It has occurred to me that I haven't focused enough on my contributions to mental manliness. I have some video gaming to return to shortly, so this post will be brief yet potent.
Emotions are psychic farts; the indigestion that happens when you chow down on too many experiences at once and don't know how to deal with them.
"But Mlyno," my impatient blade brothers will say, "aren't you always mad at stuff?"
To which I say:
"Shut your fucking face, you insolent shit!"
"I WILL STAB YOU!"
"I am not emotional, I am enthusiastic!"
Big difference.
I do have a lot of regular farts, though.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
The Mlyno’s New Clothes
My readers know my fondness for my security and private enforcement company slash consulting firm, “Thugco”. And they might even expect that in the current climate of economic despair that my special bundle of skills would be a particularly hot commodity. Well, to a certain degree, this is true. There is a lot of demand for ass kicking and head thumping out there, to be sure. What my optimistic reader hasn’t considered, however, is how damn hard it is to run a business! So damn hard in fact that the Mlyno might have to make a change of venue.
Let’s be clear: I eat, breath, and dream thuggery. It is my life, and I do it well. The upside is that, in this asshole of an economy, there are plenty of people wallowing in sadness or attempting to struggle for their rights, who need a good thrashing; and, luckily for me, there are plenty of rich folk pissed off by these lowlifes, and they are more than willing to pay good money for my special brand of skull cracking. Just the other day, for example, I had the pleasure of tossing a deadbeat mother of two out of one of my client’s many rental properties. And yes, dear reader, there are some real perks. There isn’t much in this world that beats the sound of fragile memorabilia and valued family mementos shattering against the sidewalk at 0500. The icing on the cake was the little girl crying as I gutted her favorite stuffed animal with my trusted Lucinda. Sure, the teddy bear shredding wasn’t specified in the contract, but I believe a job is only worth doing if you do it right. Call me old fashioned.
While evictions and targeted assaults are my bread and butter, I also specialize in strike busting and shop floor discipline. Just recently, I broke in a new truncheon I got for my birthday on a couple of suspected organizers, and a cabby who asked for his fare with a little too much attitude. Not too long ago, I single-handedly dispersed a teacher’s union picket line with a homemade pepper spray broadcaster that I rigged to my loyal Jeep. After I soaked the vanguard with some high-powered bear mace, the rest of the pussies pretty much fled in terror. For good measure, I chased down one of the slower schoolmarms and softened her ribs pretty good. But that’s the kind of attention to detail you can expect on a Thugco job.
All of this, of course, is the bright side - the reason I fell in love with the work. The darker side is the damn paper work! I hate paper work! Every job has to be itemized, and all of my charges justified or the clients would make a stink about it. Well, the Mlyno doesn’t work that way. I’m as off-the-cuff as I am off-the-road. I improvise, damn it. My plans change constantly. And I need this kind of freedom to work my brutal magic. My clients often fail to appreciate this, and instead fixate on the massive added costs I usually incur in the process of expressing my thug brilliance. Sometimes throwing someone through a window (defenestrating is the industry term) isn’t enough; to get that real Hollywood feel it needs to be a wall sized picture window that will shatter in a cascade of shards that swarm the limp airborne body like crystal bees. But the finer points of my art such as this often lead to arguments with my dumbass clients. When they won’t listen, I am forced to give them a good thrashing also. After this, the money I strip from their quivering and battered frame is pretty much all that I can expect since the incident will likely sour communication. This makes it hard to do business. So the long and short: I need a job.
Let’s be clear: I eat, breath, and dream thuggery. It is my life, and I do it well. The upside is that, in this asshole of an economy, there are plenty of people wallowing in sadness or attempting to struggle for their rights, who need a good thrashing; and, luckily for me, there are plenty of rich folk pissed off by these lowlifes, and they are more than willing to pay good money for my special brand of skull cracking. Just the other day, for example, I had the pleasure of tossing a deadbeat mother of two out of one of my client’s many rental properties. And yes, dear reader, there are some real perks. There isn’t much in this world that beats the sound of fragile memorabilia and valued family mementos shattering against the sidewalk at 0500. The icing on the cake was the little girl crying as I gutted her favorite stuffed animal with my trusted Lucinda. Sure, the teddy bear shredding wasn’t specified in the contract, but I believe a job is only worth doing if you do it right. Call me old fashioned.
While evictions and targeted assaults are my bread and butter, I also specialize in strike busting and shop floor discipline. Just recently, I broke in a new truncheon I got for my birthday on a couple of suspected organizers, and a cabby who asked for his fare with a little too much attitude. Not too long ago, I single-handedly dispersed a teacher’s union picket line with a homemade pepper spray broadcaster that I rigged to my loyal Jeep. After I soaked the vanguard with some high-powered bear mace, the rest of the pussies pretty much fled in terror. For good measure, I chased down one of the slower schoolmarms and softened her ribs pretty good. But that’s the kind of attention to detail you can expect on a Thugco job.
