abnormalpublishing

[abnormalpublishing]

Commentary on Episodes 13–16

Hello there!

Just because I haven’t followed up with the commentary posts in a while doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. On the contrary.

Some of the episodes (or entries . . . or posts . . .) are short, and after giving it some thought, I figured it’d be better to either do massive commentary dumps or break them into something more digestible. It’s like watching a vocal coach react to your favorite band or whatever popular song is trending—stopping every few seconds gets tiring. So instead of that, I’d rather batch things up. And here we are.

Let’s Talk Episodes 13 to 16.

Episodes 13 & 14

These were originally a 2-in-1 combo, but I split them because it was getting pretty long. The inspiration came from a Fallout 4 beachside Queen Mirelurk encounter. It seemed like a great scene to explore and expand—especially with the idea of a crab shack reference. Hint: Joe’s Crab Shack marketing— ”Take your top off!”

At the time, Game of Thrones was airing, and yeah, if you noticed the name Joffrey, you probably groaned or cheered. We all hated him. He was a pleasant casualty. I’d resurrect him and OH MY GOD . . . nothing, just had a thought. Anyway—♪

Episode 14, “Last Christmas,” is a nod to Evil Cowards and Fall on Your Sword (with a sprinkle of George Michael—RIP). Well, technically, it was FoYS with Dick, but that’s pretty much EC. It’s like asking, was it Phil Collins or Genesis? There’s a great cover of “Last Christmas” out there with a killer video. I included it, but you can go YouTube spelunking.

Also referenced: “I’d Do Anything for You” —another Fall on Your Sword gem. They’re classics . . . and they slap. I’m happy for their success (and also Dick’s books).

Ben’s name? Pulled from the “All That Jazz” episode of Sealab 2021. You’re welcome.

Episodes 15 & 16

These are just love letters to absurdity and pop culture. You’ve got Saturday Night Fever, Batman, Metal Gear, Mortal Kombat, and that glorious invincibility-star power-up from Super Mario.

Fun bit: the episode image? Same one—just reversed. Because why not?

This is where I introduced the idea of a dancemancer—a wizard who dances. Breakdancing + necromancy + Fallout + Mortal Kombat = absurd chaos. And I liked it. So I wrote it.

And you read it. (Well . . . maybe.) Honestly, I’m probably just yelling into the void, hoping a few folks enjoy the nonsense because I found it entertaining. It could be worse. I could be on that list. You know the one. But I’m not. So I crack open a cold one, yell “necrophilia!”, laugh, and keep writing ridiculous things because—why the hell not?

Wrapping Up

I thought this commentary would be longer, but honestly, some of it is pretty self-explanatory. The next batch covers more '80s pop culture, Fallout 4 shenanigans, and whatever other madness I stitched together.

Hey, at least these episodes are mostly done—unlike Fallout 5, which we might end up living through at this rate.

So, take care out there. And don’t forget to return your shopping cart.

Until next time,

RJM

P.S.

Ghost in Nashville, TN – 6/26/25 was awesome.

Shout-out to everyone who went!

[abnormalpublishing]

A Book for Anyone Who's Ever Felt "Over It": Why This is Bob is Your Next Read

Tried Everything? Meet the Man Who Can’t Die.

What happens when you’re so over life, but life just won’t let you go?

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If you love the poignant humor of A Man Called Ove, the raw psychological depth of BoJack Horseman, or the satirical bite of Fight Club, this story is for you. It’s an unflinching, absurdist journey through trauma, grief, and recovery, told by the one guy who just won’t stay dead.

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This is the story of the guy who couldn’t die—and what he learns when he finally tries to live. You don’t want to miss it.

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 20: Behind (Bright) Blue Friggin' Eyes

[You've obtained a Rubricon’s Holotape!]

[Now playing Rubricon’s Holotape.]

“It’s been a while since I last saw Sin.”

[He sighs.]

“We weren’t always enemies. Hell, we used to be best friends—until he swore allegiance to the Reds and I stayed true to the Blues. That’s when things started to unravel…”

[His voice trails. A sniffle is barely audible.]

“Ah, that son of a bitch… He could have you laughing for hours.”

[He clenches his fist.]

“Then he got tangled in dark magics.”

[Rubricon SLAMS his fist against a boulder.]

“I warned him. Told him it’d ruin him. And what do I get for trying to stop him? Cursed into this ridiculous rabbit form!”

[Grinding his teeth, Rubricon exhales deeply.]

“Still . . . I respected him. Even when he wanted to settle down—' Quit the game. Start a family.' I wonder if he ever found out what happened to them . . .”

[He closes his eyes, lost in thought.]

“It never mattered what side we were on—Red, Blue, good, bad. I always ended up the villain. Never revered as a god. Never thanked. All because I never showed off what I could really do.”

[His voice sharpened.]

“Was that the difference? That I held back? While he played Bear Messiah to the Wasteland?”

[A voice suddenly cuts into Rubricon’s mind.]

“Because I gave him the power.”

“W-what the hell?!”

[Rubricon glances around, finding nothing out of place… except the voice.]

“I am The Maker. I created everything—this world, the galaxy, even the damn universe. Parallel dimensions, too. Etcetera, etcetera.”

“You gave Sin his powers? Even the dark magic crap that did this to me?”

[The Maker chuckles.]

“Nah, you got cursed because your intervention failed. You always could return to normal—you just let bitterness keep you this way. It’s called ‘thematic resonance,’ my dude.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“No, and I wouldn’t even if you begged. Forget that noise.”

“I didn't ask you to shit on me—forget that. So I can change back? Be like Sin? Revered? Respected?”

“You’ve got the power now. I’m not a genie. I just make things happen because I’m bored. After all, I can do that. I also feel like doing that. You see, when a man and a woman—”

“Stop. Please.”

“Anyway, get juiced up. Have fun. Get ‘em, kiddo. Things have been dull the last few' episodes.’“ ““

[A bolt of blue lightning CRASHES down from the heavens, striking Rubricon and launching him across the Wasteland.]

“I’M STILL THE FUCKNG SAME DAMN RABBIT!”

[The Maker cackles.]

“Transformation comes later. Baby steps. For now, you’ve got the juice. You’ve got the touch.”

“You lying sack of shit!”

“Watch your tone. The last time Sin mocked me, I killed him. Instagibbed. So if you don’t want that, I’d recommend you shut the hell up.”

[Rubricon exhales slowly.]

“Fine. What do I do?”

“Find Sin. Tell him about the woman, the child. Make amends. He’ll probably snap and try to kill you, then I’ll intervene. Eventually: hugs, beers, maybe a picnic, and we'll all say this in the name of our Bear Lord.”

[Rubricon blinks in disbelief.]

“A lot to take in, huh? THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!”

“So I find him. Tell him. All of it?”

“Yup. Get to it, champ.”

[Rubricon lets out a long sigh.]

“No one knows what it’s like . . .”

“Oh, but you will.”

[End Playback.]

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 19: There’s Enough Road but Not Enough House

[You're now playing Side Two]

Ben tossed Raiders, Gunners, Super Mutants, and other assorted Wasteland riffraff about the city square like discarded toys. The rest fought among themselves, blinded by hate for one another and an absolute lack of reverence for The Mighty Bear God.

