon of war in the name of the Bertrand bloodline and the Horde.

It's been noted that this was actually done against King Al's wishes, but a long and lengthy discussion somehow changed his mind.

Handjob can be quite stubborn when she wants to, and despite the fact that she lacks the ability to make speech she still manages to talk more than anyone else through sign language.  Incredibly fast and incredibly effective sign language.

Out of all the Horde, she's the only one who can talk to the Mother and Corpse Courier clearly.  It's been stated that a tea party with all three can be...."Interesting."

In battle she can be downright bloodthirsty, and won't hesitate to take advantage of weaker enemies.

Her arms end at the wrist in two more arms with hands on each one, as do her feet at the ankles, and two incredibly long and powerful arms at her back (at the shoulder blades) which, upon being unfurled completely, can strike at airborne enemies.


Counted as one of the strangest of the Necromorph experiments, Handjob can actually be quite cute and even adorable despite her appearance.  She WAS designed to be a sex slave, and it shows in her movement and deft, agile workings, a virtuoso at stringed instruments and her own strange crooning.  An artist of multiple media as well as a dancer, she nevertheless gave up her beloved art when she took it upon herself to become a warrior, able to wield more weapons than anyone else, move better and even engage airborne enemies with melee attacks, becoming an extremely violent and offensive-based warrior during battle in the process.

She has sworn an oath to once again take up her softer professions after peace has come to Battleworld, her kind heart only reserved for her closest beloveds and friends.

Can be added to The Harem in order to improve the unit's mobility and grant them anti-air capability.

Mama Loa (once Melisande Grim)

Age 25
Ht: 5'8"
Wt: >census taker forgot<
B/W/H: 36/24/36
Hand: Depends on what she's doing.
Eyes: Purple.
Skin: Slightly olive-colored (she's still a live human after all)
Hair: Long, strawberry-blonde (almost pink).
Musculature: Well toned and carefully maintained, though she's comely of limb and incredibly feminine, it's been noted that the Grim blood within her grants her immense physical strength and vitality even though she hasn't died yet.

Demeanor: Is actually quite a serious woman, one who was raised with ideals of duty and responsibility pounded into her, alongside the incredibly physical and powerful Grim Wrestling Arts.  As a melee fighter, she is extraordinarily skilled at hand-to-hand and can learn martial arts quite well.  As a necromancer and a witch, her magic seems to grow stronger the angrier she gets, and she can get quite angry VERY easily.

Destined to arise as a Exalted Zombie like all of her kin upon death, and it's practically guaranteed that she'll undergo the Necromorph Transmogrification in an attempt to become a Necromorph as well.


The head of The Harem, she is the only way to begin building The Harem and once established can either remain within the Harem or leave it as an individual.  As a member of the Harem unit, she won't count towards army count and increases the Harem's stats and abilities by her Charisma score.

A cold-hearted bitch who was raised to be the ultimate Queen for the Horde: ruthless, devastating in both beauty and ability, and absolutely loyal to Al and the Horde.  Naturally she chafes around The Beauty, but the two have a kind enough relationship when not publicly feuding.

A powerful woman in her own right who embodies the greatest virtues of the Horde: love, power, strength and secrets.  And as a Grim, she also has the skill and violent intent to keep those secrets safe.

Like all of the Grim clan, she has a promise from the King of Darkness himself that should the Incubi ever return, she'll return to the frontlines and be amongst the first (alongside the entire Grim Clan) to face them in combat.

The Harem

Age: varies
Ht: varies
Wt: varies
B/W/H: varies
Hand: varies
Eyes: varies
Skin: varies
Hair: varies
Musculature: varies

Demeanor: Incredibly loyal to Al, Loa, The Beauty, and The Horde in general.  Only the most beautiful zombies, necromancer humans, witches, and succubi can join this unit.

Description:  The Harem unit itself is a strange amalgam of up to ten different units combined into one, with access to their combined stats (a combined fraction of each unit depending on how many units, from 1/2 up to 1/10 of each unit), abilities, skills, spells and more.  The Harem unit doesn't gain experience points, nor do the individual units gain experience points while in The Harem.  While in The Harem, none of the units count towards total army number, and may even gain special bonuses while having certain named characters in the Harem.

In order to start the Harem unit, you must have Mama Loa "initiate" a unit, then one more.  From that point on the Harem unit can "initiate" any other unit as it sees fit whether or not Loa is there, and "disengaging" all the way down to one will completely get rid of the Harem unit.

Mother and Unborns

Age: ???
Ht: 20'10"
B/W/H: >nonexistent<
Hand: barely there
Eyes: violet, but blank and staring
Skin: pale and slightly blueish-pink at certain places.
Hair: It's been noted that she has strangely reddish hair in a mohawk on top of her tiny head.
Musculature: Nonexistent - she's practically one gigantic castle of flesh.

