[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

The man in the black suit had sex on his mind and murder on his lips. He strolled about the bar casually, basking in the waves of smoke and perfume and unadulterated passion. Ah, this feels so damn good he mused, soaking up the human emotions of which he was usually devoid.

Of which he was usually incapable.

But a year had come and gone, and the man in the black suit was again granted his one day. Twenty-four hours in which he would not only be able to feel again, but to feel in a way that no human could fathom. Sensation amplification, if you will. Food and wine tingling on the tongue in such a manner as to border on erotic ecstasy. Every neon bulb in the bar shining brighter than it had been ever been designed to. The chatter and laughter and soft whisperings behind ears, every single syllable being heard with a stereo clarity that wouldn’t be mastered for decades. Aromas, even sweat and tears, hitting his nose with a candy shop sweetness.

And touching another human being – well, that’s what the man in the black suit spent the year looking forward to the most.

Even incidental contact, brushing by others as he made his way through the lounge, was enough to make him close his eyes and breathe heavily. This pushed the man in the black suit toward his emotional precipice, threatening to derail his plans if he wasn’t careful. “Oh my,” he exhaled, “I had better get to it.” He was acting with resolve. Dark, deadly resolve.

Moving towards the back of the bar, the man in the black suit scouted the scene. He was one of only a few men at the club that wasn’t a soldier. And soldiers always wooed the girls away. A symptom of the times he figured. But for every member of the armed forces present, there were at least three civilian women. So there were plenty of choices, and besides, trying to filch away a woman from one of these soldiers would’ve been bad news.

Not that the man in the black suit couldn’t kill the lot of `em. But he didn’t want the mess. Not on his one special day of the year, anyway.

A stroke of luck! He spied a dainty, raven-haired beauty sitting by herself at a table, milking a cigarette for all its worth. Her impeccable smile, her slender frame, her gossamer throat, it was all so sexually invigorating. Even her pale complexion — she wasn’t a Geisha, but her milky face wasn’t too far off — it screamed for attention in the midst of a society that generally asked all members to keep their eyes glued to the floor.

And feeling the bloodlust rising within, the man in the black suit couldn’t help but imagine how good it would feel to absolutely destroy the girl. To pillage her. Mind. Body. Soul. Consentual sex wouldn’t suffice, not on this day of hyperbolic sensation. No, he would forcefully enter her, deposit his rotten, lifeless seed, and then murder her. Approaching his prey, he conjured images of wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing existence away.

“Hello. How are you this evening?”

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WELCOME TO THE   MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! FUGG YEAH, BOI!

Whoa. Sorry, I just lost my mind for a bit. Can you blame me though, life’s damn wonderful! Worth getting psyched up for! Also, I’ve been pounding caffeine all afternoon, so I scream in the irrational belief that it’ll keep my heart pumping.

Anyways. Posted on Monday evenings by a dude with less than fifteen minutes on his daily commute, this is the weekly show-and-tell at OL. I show you the bits of trivial nonsense I’ll use to numb the sting of indentured servitude. Then, like a good little doobie, you hit up the comments and tell me what you’re up to.

A failure to comply will result in the destruction of your homeworld. The Planet Smasher has been summoned. Don’t test me.

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[face of a franchise presents two individuals that’ve fulfilled the same role. your task — choose the better of the two and defend your choice in the rancor pit that is the comments section]

Take a look at the image above. Good lookin’ babes, huh? Slightly over-the-hill, no doubt, but these ladies seemed to have aged more like wine than vinegar. And hell, who doesn’t like a nice cougar? America’s been lusting after slutty old broads for the last forty-four years.

True beauty transcends time. And so do these babes.

One of the most important plot elements of Back to the Future is that Marty is going to fuck his girlfriend Jennifer Parker during a weekend retreat. He’s really pumped about the prospect, especially since it’ll cheer him up after having been smoked in the battle of the bands audition. Unfortunately, his pussy of a father loans the family car to his shitbird boss, who of course smashes it up while drunk. As a result, Marty goes back in time to rewrite history so that he can bang Jennifer whenever he pleases.