The magnificent beast hurled bodies left and right, squashing anyone who dared attack him. Today would be the first and last day of any so-called alliance between the Wasteland’s denizens.

"I’m sick of you scum thinking you run the whole damn place! The only thing you own is my boot up your ass—sideways!"

A Gunner roared, planting his heavy black boot squarely up a Raider’s rear end.

"You're nothing but walking sex bots! On your knees—bow and service your masters!" A Raider shouted as he slashed the limbs from a downed Synth, attempting to force himself on the machine.

A cold, mechanical voice responded. "Your actions are illogical. Your fleshly needs are irrelevant. Your methods of reproduction are obsolete. You will now be destroyed."

Moments later, a blinding explosion turned the Raider, the Synth, and a nearby Gunner into flaming chunks. Efficient.

Elsewhere on the street, Super Mutant suicide squads launched themselves into the fray—explosives strapped to their comrades or their unwilling enemies.

"Puny humans! Only good for going boom!" A Super Mutant hurled a Raider—rigged with dynamite—into a pack of other Raiders. "Go be with your kind, human! Go boom!"

People fled in panic, but it was useless. The explosion formed a small crater—more like a blood-slick bowl—filled with twitching remains.

"YEAH! BOOM! MORE BOOM!" The Super Mutant laughed, preparing to throw another unfortunate soul.

"ENOUGH." The Mighty Bear God intercepted the poor sap mid-air, disarmed the explosives, and gently set them down.

"Th-thank you! Thank you so mu—" Before the Raider could finish, a Gunner shot them dead.

The Bear God snorted. "You lack discipline and do not know your place. Allow me to show you where that is."

With one tremendous leap, the mighty bear soared high into the twilight sky—his form alight with the golden hues of the setting sun. His paw burned with a righteous fury.

"HAMMER OF THE RECKONING!"

He crashed into the crowd with godlike force. Raiders, Gunners, and Mutants were vaporized—or, at best, reduced to bloody shadows smearing the street.

Ben watched in awe—and a touch of fear. The rumors had not done the Bear God justice. Yet even in the carnage, Ben sensed something more in the battle-worn beast. A shift—a change that was coming.

Still, the mighty one's bloodlust hadn’t yet been sated . . . so biting the head off a Gunner would have to do.

Meanwhile . . .

Two Deathclaws watched from the shadows—both horrified and impressed.

"He is truly the one of legend."

"Yes," the other nodded. "And we’d be wise to stay hidden. Let us feast . . . once our gracious host has departed."

Carefully, the two monsters crept toward the subway entrance, mouths salivating at the carnage left behind.

Back near the bar, the Mighty Bear God shook gore from his fur and grunted. "Ben, clean up any stragglers. I’m heading back to my drink. Join me when you're done."

"Of course," Ben nodded.

Once the bear was out of sight and earshot, Ben muttered to himself: "Let’s see what adventures await us next. If I am to grow, it will be under your tutelage, Master. But . . . should the moment come . . . I’ll take your power, and ascend."

The Mirelurk chuckled to itself, stepped over a few corpses, and joined the Bear God at the bar.

Deep in the ruins, the two Deathclaws crept out and scavenged from the battlefield.

"Quick! Grab what you can!" one whispered, hoarding a heap of bloody limbs.

"Run, you fool!" the other urged as they disappeared into the subway tunnels.

But the Bear God had already noticed. He always noticed. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you. Or smell you. Now, pay the price for your cowardice.”

Underground, a pair of muffled thuds echoed. The bar rattled slightly, then returned to its calm state.

All was right with the world. For now . . .

[End holotape playback]

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 18: Roadhouse

[A bloodied holotape is enclosed.]

“Well, well, what do we have here? A bear and its Mirelurk bitch?” one Raider jeered.

A Gunner shoved the Raider.

“The only bitch I see is you. Did you get off your leash? Lose your balls in your whore’s purse?”

A nearby Raider leered at a Synth.

“I’m gonna enjoy using your skull as my next pocket pal.”

“Your logic is flawed, as is your organic body. You will now be destroyed,” replied the Synth coolly.

“I’m gonna enjoy kicking your ass all over the Wasteland,” the Gunner spat.

The Mighty Bear God growled, low and menacing.

“You guys are enjoying each other way too much,” he said. “Maybe you should all just get a room and go fuck each other. I’m trying to have a drink. So kindly shut the hell up and take your foreplay elsewhere.”

He slammed his empty glass on the bar.

“Another, please!”

All eyes turned toward him—and to the Mirelurk whispering at his side.

“Want me to take care of it?” Ben clicked his claws, scanning the crowd.

The Bear God sighed.

“If you want to handle it, go for it. But if they make me spill even a drop of this next drink . . . Maker help me, I’ll destroy someone’s ass.”

Ben nodded.

“Noted.”

He approached the unruly mass of Raiders, Gunners, and Synths clustered at the door.

“I trust we can take this outside, so as not to incur the wrath of the Bear God.”

“FUCK YOU!” a Raider barked, drawing a pistol and firing into the ceiling. “This is our turf! Get out!”

Pandemonium broke loose. Pushing, shoving, gunfire, random acts of fornication, grenades—complete and utter chaos. Ben stood at the center, silent and still. Waiting.

When someone made the first move, it would be a massacre.

***

Beneath the street, a pair of Deathclaws watched the chaos unfold through cracks in the pavement.

“Do we strike now?”

“No . . . let them kill each other. We’ll pick through the remains. He’s there. Going up now would be suicide.”

The other nodded and slunk back into the dark.

***

“COME GET SOME, SUCKAS!” a Raider screamed, spraying bullets wildly.

Another Raider shot him between the eyes.

Synths muttered about “logical probabilities” and “combat efficiency.” Gunners shouted commands, trying to impose order. Raiders howled and hurled grenades like toddlers with firecrackers.

Ben watched. Still, calm. They were doing the work for him.

He sighed.

Should I just kill them all? Or wait it out?

“Ben, c’mere,” the Bear God called.

Ben entered the bar and stood beside him.

“Yes?”

“Just sit. Drink.”

“But there’s killing to be done.”

“Not yet. They’ll do it themselves.”

“You’ve . . . changed,” Ben noted.

“You will too, one day. When the repeat button wears out.”

Ben sighed.

But fate had other plans. A Super Mutant hurled a Gunner through the bar window, and the limp body slammed into the Bear God’s back, splashing beer onto the floor.

Ben looked from the crumpled Gunner to the dripping glass, then up at the Bear God.

“Pick a song, Ben. It’s wrecking time.”

Ben rolled over to the jukebox and tried to press a button, but his pincers were too big. “Dammit all!”

He glanced at the trembling bartender.

“Hey, could you hit play for me?”

The bartender nodded furiously, tapped the jukebox, and bolted for the basement.

Music crackled to life: 🎵 “Sixty Minute Man, sixty minute ma-a-an. . .” 🎵

Ben tapped his claws to the beat.