Demeanor:  Despite her stationary existence, it's been noted by more than a few that the Mother is incredibly loyal to the Horde itself and King Al, and that she apparently petitioned to become the creature that she is now upon undergoing Transmogrification.

Is something of a minor celebrity to the Horde itself, and many come to her to provide entertainment, services, and to ensure her comfort and safety.

During times outside of war, she refuses to birth Unborns due to their nature.  It's rumored that she DOES have one child that is somewhere hidden amongst the UnderRealm, but no one in the high council will admit who it is.


A massive mountain of flesh with an iron underside, the Mother is a freakish mountain of a woman whose features are warped by her very nature.  Almost like a giant castle or tube, she exists to be placed and to spawn Unborns continuously until the end of battle.

While there ARE psionic experts who have checked her over from time to time, it's the strange language of body and form that allows her to communicate to Handjob...who is equally hard to figure since most in the Horde don't understand sign language.

Is generally happy both in and out of battle, even though she herself lacks any mobility whatsoever.  Is more than happy to attack or defend as she can while spawning Unborns (both Infantry and, later, Baby Boomers) and obliterating the enemies of the Horde.

For whatever reason, it's been noted that Makiko Kraze and her share a strange empathy and even something of a friendship.

Individual Units

Zombie Golems - Giant corpses with loincloths, tattered bits of large armors, and mostly use their own fists as weapons, sometimes clubs made of tree trunks.

Necromorph - Any unit can become a Necromorph, and this does little other than adding a black tint to their aura.

Infantry - Tiny undead babies, like evil cherubs (complete with tiny, shriveled wings with flesh instead of feathers)

Succubi - Excessively beautiful female creatures dressed in lingerie and/or armor pieces, normally using swords or knives as weaponry.  If it wasn't for the lingerie they'd look like any other normal human.

Witch - Cloth armors, they bear the large pointy hats of their station and specialize in staves and clubs.

Ghoul Girls - Ghoul Girls are noteworthy for being able to wear leather armors or cloth armors, the only other unit in the game that can use mining helmets, and are able to use shields, swords, two-handed swords or spears.

Vampire - Hand-to-hand artists that can also use swords, they dress in old victorian style of gentlemen.  Frock coats, top hats, that kind of thing.

Wormlings - They're giant worms. ;3

Wormlord - They're even larger worms with a crown on top of their "head" near the maw.

Mutations - Much like Necromorphs, except the tint to their aura is blue.

Doctors - These units wear lab coats and bondage gear underneath.  Almost always wears gigantic goggles and can utilize scalpels (knives, basically).

Plague Doctors - The doctors upon upgrading can trade the white lab coats, don the black coat, plague mask, and top hat of their new job and may now also wield giant syringes as weaponry.

Necromancers - Robes and light/cloth armor is the name of the game here.  Necromancers always have the hood up, something about their code demands this.  They utilize staves and clubs, as well as knives.

Baby Boomers - like Infantry, only they also have dynamite strapped to their chest.  Doom babbies.

Soulsuckers - The succubi grows horns, becomes more voluptuous and may even gain a diaphanous, almost transparent robe.  They also grow wings at this point.

Zombies - Zombies in general are decayed humanoids.  Zombies normally have the stats and abilities they had when they were alive, and can range in what they can wear just as much.


Werewolf - wolf-like creatures with pants and a giant belt strapped across their chest.  Hand-to-hand specialists who can also dual wield swords, shields, or any combination of the two.
Catgirl - cat-like creatures that dress in tight shirts (plenty of midriff), tight shorts with thigh-high boots and have high mobility.  While they prefer hand-to-hand (their own claws), they can use a variety of weaponry from knives to swords to thrown weapons to even two-handed swords and spears.
Alien - A strange combination of alien DNA and zombies, the creature is humanoid save for tentacles for legs and arms and they now have the bulbous, giant helmet of an alien.
Gloried - Much like a zombie except now they can wear leather armors as well as cloth armor, and their looks are slightly improved.
Exalted - Much like a zombie except they can now wield empowered armors and weaponry.
Battle - Like Zombies only they can wear advanced armors, weaponry, and seem WAY more solid than normal Zombies.  As they should since Battle Zombies are as powerful as it gets for zombiedom.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

An Untitled Poem 2

Sometimes I haven't a clue what to name a piece I just churned out, I just do it and slap an "Untitled" on it. Perhaps some other time I'll figure it out, but for now this'll do.

Like any and all good citizens in this modern era, I feel a strange range of emotions when regarding mirrors outside of their chief purpose. I've written a bit of stuff on 'em m'self, and this is just the most recent.

My hands are on the wrong places in the mirror
I look again and the thumbs are upside down
I blink and they're back again, facing the wrong way
Why can't I see my palms, the lines engrained in the callous?
Why won't the mirror let me see it?