Or something.

In any case, the role of Jennifer Parker was first rocked by Claudia Wells. The actress did a superb job of inducing boners, thereby helping viewers of Back to the Future further sympathize with the protagonist (and his carnal desires). Had a lesser-quality woman taken the role, society may have never experienced a collective erection and this modern-classic may have fallen by the wayside.

*HOWEVER*

Due to an illness in the family, Claudia Wells was unable to participate the second two chapters of the BTTF trilogy. As a result, Elisabeth Shue assumed the role of Jennifer. With Shue’s performance, the audience was able to glimpse into the year 2015 and see what Marty McFly’s future turmoil could look like. The second and third flicks featured Jennifer much more prominently, requiring more screen time from Shue than her predecessor.

Claudia Wells defined the role, but then bowed out and pretty much faded into obscurity. Elisabeth Shue spent way more time as the character, but was just going through the motions someone else choreographed.

So – who do you think is the better Jennifer Parker?

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[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

Principal Clancy took a big, nasty slurp of coffee. The paper cup struggled to maintain itself, pushing against the vice grip of a fat, sweaty paw. The brown juice sleazed passed yellow teeth and fought against a burp on the way down. Naturally, the cup folded inwards as the liquid found its way into the educator’s gullet. In the process, a splash of coffee broke through a fissure and launched itself onto Principal Clancy’s jowls.

He didn’t even notice.

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Thank the Maker – April’s almost over! Here in New England, winters are absolutely brutal and I’m pretty sure that this last one has been the bleakest of my life. As such, April seemed like it’d be a great reprieve but it’s proven to be a fickle bitch – cold and rainy with just enough sunshine to keep the razor from my wrist. But once May hits the winter coats are traded for hooded sweatshirts and smiles are abound.

It’s true – scientists say so.

To get us through this final week of National Sexual Assault Awareness Month, let’s hop into the Monday Morning Commute – the shining piercing on the tip of the dong that is the workweek. I’m going to run you through the highlights of the upcoming seven days, and then you can do the same. It’s internet-buddy show-and-tell at its best. Or worst. You decide.

Let’s do this.

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[images & words is the comic book pick-of-the-week at OL. equal parts review and diatribe, the post highlights the most memorable/infuriating/entertaining book released that wednesday]

It’s not usually a struggle for me to pick my favorite comic of the week. More often than not, a single funnybook will stand out, whether because of an incredible story, moving visuals, or some other quality. But on more fortuitous weeks, I’ll be presented the wonderful dilemma of having multiple candidates in my stack o’ panels. This is one such week.

And since both contestants are so damn appealing, I’m going to give both of them the grand prize! Open the vault, Seymour, these two are both going to spend a fabulous week at Images & Words! See, isn’t it great when one’s success isn’t defined by some other sap’s failure?! Ta-dah! Pop the champagne and slap a stripper’s ass! Huzzah!

Butcher Baker: The Righteous Maker #2 and Casanova: Gula IV are both phenomenal books and you should buy them. As soon as possible, dingbat! Don’t sit on your ass! Oh, what’s that, you want to know why they’re worth your hard(ly) earned cash?

Okay then, follow me into a diatribe that looks like that kooky cave on Dagobah….

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[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

Captain Ryan Major took a long, hard drag from his cigarette. The nicotine felt good on his tongue and the smoke the felt good in his lungs. He held his breath as long as he could, sliding his pursed lips into a smile and savoring every second. With his eyes closed and the early-morning sunbeams hitting his face, Major could’ve sworn that he was back in Myrtle Beach.

Yeah, for a moment he was absolutely sure that he was once again waking up on the porch of his mama’s South Carolina home, locked out after a long night of drinking beer and chasing tail.

Losing himself in the moment, the captain kept his eyes closed as he chuckled and exhaled. He brought his quivering left hand to his face, returning the cigarette to his eager lips. He then ran his bloody right hand through his hair, staining the blonde locks in the process. Major wanted to believe that if his eyelids never parted he’d never have to leave this imagined South Carolina. Maybe he could stay there, eating fat slabs of bacon after finally being let into the house by his ever-forgiving mama.