“Good choice, Ben,” the Bear God called from outside. “Although I don’t think we’ll need sixty minutes. Now get out here and help me give these fine folks an ass-whooping.”

The Bear God hefted the Gunner’s corpse like a club and charged into the fray.

“ROAD HOUSE!”

All eyes turned. It was the first time in Commonwealth history that Gunners, Raiders, Synths, feral beasts, even Super Mutants—united for a single cause:

To stop the unstoppable savagery of one very pissed-off Bear God.

Ben curled into a ball and launched himself out the door, pinballing off enemies like a wrecking ball on a rampage.

[End of Side One.]

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 17: Everyone to the Bar

“With greatness comes a reputation that you must uphold. Show weakness, and then anyone will dare defy you, walk all over you, or even try to kill you. Rise. Strike those down who would dare challenge you.”

— Master Orator Thai Mai Shu, Never Go Drinking with a Drunk 2:11

Day 47.

While my journey to the museum was eventful, it’s also been troubling. Ben has grown—well, more like mutated due to magic... but that’s beside the point. I suspect he believes I’m too dense to have heard his little monologue about “wrecking me” and so forth. Whether it’s vengeance or domination that drives him, I sense a day may come when I’ll have to put him down.

I don’t like having to eliminate my minions, or even the flock. But if they challenge me? So be it. Let them test my mettle. Let them spit in the face of my blessings and salvation. I’ll answer in kind.

Sigh (Yes, the Bear God wrote sigh. Deal with it).

Perhaps I should’ve let The Maker keep my soul—or banished me to another dimension. The endless tasks, the grind of saving people . . . cities . . . and smiting the unjust? Exhausting. Being a Bear God isn’t all god rays and glory.

I’ve decided to have a night out at the bar. It’s been too long since I’ve had a good drink and a deep inner monologue. I need to reflect on the teachings of my old master, Thai Mai Shu. If there was any wisdom to be found in this ruined world, it was through him.

Ben may tag along. I don’t really care. But if he starts getting loud with his talk of destruction and conquest, I won’t hesitate to strike him down. I fear whatever magic changed him has warped him. Still, a part of me wonders—can he be saved? Time will tell. Time, and perhaps tequila.

I arrived at a bar in downtown Lexington. It was as dead inside as the streets outside—patrons as sparse as the Raider corpses littering the sidewalks. One mole rat wandered by, with another rat halfway out of its backside. A new kind of gerbiling, I suppose. Post-apocalyptic culture, folks.

As expected, Ben joined me. He claimed it was wise to have him nearby in case things “got out of hand.” I’m not sure what that even means. I have paws, and he has claws. Nobody here has actual hands. And yet, I do recall a time when I did have hands . . . Oh, the sweet, oiled-up action they saw—[the rest of this passage is indecipherable.]

I ordered a round for Ben and me. He didn’t talk much—just watched the crowd watching us. Can’t really blame him; he’s still a Mirelurk, after all. Nasty creatures by reputation, though I did make a promise to Queenie—one I’m beginning to regret. But my tongue, ever righteous, sealed that vow.

Perhaps the Maker could smite him for me?

[No, you cannot.] —The Maker. :)

Fuck you too, you divine self-righteous asshole.

Anyway. We minded our business. Had a few rounds. I toyed with the idea of getting completely wrecked, but held back . . . for now. Master Shu’s teachings only made sense when piss drunk. Sober? Garbled nonsense. But drunk? Genius. I guess if you’re a brewmaster teaching philosophy while hammered, it tracks.

As I recited his wisdom and meditated on the finer points of “drunken kung-fu theology,” Ben nudged me.

“We may have a problem,” he said.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well . . . we’ve got some Synths, Raiders, Gunners, and I think—yep—two Deathclaws heading this way.”

It just wasn’t my night. Or maybe it was. Because I sure as hell was ready to break some bones.

“Pick a song, Ben. It’s wrecking time.”

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 16: The End of One Legend, The Beginning of Another

[Now playing Side B]

The Mighty Bear God stepped forth to challenge the Dancemancer, Jahn Trabolta.

“Well, I guess I will then . . .”

Trabolta grinned. “I hope you brought a change of underwear, kid. You’re gonna be shitting yourself real soon.”

[click-click clack CLACK] Ben scuttled in front of the Bear God, insistent.

Sin knelt beside his Mirelurk companion. “Uh, I dunno, little guy. Are you really sure you want to go through with this? I could just smite him and be done with it.”

[clackkitty click-click] The hatchling fiercely snapped his pincers.

“Alright then. Go get ’em, Ben.” Sin patted the spunky, tiny crustacean and sent him off.

“Oh . . . uh . . . okay? So . . . you’re really letting the crab take me on?” Trabolta asked.

The Bear God shrugged. “He insists. Who am I to deny destiny?”

The Dancemancer clasped his hands together. “Very well! But know this—I will not go easy. You’re about to face the living legend!”

[Click clack]

“What was that?” Trabolta asked.

“‘Fuck off,’ I think,” the Bear God said flatly.

“Hmph.” Trabolta raised his arms to signal the disco ball, which began to rotate. Lights flashed. The music hit.

It was on.

Round 1: Dancemancer’s Groove

Trabolta took the floor first, all glitz and precision—pure charisma. He popped, he locked, he funked.

Round 2: Ben’s Revenge

Ben scuttled up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, and snapped his pincers like a crustaceous castanet. Then—he began to glow. A golden shimmer gave way to a full-on kaleidoscope of light. He spun, flipped, then—oh god—shook his crab ass and grinded against Trabolta’s leg.

Trabolta winced. “What the hell is wrong with this crab?!”

He held back a retaliatory kick.

Ben spun wildly on his back, finishing with a dramatic side-pose.

The crowd exploded in cheers.

Even the Bear God wiped a tear. “So proud . . .”

Round 3: Walk It Out

Trabolta clapped at his opponent’s display of power. “Impressive. Most impressive. However, you haven’t seen my walk. . .” Trabolta clapped, a thunder rolled throughout the cavern, and then he strutted across the floor like he’d just invented concrete.

Ben wasn’t fazed. He walked right up and matched him, step for step.

By the end, Trabolta was sweating bullets and gasping for air.

“Final round!” he bellowed. “Sudden DEATH!”

The music turned savage and fast, like “Endymion” from DDR.

A disembodied voice boomed: “FIGHT!”

Trabolta lunged. “Take this, you glowstick reject!”

Ben stood firm.

“Go for the eyes, Ben! THE EYES!” Sin screamed from the sidelines.

In a blur, Trabolta kicked Ben, sending him flying into the glowing green vat of acid.

“Noooo! BEN!” the Bear God roared.

[bloop]

Silence. Trabolta moonwalked to center stage, grabbed his crotch, and shouted, “ALWAYS a winner! You can’t touch this!”

But then . . . the acid glowed.

Ben rose.

Bathed in golden light, he hovered. His gaze locked on Trabolta. A pipsqueak voice echoed through the cavern: “I’m going to fuck you up.”

The booming voice returned: “FINISH HIM.”

Ben struck. Trabolta went flying—straight into the vat of acid.

“Flawless victory. Fatality. Ben wins!”