All of this, of course, is the bright side - the reason I fell in love with the work. The darker side is the damn paper work! I hate paper work! Every job has to be itemized, and all of my charges justified or the clients would make a stink about it. Well, the Mlyno doesn’t work that way. I’m as off-the-cuff as I am off-the-road. I improvise, damn it. My plans change constantly. And I need this kind of freedom to work my brutal magic. My clients often fail to appreciate this, and instead fixate on the massive added costs I usually incur in the process of expressing my thug brilliance. Sometimes throwing someone through a window (defenestrating is the industry term) isn’t enough; to get that real Hollywood feel it needs to be a wall sized picture window that will shatter in a cascade of shards that swarm the limp airborne body like crystal bees. But the finer points of my art such as this often lead to arguments with my dumbass clients. When they won’t listen, I am forced to give them a good thrashing also. After this, the money I strip from their quivering and battered frame is pretty much all that I can expect since the incident will likely sour communication. This makes it hard to do business. So the long and short: I need a job.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Geri-rigged
My loyal readers know that my love of off-roading doesn’t stop at the city limits. Like all forms of my love, it knows no bounds, respects no borders, and transcends all codes of common decency. No one who knows The Mlyno would be surprised to see him taking a golf cart down an outdoor staircase or shredding a villain’s front lawn with his baby! In fact, I believe that I can proclaim, without fear of exaggeration, that I am the world’s greatest urban off-roader. Keep this in mind as I confide a most traumatic turning of events, that will leave little doubt of a vast and nefarious plot against your blogging blade brother.
A few months ago, while wrapping up a day of hard manly labor, at my shitty summer job, I was attacked by a monstrous old woman. While I can’t divulge too many of the details because of my pending lawsuit, I can tell you that this vile beast assaulted me in the most ironically cruel way imaginable – with an urban off-roading tactic close to my heart. That’s right! While I relaxed in my company golf cart, patiently waiting to cross an intersection, this monster veered off the road, jumped the curb and flanked my sweet little ride with hateful force. Me a victim of an off-road assault, only my eternal nemesis good have conjured something as poetically unjust as that. What’s worse, I was thrown several yards from my cart and landed directly onto 100% American concrete. Because she had the element of surprise, the old bitch took me down with a single blow from her sedan. And if that insult to my pride wasn’t enough, my enemies added injury to it. I regained consciousness as this city’s incompetent emt’s were cutting the shoulder straps of my tactical backpack – an indispensable item of bad ass ensemble. I reached for a blade but I hadn’t the strength to wield it.
Despite the particularly evil nature of this assault, it has not phased me. There was even an up side. When a certain busty co-worker, compelled by her womanly compassion, accompanied me to the hospital, I managed to score a couple of brushes against her choice rack. I even earned a solid handful by thrashing on the gurney as they tried to get me in the ambulance. I tried to close the deal later at the hospital, but she was too much of a selfish prude.
A few months ago, while wrapping up a day of hard manly labor, at my shitty summer job, I was attacked by a monstrous old woman. While I can’t divulge too many of the details because of my pending lawsuit, I can tell you that this vile beast assaulted me in the most ironically cruel way imaginable – with an urban off-roading tactic close to my heart. That’s right! While I relaxed in my company golf cart, patiently waiting to cross an intersection, this monster veered off the road, jumped the curb and flanked my sweet little ride with hateful force. Me a victim of an off-road assault, only my eternal nemesis good have conjured something as poetically unjust as that. What’s worse, I was thrown several yards from my cart and landed directly onto 100% American concrete. Because she had the element of surprise, the old bitch took me down with a single blow from her sedan. And if that insult to my pride wasn’t enough, my enemies added injury to it. I regained consciousness as this city’s incompetent emt’s were cutting the shoulder straps of my tactical backpack – an indispensable item of bad ass ensemble. I reached for a blade but I hadn’t the strength to wield it.
Despite the particularly evil nature of this assault, it has not phased me. There was even an up side. When a certain busty co-worker, compelled by her womanly compassion, accompanied me to the hospital, I managed to score a couple of brushes against her choice rack. I even earned a solid handful by thrashing on the gurney as they tried to get me in the ambulance. I tried to close the deal later at the hospital, but she was too much of a selfish prude.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Amen!
Blade Clink to M(urder) K(ing) for the inspiration
Double Blade Clink to V(iolent) H(ellion) for execution
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