Hell, Major could practically taste the imaginary cup of coffee when he heard real keys jingle. He knew that the construct of his mind’s eye was no substitute for his home, and it was now proving itself to be more lackluster than ever. If he was going to die that day, Major figured that he’d rather face a terrible reality than have his fantasy further compromised.

With a principled resignation, Captain Ryan Major flicked away the butt of his cigarette and opened his eyes.

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Dark days have descended upon the workweek. Just as the work continues to pile up, I come home feeling fatigued. Although a nap provides momentary refuge, when I return to fight the beast I find it just as formidable but ten times as pissed off. I forge ahead, knowing that that at the end of this five-day torture rack, I will fumble, exhausted and smiling, into a week-long vacation.

Don’t think I’m complainin’ – I know that most jobs don’t include occasional weeks off. But rest assured, my weeks off and relatively low wages are now considered by many the real problem with the nation’s budget. Yeah, it’s totally not the million-dollar missiles we’re hurling at countries whose conflicts we have no reason to get involved in.

Shit. I’m grandstanding. Back to the point. Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute, the spot where I show you what I’m doing this week. If all goes to plan, you then get so excited that you hit up the comments and share YOUR plans. Give’n’take, get it?

Lezrokk.

–-

Rockin’/The Parallax: Hypersleep Dialogues

BTBAM’s new EP drops tomorrow and I couldn’t be more excited. Okay, to be fair, I downloaded the leak last week, but there’s something about actually purchasing a CD that gets me fuggin’ amped. Artwork?! JEWEL CASE?! Wait, A DIGI-PACK!?!? OH SHIT!

Anyways, this three-song, thirty-minute release is goddamn dense. I’ve listened to it the full way through more than a few times, and I hear new bits every damn time. I think bassist Dan Briggs deserves mad respect – his parts fit cohesively into the audio canvas, but are kooky and insane when you listen for them.

This shit is like Bitches Brew for a new generation.

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[images & words is the comic book pick-of-the-week at OL. equal parts review and diatribe, the post highlights the most memorable/infuriating/entertaining book released that wednesday]

The fact that Orc Stain is written, drawn, and colored solely by James Stokoe is fucking ridiculous, a wonder that should be put on the same level as the creation of penicillin. What’s that, you’re wondering why I’m spouting such hyperbole? Well, the simple fact is that in addition to having the most imaginative plot I’ve come across in eons, this book’s visuals are absolutely jaw-dropping.

Orc Stain is comic book dynamite.

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[face of a franchise presents two individuals that’ve fulfilled the same role. your task — choose the better of the two and defend your choice in the rancor pit that is the comments section]

In my humble opinion, Saturday Night Live has had two periods that can both accurately described as classic – the late `70s and the early `90s. Both of these eras stand out because their respective casts were absolutely stacked, filled to the brim with a wealth of members whose individuals talents rocked but whose combined efforts fucking murdered. I mean that in a good way. And yet, even with such commendable collaboration, both casts had a fan-favorite.

From 1975 to 1979, John Belushi explored comedic territories on SNL that have barely been ventured into since. Belushi was the epitome of what it meant to push sketch comedy to the limit. Sure, he could do impressions and characters, but he’d also go on emphatic tirades and put his body on the line in the name of his art. Before his time on Spaceship Earth was up, he’d immortalize himself not only as an original SNL cast member, but also as the star of Animal House and one half of the Blues Brothers.

However, Generation X had their very own SNL fat-guy. Perhaps even more winsome as his predecessor, Chris Farley was beamed into the homes of millions every week. Not only did he make us gut-bust, but he also inspired us to feel good. Yelling into the camera, falling through tables, warming our hearts with a smile, Farley possessed that intangible comedy attribute. While he undoubtedly stole the show with features such as Tommy Boy and Black Sheep, the man proved his worth as a supporting player with Billy Madison and Dirty Work.

I know this week’s dilemma is a little different. And truthfully, I don’t think I can decide. So it’s up to you.

Who’s better – John Belushi or Chris Farley?

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