Ben stood alone on the platform, pincers snapping in triumph.

Then, a strange light emerged from the vat. It flowed into him—swirling, shimmering—changing him.

Where once stood a hatchling now stood a towering Mirelurk [think Hunter-class], exuding raw, radiant power.

“Such . . . delicious power,” Ben said with a dark little grin.

Sin hurried over, stunned. “Ben . . . that was amazing! Where did you learn that? And you can talk now!?”

Ben shrugged. “I don’t know. It just kind of . . . came naturally. I guess now everyone can understand me, huh?”

“Well, whatever it is—you’re now the Dancemancer. Didn’t think you had it in ya, little buddy.”

Sin paused, then added, “Well, guess you’re not so little anymore.”

Ben rubbed the back of his armored head awkwardly. “Ah, well, shucks… thanks, Dad.”

“Yeah—no,” Sin said, turning. “You can stop that. I am not having bastard children. I’m not paying child support. Nope. Nope. Nope.”

He disappeared down the corridor.

Ben watched him go. Then . . . his expression darkened.

“Don’t you worry . . . Once I have enough power . . . I will wreck you. I will wreck this land—no, this world! ALL WILL BOW BEFORE THE MIGHT THAT IS C’TH—”

“BEN! SHUT UP AND LET’S GO!”

“Coming!”

[End Holotape]

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 15: Saturday Night Ghoul Fever

"It is said that those who can master the old Dancemancer, Jahn Trabolta's dance of Saturday Night Revolutionary Fever, will be empowered with unbelievable power, and that they can bed any person, animal, or thing . . . down by the fire."

— Lipstache, The GBs Chronicler

Day 46. Well, let’s see. I had a few minions I needed to dispatch after they thought it would be funny to prank me involving the Mirelurk egg that had been bequeathed to me. As it turns out, the egg wasn’t destroyed, nor consumed—it hatched. Quite the surprise. An unfortunate misunderstanding, but oh well. Only the loyal remain.

I dubbed the hatchling Ben. He will be my left hand, my herald of righteousness! Of course, once he reaches a more . . . suitable size. He’s already quite fond of me, and he seems to get along well with my canine companion. My menagerie of guardians is growing! Now if only I could fit them with mechanical suits . . . Yes, that would be lovely. Imagine: a nuclear-equipped walking crab tank, and a cloaking canine capable of targeting long-range missiles! Ho ho, my loins ache with possibility.

Today, we venture west. Rumors swirl of a grand wizard housed in a museum. I suspect he’s just a clever con artist using smoke and mirrors. But hey, I exist—and so does The Maker. So maybe there's something more to it.

***

We reached the museum, which was swarming with Deathclaws and ghouls locked in battle. Some of the flock asked if we should intervene, but I told them to shush. It was the perfect chance to test new . . . tactics.

I launched a quadruple volley of nukes, freezing missiles, and assorted grenades. The fire. The explosions. The mist of blood, body parts, and organs—a sight to behold! Glorious!

The building was in partial ruin, but we had cleared the way. The path to the so-called wizard lay open.

Inside, we traversed corridor after corridor, leading to—you guessed it—another corridor. And another. Hidden doors. Bookcases. More goddamn corridors.

I. Hate. Corridors.

Finally, we arrived at a subterranean circular platform. Green pools lined the sides—acid, perhaps? The air stank with acrid fumes. Two torches burned on the far side near another doorway. The only light. I wasn’t particularly interested in whatever this place was. What happened next is—[passage indecipherable]

[A holotape is enclosed] [Begin playback]

"Welcome, visitors... or shall I call you intruders? Enemies? Friends?" A cloaked figure emerged from the far doorway, its voice raspy and deep.

"We seek the wizard said to dwell here," said The Mighty Bear God.

"Ah, so you are pilgrims?"

"No. Just looking to meet the wizard and be on our way. We mean no harm—unless we must."

"Then you must earn the right to see the Almighty Ali."

"Excuse me, who?"

"Ali. Prince of the Ghouls. Master of Magics. Dark Knight of Ghoultham. Master of Ceremonies!"

The Bear God blinked. "Never heard of him."

"Really? No one? Godsdammit, I need a better social media team . . . maybe a rebrand."

"Uh, yeah, still here," the Bear God interrupted.

"Oh! Right. Who are you again?"

"Sin. The Mighty Bear God."

"Yeah, sorry. No idea."

"It’s fine. So . . . you’re the wizard, then?"

"Yes, no relation to Harry."

"Sorry, who?” The Bear God scratched his head.

“Never mind,” Ali let out a disappointed sigh.

“Cool. So what’s with the acid pits, the darkness, and why are you underground?"

The wizard sighed. "I lead the ghouls. The acid is for challengers who fail to best me in a dance-off. Also, surface folk don’t like us—we resemble zombies."

"Yeah, don’t use the zed word. It’s loaded."

"Right? Right. So now you know."

The Bear God scratched his chin. "Okay, can we talk? Maybe move this along? I’m getting itchy."

"Sure. After."

"After what?"

"After you beat me in a dance-off."

The Bear God groaned. "I didn’t come all this way to dance. Maybe make some love, but not dance—unless it’s the horizontal kind."

"You’ve got moxie, kid." The figure stepped into the center. "If you beat me, you gain my power. You may claim to be a 'god,' but I’m no mere magician."

With a snap, the entire room lit up with a 70s disco theme—flashing tiles, thumping beats, and yes, a glittering disco ball.

The figure transformed before their eyes—his age melted away into youthful vigor. Gone was the ancient wizard. In his place stood a man in full disco regalia: shaggy black-and-white suit, glossy shoes, a wild grin.

"I know what you’re thinking: old man wants to dance?" He winked. "Let me assure you, it ain’t just about the way I walk."

He struck the iconic pose—one finger to the heavens.

"So," he beamed, "who wants to go first with the almighty Dancemancer... Jahn Trabolta?"

[Please play Side B]

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 14: Last Christmas

“It is said that on the last Christmas of so many years ago . . . He gave his heart, His loins, and did so lay the Lady down by the fire. Lost in the ages, it’s still not known if He had a son. For if He did, the world would probably be doomed.”

— Rillet “Home-Skillet,” Da Baby Bears Prophecy 3:10

Day 45.

We feasted last night, filling our bellies with crab . . . er . . . Mirelurk meat. I have to say, Queenie tasted good.

Still, I am a little sad that I had to slay such a weak creature—one that tried hard to communicate with me . . . but it is what it is. As I promised, I am taking care of the egg. It stays close to me, safe in its pouch on my knapsack.

Since it’s nearing breakfast time, I will put my pen down and join the others for a hearty breakfast.

There are a few holotapes for your viewing and audio pleasure. Oh, even one called ‘Duel of the Torpedo Tit-ans 69.’ That’s something else though . . .]

“This is Scribe Anton, recording. Today marks the day of the Great Purging. Since it has become a new custom, we’ve replaced what was once called Christmas with Xmas, as X marks the spot where the bombs fell. Today, we share tales of old, feast, drink, be merry, and have lots of sex.