My hands are facing the wrong way in the mirror.
I can't look up I know he's looking at me
It's trying to tell me something but I don't know
I can't understand what he's saying, communication
It's broken down between us, but I must know.

My hands are on backwards in the mirror.
A subtle message, clear of restraint and fear
He wants me to know, he needs me to know
And I'm honestly trying to understand
But the vision is unclear and the mirror is dirty.

Ode to your local diner

For me it'd be Shari's on Meridian Street. They're like a slightly comparably-priced version of Denny's, but with way better pie. Reckon they're comparable to Marie Calender's then, y'know?

Some people complain about the service, but I've never had any complaints, plus they're another 24/7 place to grub and hang out. And hey, dat pie!

Plenty of other good stuff there too, and the staff can be downright interesting if you get to know 'em.

It's all about what YOUR diner is like, y'know?

You know the name of the chef.

You know the names of the waitstaff.

You know this place by heart.

Your table is always ready for you, or in the very least a table like it.

There's a table for you and your people, when you need to gather about such a table and break fast or enjoy an after-work dinner in each other's company.

You know each and every special, but you have your own.

A plate just for you.

The pie is perfect, and the coffee too.

You know this place.

It knows you, your name carved into a table or a wall somewhere.

This is your diner.

This is YOUR diner.

It's ready for you at any point in time, at any hour, and will always accept you.

And that's a good damned thing.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Ode to Denny's

Highly suggestible that you read Ode to IHOP first. So naturally I ensure this one is first on the page lol. Intentionally bad prose, not even written in a true ode style or with any real rhyming scheme, and I don't care.

Sometimes ya gotta write some bad shit about sub-par quality restaurants, I reckon.

Oh, Denny's.

Oh, Denny's.

Ohhhhhhhhh, Denny's.

At one a.m., you're the warrior, standing guard against the onslaught of our enemies. The lone soldier on a pale horse, battling against the invading horde of boredom and hunger.

At two a.m., you're the king, dictating to the people what is good and what law is. You lay down the rules with endless pancakes and endless coffee of questionable taste, and betimes the odd delightful specialty plate.

At three a.m., you're a God. My friends and I gather at your temples and give charity, preaching your cause even as we devour you. Your biscuits and gravy are fucking awesome, and those pancakes....the bounty of your pancakes and ever-flowing coffee never cease.

Lord of the night and savior of the day - when waiting for a bus, you're the best thing in the world. Coffee and pancakes, a book in hand, the morning beautiful and the people interesting.

Yearly you open your doors and give back to those who have given you so much - a free meal to all who wish it. Your charity is as great as your syrup is good, your eggs and hashbrowns perfect, your bacon crisp.

Oh, Denny's.

Oh, Denny's.

May you never fall!

Ode to my local IHOP (that closed down)

Y'know, sometimes I intentionally write bad prose on purpose. Hell these aren't even structured properly for an Ode, but meh - whatever. I like 'em, think they're funny, and worthy enough to be shared.

I might be wrong, but I think I'm right on this 'un. Lemme know what ya think, as always, at the usual spots.

Once, I couldn't walk. Once, I was immobilized.

Once, my soul was in constant pain and broken to bits, my pride gone.

But you.


During the time of intense pain, through the humiliation of physical training, you were there for me.

With peppery breakfast sausages and a new delectable plate each month, with your delicious coffee (oh god, how I remember you so well!) and your excellent service.

We would sit there for hours afterward, drinking coffee and happily digesting, playing cards and enjoying the view from the tables we chose, the outside a wonderful thing.

We would bring our friends and make a happy ruckus, buying plate after plate of tasty goodies.

I and my darling would talk of you to others, and tell random strangers on the street of your fields of splendor, your palate-pleasing taste sensations.

Oh god, it's because of you I can't have syrup unless it's hot.

Oh god, it's because of you I put syrup and honey in my coffee.

But you.


You had to leave us, didn't you? You had to shut down.

Is it the economy? Was it corruption? Could it have been an act of God?

It doesn't matter. You were there for me during a time when I needed you.

You were perfect, you were necessary, you healed me.

You delighted us, you delighted me.

And sometimes, that's enough. You had a good run, and I will always remember you with kindness.

With fondness.

Even as my darling has left me, even as my body regrows in strength and pride, even as I glue back the pieces of my soul I will always have a special place for you in my heart.

Where your breakfast sausages will always sizzle with peppery goodness, your bacon with a clean and delectable taste, and your hot syrup always perfectly poured over some new creation.

Perfection forever.

For the record, hot syrup really did blow my fucking mind. I haven't been to either Denny's or an IHOP restaurant since...god, last year. Nine or ten months ago, methinks. Suffice it to say I order it that way no matter where I go, and the IHOP I'm speakin' of closed down nigh on a year and a half ago. Sigh. The memories. The hot syrup.