The Mighty Bear God, though . . . He seems sad. I have heard rumors that long ago, He did lie a woman down by the fire, and they did consummate for several hours that led to days. It is supposed that while the Mighty Bear God was frozen in time, His cub was born and was gifted with the very gifts of His Father. Some say, however, that He was led astray on the path of life and that He is even the Anti-Bear God. Of course, this is all speculation . . . mere rumors . . . tales. But still, I suspect He misses those olden times.

He at least seems to be a little brighter with the companionship of his canine friend and the newly acquired Mirelurk Egg. I pray that no one dares try to make a meal from it . . . for Hell will have truly appeared on Earth—more so than this already godforsaken wasteland.

I shall join in the festivities.”

[End recording]

[The next holotape is enclosed for the next occurrence of events. It is marked with the name, “Ben.”]

[Begin playback]

The Mighty Bear God raised a dirty glass filled with wine. “My flock . . . settlers . . . together we dine, in celebration of surviving the Great Purge, and my awakening.”

He gulped down the wine in one go. “Another!”

“My Lordship, I pray you take it easy on the alcohol. If you’d remember last time . . .” a member of The Mighty Bear God’s flock commented.

“Nonsense! I am in full control, and I am more than capable of handling my alcohol! On your way! Fetch me more!” He leered at the man, who now scurried off to gather more alcohol in its many forms.

“Who wants some eggs?” Joffery announced, holding a massive platter of scrambled Mirelurk eggs.

The Mighty Bear God raised his brow, then began patting down his person. “Where is it? WHERE IS IT?!”

“Where is what, your Holiness?” Tata replied.

“The egg! Queenie’s egg! WHERE IS IT?!” He frantically searched the pouch where it should—would—be.

Alas, the pouch was empty. It was nowhere to be found.

“Joffery . . . I hope you have an explanation for where exactly you obtained those eggs. And it had best not be from MY pouch.”

Joffery paled. “I—I found them, y—your Lordship. One on the beach, and others off by a nest.”

“Then tell me... WHERE. IS. THE. EGG. THAT. IS. MINE?” The Mighty Bear God stomped the ground, a rumble echoing in his wake.

“I—I don’t know. Maybe it got lost—” Joffery’s panicked stuttering was cut short by a paw to his throat.

“You know. You know damn well where it is.” The Bear God’s eyes narrowed, locking onto Joffery’s soul. “It’s on this platter . . . isn’t it?”

Joffery shook his head frantically. “N—no, you have to believe me. I didn’t know. I—I was told it’d be funny—a joke!”

The Mighty Bear God snarled. “A JOKE!? YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?!”

His grip tightened into a vise, squeezing even tighter. “You will tell me who you conspired with, and if you confess, I may . . . just may . . . spare you.”

Without hesitation, Joffery ratted. “Abadin! It was Abadin!”

“You son of a bitch! You fucking snitch!” Abadin cursed.

In an instant, Abadin too was caught in the Bear God’s grip. “Why, I ask you . . . why did you steal the egg from me?”

“It was just a joke. Just like those Mirelurks. They were a joke. That egg was a joke . . .” Abadin paused. “And you know what? You’re a joke—”

The Bear God closed his eyes, drowning out the noise. Rage welled—not just from the loss of the egg, but from the endless pattern of loss. Nothing stayed. Nothing remained.

With a blink, the Bear God bit Abadin’s head clean off and spat it toward the sea. Blood sprayed. He flung the twitching corpse over his shoulder and turned to Joffery.

“I said I would spare you. But now... now I’m not so sure. Tell me, why should I?”

“I—I don’t want to die! I’ll do anything!” Joffery pleaded.

“Anything? Bold words. Would you climb a hill? Wear a daffodil? Pay all my bills? Sign over your house? Leave me your will? Hmm?”

Joffery stared, confused, but nodded. “Y—yes, your Lordship!”

The Bear God laughed to himself, then set Joffery down. Joffery laughed too.

Then, with a single motion, the Mighty Bear God brought down his mighty paw. Joffery exploded in a red mist.

“I tire of charades. Get rid of them. Clean this mess up,” he murmured.

He walked to the spot where the egg had been given to him. He sat heavily.

“I’m sorry, Queenie. I failed . . . both you and the egg.”

He looked to the horizon.

Then—nudge—he felt something at his rear, followed by a pinch.

“What the . . .?”

He looked down. A Mirelurk hatchling stared back.

“Well . . . I’ll be! You didn’t get scrambled!” He rolled to his knees.

[Click—click—clack] the hatchling clattered, bobbing its head like a boxer.

“Oh ho, a real scrapper, huh? Y’know, I had the perfect name waiting for you.” The Bear God smiled. “Yes, you’ll be called Ben.”

[CLACK CLACK] the hatchling replied, seemingly pleased.

“Then it’s settled. Ben, it is.” He patted Ben. “You shall be my left hand—the Left Hand of the Bear God.”

[Click click—click—click clack CLACK]

The Bear God thought back on a film from ages past. “Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.”

He smiled again and kept watching the tide roll in.

[End holotape]

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 13: To the Beach

“It's not easy being The Mighty Bear God. In fact, it's usually quite taxing. You get Raiders, Deathclaws, Radscorpions, Mirelurks, rabid dogs, Ghouls, fan girls, fan boys, and those annoying Atom folks . . . I swear those are probably the worst of them. They sit there and throw shit at you, yell 'PRAISE ATOM!' and then shoot their green shit all over your face! It smells like five-day-old splooge.”

[The Mighty Bear God then thinks about it.]

“It probably is splooge.”

—The Mighty Bear God on Vacation, Mighty Bear Weekly, pg. 32

Day 44.

After being . . . blessed . . . by The Maker and having a chat about things, I was gifted something I haven’t had in a long time. Well, I should clarify—I’ve had plenty of it: time, at least time off from things. I’m not chasing down some existential horror, or someone hellbent on getting my asshole plugged by ghoulish fingers, or a Radscorpion trying to give me a colonoscopy.

I thought to myself that a small vacation would be ideal. Take a break. Get away from it all. Even though that wasn’t entirely true, since The Wasteland was still here, and there was still filth, pollution, and radiation everywhere.

But I had decided, and once I decide, I decide! So I took my flock, and we ventured to the beach. Play in the water. Soak up some sun. Get each other wet . . . yeah . . . you know.

Ooh, my loins are aching in anticipation!

***

We arrived on the shore near the old lighthouse that we purged some days ago. It seems some folks had taken a liking to it and tried to claim it. Well, let’s just say . . . I persuaded them.

[Scribe’s Note: The Almighty Bear God fornicated and plugged all their holes and spared no one. Not even the goat. At least, I think it was a goat. No one’s really sure. Still, it was a fun day in the sun.]

After making the new settlers . . . sing praise . . . to me, and forcing them to shower, we went to the beach and began our fun.

So as I ready my spread and the flock prepares our picnic, I shall enjoy this time and halt my writing, for now.

***

[An audio/video holotape is enclosed.]

[Begin playback.]

“Scribe Tartar reporting. What was supposed to be a fun day has now turned into a day of bloodshed. We—we were attacked, unawares, and without a moment to prepare a counterattack. However, the Mighty Bear God—He protected us with His righteous nuts of fury! A few of the new settlers were slain, but He suggests that they died for the greater good. The greater good.”

A monstrous Mirelurk Queen snapped her pincers, attempting to communicate with the Mighty Bear God.

[click-click-clickitty-click-clack]

“Yeah, I have no fucking idea what in the hell that is supposed to mean,” The Mighty Bear God said, shaking his head.

Mirelurks ran amok on the beach, chasing down settlers and members of his flock. He surveyed the area, noting the precise spot the Mirelurks had emerged from.

“OK, lemme see if I’m right here. That area over there is your nesting ground, right?” The Bear God pointed at a shallow shoreline littered with eggshells.

[click-click-clack-clack-clickitty-clack-clack]

He rolled his eyes. “I’m going to assume that was a yes.”

[click-click-clack]

He sighed. “Yeah, OK, look. Call your . . . children . . . off my people, and we’ll disperse with no problems. You kill one of mine, I kill one of yours. You piss me off, I kill all of you. Deal?”

The Mirelurk Queen seemed to nod . . . or something.

[CLACK CLACK]

Most of the Mirelurks backed off. Most.

But as the parties negotiated the terms, the unexpected happened. A rogue Mirelurk Hunter had gotten hold of one of the new settlers and was forcing itself on them.

“Queenie . . . I thought we had a deal,” the Bear God growled, motioning with his head at the rogue.

[CLACK CLACK! CLICK CLACK CLACK! CLICKITTY—CLACK—CLICK!]

The Queen furiously snapped her pincers, but the rogue was too far gone.

It slaughtered the settler, digging in and ripping through their insides. First the intestines, then the rib cage—snapping through to get at the lungs and heart. The other Mirelurks clacked in approval.

The flock and settlers wore expressions of disgust. The Bear God’s faithful canine companion rampaged, targeting limbs and throats.

“Well, you know the rules.” The Bear God sighed.

In a remarkable display of newly acquired finesse, vigor, and fury, The Mighty Bear God charged through the Mirelurks in pursuit of the rogue.

“You done gone and fucked up!” he roared.

[CLACK! CLACK! CLACK!] The Mirelurks seemed to chant, while the Queen appeared—possibly—distressed.

The Bear God raised his holy paw. It ignited with blinding white light. He struck. The Mirelurk Hunter exploded into water, sludge, and gods-know-what.

The other Mirelurks stirred in a frenzy.

[CLACK! CLACK! CLICKITTY CLACK! CLICKITTY CLACK! CLACK!] The Queen clattered—either attempting to calm them or provoking them.

“Well, my children . . . I guess we’re having crab for dinner!” The Bear God let out a mighty roar that staggered the amassing horde. “ULTIMATE CRAB BATTLE!”

He tore through their hardened carapaces. One by one. Two by two. Again and again. Until only one remained—The Queen. She lingered—distraught, heartbroken.

[C . . . click . . . click . . . clack . . . clack.]

“I told you, Queenie. Them’s the rules of the land.”

He motioned to his followers. “Gather them up. Tonight, we feast!”

Cheers erupted. The Queen turned to leave.

“Look, Queenie, you can stay. I doubt you’d join us, but as long as there’s no more trouble, we’ll be fine.”

She tilted her head and motioned for him to follow.

She led him to the nest. There sat a single pristine Mirelurk egg. She pointed at it, then at him.

“You . . . want me to take it?”

She nodded and clacked softly.

“OK then. I’ll take good care of it.” He reached out and picked it up.

And then, he could’ve sworn he heard her say, clear as day: “Kill me.”

“Wait, what? You want me to kill you?”

She nodded, lowering her pincers.

“Well . . . I don’t usually do requests, but if you insist . . . and to honor the deal.” He sighed, raising his paw. “I’ll be merciful. I’ll grant you a swift death. Don’t worry. I’ll raise them right. They’ll grow up big and strong.”

With one swift strike, the Mirelurk Queen collapsed atop the eggshells.

Never before had he met such a personable creature . . . at least not in the Wasteland. As he wandered back to camp—where crabs were plentiful—he looked at the egg in his paw.

“I know just what to name you when you hatch,” he said with a smile.

Tucking the egg under his arm, he stepped toward the platter of steaming crab.

“LET’S FEAST!”

[End holotape]

[abnormalpublishing]

Commentary – The Death of a God (Wasteland Bear God, Ep. 12)

If Episode 11 was a fiery “get stuffed,” then Episode 12 is the cosmic hangover that follows a night of bad decisions, too much divine liquor, and an inappropriate grope or two by a fictional Bear God. Don’t worry, it was consensual.

This one’s another turning point (again, you’ll see more of these because that’s what life is—an unhinged GPS leading you in circles). So, the Bear God died unexpectedly by his maker, which so happens to be, oh right, me. And as expected, he gets better because I wasn’t going to end the story there. Still, it was important to note that around this time I was writing and revising Lilah’s Guide to Hoyle, did some Requiem for Lilith, and was also doing some early Bob, early blues (shameful plug and self-promotion on many levels, and a nod to Morphine/Treat Her Right’s own Mark Sandman’s – “Early Man.”). Also reading that back seems like I did a line of cocaine, ha, if we could only be so lucky. I think I’ll keep it in. Also, pre-orders for This is Bob: A Guide to Not Dying (Mostly) are now open!

So, initially, this episode was meant to be a silent period—a “what now?” moment. A smoldering hole in the ground. Mourning. Reflecting. You know, emotions and stuff. But nah. That didn’t last long. If you’ve ever played WoW, or some MMORPG where there are players that play as DPS (damage per second), then you’ve likely heard something akin to “DON’T STAND IN THE FIRE!” I like to think that the Bear God did so, even though he got f-bombed and should have had the plot armor to stay alive. Damn, am I on a roll with song puns! So if you ever wonder where we go when we bite it, I made a “nothing,” although it’s more along the lines of it’s just space. Still, the Bear God existed in this space as an annoying purple, black, amalgamation of annoyance that, like any DPS in a damn PUG (pick-up-group) says, “Rez.” Over. And over. And over. Seriously, why should I rez you when you’ll—oh look, someone wasted our battle rez and sure as shit, you’ve gone and died again. I hope you’re happy; we could have saved that for a tank or healer who isn’t being a clown.

Yes, the Bear God refuses to stay dead, and honestly, I wasn’t even given a choice. Like any good character that a writer makes, he barged into the writer’s room (read: my skull) and demanded a rewrite. Or a refund. Now, what better way to further divulge an internal bromance that isn’t falling apart like . . . whatever that mess is . . . anyway, I digress, and usually, my mind is all over the place—thinking on this, that, and the those, keeping these, maybe throwing those, and inadvertedly going “ha, that’s also a song plug, isn’t it?” Yes. Heads up, I’ve enjoyed the absolute hell out of Skeletá since Ghost dropped it, and its inclusion on my playlists.

Moving on, I figure in any good bro-lationship, we got into some divine banter, interdimensional sass, and a scolding from The Maker, who needs a therapist… or a drink… or both. Which is true, because I was going to a therapist and my alcoholism was riding that crazy train (ha). I suppose having another drink back then would have been a bad idea. Not that I couldn’t hold my worth, I just spiraled around the drain a lot. So, there’s always been this meta-thread of the Creator and Creation having a toxic, hilarious, passive-aggressive relationship, and this episode dives headfirst into that dynamic. It’s just a bonus. Similar to when I did a wannabe TV promo spot, which I haven’t re-re-released.

The resurrection scene is peak absurdity—glorious light, howling wind, a majestic new shiny mecha-body, with luscious brown fur (because who doesn’t want to be reborn into a younger, more fit, and agile body). Almost golden fried. Oh, and a bowel cleanse for good measure. Because, of course, the episode is going to end with him being reborn with upgraded tech and spotless insides. After all, he’s a bear and a god. He demands comfort, glory, and fiber. And maybe, just maybe, some lotion applied to his bits.

As always, thanks for trudging through the ash, nonsense, and divine dick jokes with me. Episode 13 may or may not involve more chaos. (Spoiler: Does a bear shit in the woods? No, it does whatever it pleases.) Also, “CRAB BATTLE!”

Until next time,

RJM

 P.S. I loved this shit.

[abnormalpublishing]

Commentary – Get F*cked (Wasteland Bear God, Ep. 11)

Ah, yes, Episode 11. Aptly titled “Get F*cked.”

This was one of those entries where I wanted to flex absurdity and escalate the divine shitposting to new heights. You could say this was the Bear God’s way of giving the finger to narrative convention, worldbuilding etiquette, and probably decency itself.

I had a thought of starting to bring in other pop culture references, cameos if you will, and since Rubricon’s smiting and smoldering crater, I thought, “You know what would be fun? Aliens.” I mean, they exist in the Fallout universe anyway, but I just wanted to watch it be a train wreck. So, I cued up the Aliens dude from the History Channel in my head, and like clockwork, the Bear God said, “Nope.” Thus, “it was a trap!” became the story. Ish.

Moving on, the episode works on two levels: one, as a punchline to Rubricon’s presumed end, and two, as the beginning of the Bear God’s unraveling relationship with the Maker (read: oh, hey, that’s me!). I like fourth-wall acknowledgement, and so I figured, what better way to say, “Are you there, God? It’s me, the Bear God.” The beginning of a touching? Reunion? Something. So, I started layering in more of the fourth-wall breaking snark, poking fun at the reader, the story, the characters, and myself. Because if I can’t laugh at my nonsense, then what’s the point?

Also, the alien. Poor Captain Ack-whatever-his-name-was-obviously-a-Star-Wars-Reference. A hell of a name (not really, and yes, I know it was Admiral Snackbar), and he stood zero chance. He barely got a word out (or screen time) before being Spartan-kicked into the stratosphere—wait, no—kicked to infinity and beyond, ha! Anyway, that was the tone I wanted: abrupt, brutal, and hilarious. The Bear God isn’t here for your sci-fi subplot. He’s still dealing with a leathered-up rabbit and an aftertaste of cosmic angst—an interesting concoction . . . like Surge.

Side note: I miss that drink. C’mon, Coca-Cola!

Back on topic, but the letter from the Maker is probably one of my favorite things I’ve written in the series so far. It’s multifaceted because authors are gods; we create, destroy, and provide reason. So, there’s a brief glimpse, and I found it fun to be just acknowledging that a character (while writing other characters) talked some shit, and well, you have to enact some corrective action. Additionally, yeah, it’s aggressive, petty, and a very accurate reflection of how I felt some days while writing the WBG saga, y’know that inner back-and-forth of “What the hell am I doing? Should I keep going?” vs. “Alright, now you have fucked up,” and write an absolute disaster (and trauma) for a character. F-bombs are great, and naturally, I wanted to make that literal. Because nothing says “I win” like a metaphysical paper labeled F-BOMB crash-landing on your protagonist.

Digging a little deeper, sure, there’s always been an undercurrent of control and rebellion in the WBG. The Bear God tries to assert his dominance over the world, but there’s always something bigger pulling strings. At least when it comes to the story, sure, it’s about Him, but it’s not even the second half yet, baby. Overall, it’s me, being a bastard with a keyboard. So I smited that little shit.

Though I suppose, also, there’s an actual reason I didn’t want to go full sci-fi. I guess, not yet, anyway. It was too soon. We needed more myth, more muck, more madness. Adding aliens so more quickly would have derailed that, and I think I’d have derailed the story to be like Paul. So, what better way than to acknowledge them just enough to boot them off the page? Hard.

Anyway, that’s Episode 11. An angry meta tantrum wrapped in nonsense and sprinkled with sarcasm. And paper. A few sheets of very dangerous paper. Shit, the USA government wants to know my location.

Until next time,

RJM

P.S. Yes, I know Ackbar.

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 12: The Death of a God

"Here He lies, spread. . .and dead. Fear not, friends, for He will rise and usher in a new era. Death is only the beginning, and with it comes new the end . . . for someone else."

—Smug "Rug" McGee Death's of Today's Legends 3:16

A massive crater smolders in the heart of the Wasteland. At its center lies what’s left of the alleged Mighty Bear God. His loyal flock surrounds the blast zone—some sobbing, some cursing, others . . . placing ashes in places best left undescribed.

Struck down by The Maker—for his constant "nopes," for his antics, and for groping The Maker at the bar (yes, there—and no, it was not appreciated)—the death is considered by some an act of cosmic justice. Or revenge. Or sexism. Or maybe racism. Honestly, who even knows anymore? The Maker does what He wants, when He wants, and however He damn well pleases. No one can say otherwise.

[Somewhere . . . in the void.]

“So . . . are you actually gonna kill me off now, or just bring me back? It’s cold here,” muttered the Mighty Bear God from the great cosmic nothing.

“I’m still debating. Shut up and let me finish writing,” The Maker replied, fingers clacking away at the cosmic keyboard.

“Look, I was drunk when I . . . touched you. I thought you kinda liked it. You didn’t say ‘no.’ Should we talk about this?”

“. . . No.”

“C’mon, dude . . .”

“No.”

“DUDE, COME ON.”

“Nope.”

“REZ, REZ, REZ, REZ, REZ!”

. . .

“JUST FUCKING RESURRECT ME ALREADY, GOD!”

. . .

“. . . I’ll pay for the drinks this weekend?”

“And the food.”

“Fine. Anything else?”

“Go get a job.”

“. . . uh . . . I’m working on it?”

“Not hard enough, you’re not.”

“Yeah? Well . . . give me some Viagra and I’ll show you hard.”

“You really need to work on that.”

“You made me this way! It’s your fault!”

“Oh no. Don’t you dare blame me. Why does everyone who screws up blame the Maker? Or God? Or Gods? Or Goddesses? Take. Some. Fucking. Responsibility.”

The Bear God sighed. “Fair. You’ve got a point. But still . . . you do know exactly what I’m going to say or do.”

“True. You are me, and I am you . . . to a point. Whatever. Go ahead. Be reborn and all that ‘divine intervention’ crap. Just don’t forget—”

“I know, I know. I’m buying,” the Bear God sighed. “Whiny little bitch,” he then muttered.

“What was that?” The Maker asked as he finished the resurrection spell.

“Nothing,” the Bear God said, grinning as the world blinked white.

[Back in the Wasteland]

A searing column of light burst from the heavens above the crater. Winds howled and dirt shot into the sky like shrapnel. The flock shielded their eyes, daring to peek.

Then . . . a thunderous roar.

“I HAVE RETURNED, BITCHES!”

The Wasteland trembled as the Mighty Bear God slammed into the earth. He stood tall—familiar, yet upgraded. His fur was now a lustrous deep brown that gleamed in the sun. A pair of sleek, black leather goggles perched on his head. Fused to his body, his once-external mecha gear now functioned as an extension of his godhood—ready to auto-equip upgrades, enhancements, or pure chaos.

He looked down at his flock, all kneeling, all weeping, all glorifying his return.

“Everyone . . . arise,” the Bear God commanded. “Get your packs. We have places to go . . . and infidels to purge from these lands.”

He paused, taking in the moment.

He noted that his bowels were also cleansed.

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 10 Commentary – Wasteland Bear God: Crash! Wham! Alakazam!

I don’t know about you, but when I was a wee lad, Married with Children was one of those shows you had to watch. So, if you caught that reference in the episode’s opening—congrats. You get ice cream. Don’t worry, it’s drug-free. Full on lactose. 🍦

When I wrote this entry, a few things were happening in the background:

I was doing a Fallout 4 playthrough.

Still playing WoW.

Also playing Resident Evil: Operation Raccoon City.

Damn I was playing some hits . . .

The Bill Cosby allegations were circulating (yeah, that whole mess . . . hindsight's 20/20. I mean, there were signs, but damn.).

I leaned hard into the “pudding pop” joke—yes, it’s layered, yes, it’s gross. And no, don’t Google “Kentucky Klondike Bar.” If you do, that’s on you.

Dirty internet searches and questionable life choices aside—yes, I’ve seen that infamous flick: 2 Girls, 1 Cup (a.k.a. Hungry Bitches, but the meme title rolls off the tongue easier . . . like a lost puppy discovering a peanut butter jar). The early internet was a feral beast. It wasn’t a truck or a series of tubes—it was chaotic neutral.

And while we’re talking about cursed nostalgia, let me throw in a nod to an old YouTuber named VideoCompiler, known for the Ventrilo Harassment series. Notables include:

“Duke Nukem”

“Peggy Forever”

“The WoW Nerd: Leather Belt”

And way, way more.

These were a comfort watch for me, but probably an annoyance for everyone else in the room.

Now, back to the episode:

Initially, this was meant to be a multi-day mega-entry (Days 42, 43, etc.). But I was writing all of these episodes daily and started self-sabotaging—no workouts, no sleep, just maniacal typing and bad habits. So I began splitting up the entries. Some came out shorter than intended, some were more like teases or cliffhangers.

Take it how you will.

But the hype train continues—fueled by memes, old TV shows, pop culture shenanigans, and the unholy trinity of video games, comics, and general chaos.

Thanks for sticking around for the ride. Buckle up—it's only getting weirder.

Until next time,

—RJM

P.S. How’s that dark mode on the eyes?

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 11 – Get F**ked

Day 43.

I sent a few of my flock to check out the crater where Rubricon fell. They haven’t returned yet. It’s been a while . . . and I’m starting to worry that son of a bitch didn’t stay down. Maybe I should’ve hit him harder, or played a different song. Hmm. I wonder if I could have gotten away with MC Hammer’s “You Can’t Touch This”?

Either way, if they don’t show up soon, I’ll be forced to leave them behind. Waiting makes my loins quiver with unease.

Update:

Ricky, Dicky, and Flub finally made it back.

According to their report, the crater is empty—no sign of Rubricon. I suppose that was to be expected. He is a rabbit, after all. And when rabbits fuck, they’re just like cockroaches . . . they spread. Fast. And everywhere.

Wait.

What’s that?

There’s a fiery ball . . . orange, bright—Ah, shit.

[Holotape: Scribe Tetanus Recording]

Ahem. Scribe Tetanus here.

It seems that a massive fireball has just crash-landed on top of The Mighty Bear God. Upon closer inspection, it’s a round, metallic capsule—some pod. There's a window, but it’s too dark to make out anything inside.

Wait! It’s moving—yes, yes! The capsule is moving! The Mighty Bear God . . . He has risen!

[Chanting breaks out in the background]

“What . . . the . . . hell?” the Bear God muttered, brushing dirt off his fur and shoving the capsule off his chest. He rolled it away and gave it a suspicious glare.

The capsule hissed—pressurized air hissing out alongside a puff of ozone and smoke.

Two massive black eyes appeared in the dark. A gray, smooth-skinned alien poked its head out, blinking slowly as it looked around the Wasteland.

“Greetings, Earthlings. I am Captain Ack—” it began in a raspy fish-lipped voice.

“NOPE! NOPE! NOPE!”

With zero hesitation, the Mighty Bear God dropkicked the alien back into the capsule, lifted it over his head, and launched it toward the sky.

Somewhere in the distance—perhaps space, perhaps just a nearby desert hill—the alien’s voice faded over a loudspeaker: “It was a traaaap—”

Then silence.

The flock stared at their Almighty Bear God, stunned. He spat into the dirt.

“I’m not doing that. Aliens exist. Great. Message received. But I am not including them. Not now. Not ever. YOU HEAR ME?! DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

[Elsewhere, Beyond Time]

Far beyond the world, across dimensions, the Maker watched with His divine all-seeing eyes.

He sighed and rolled His eyes. Still, He continued creating, destroying, and shitposting the fabric of reality as He pleased.

Then, in response to one of His creations, He wrote a message. Folded it into a paper airplane.

With a single breath, He sent it to its intended target.

***

Back in the Wasteland, out of the sky, a gleaming, glowing piece of paper descended.

It defied logic. Gravity. Reason. Everything.

It landed softly in the Bear God’s paws.

He unfolded it and read it aloud:

“If I want aliens, I’ll fucking put aliens in.

If I want you dead, I’ll make you dead.

Remember . . . you’re my bitch, bitch.

Go fuck yourself.

With Love,

The Maker”

The Bear God’s lip curled. A scowl overtook his face.

“What a cunt.”

Suddenly, another white sheet of paper dropped—no, blasted—from the sky, striking the Bear God like a missile and leveling the surrounding area.

On the utterly pristine page, the Maker wrote the following words:

F-Bomb. I win.

:)

[abnormalpublishing]

Commentary – WBG Ep. 9: Rickrolls, Rage Rabbits, and Dragon Ball Mayhem

Commentary for Episode 9 — “A Victor Emerges...”

From the desk of RJM @ A.B.Normal Publishing (or more accurately, the stained napkin of the Bear God).

This one’s a cocktail of Fallout flair, Dragon Ball Z homage, and—you guessed it—a surprise musical number pulled from the dankest vault of internet memes. That’s right. You just got Rickrolled by a bear. Again.

So, let’s get started and [record scratch] break it down.

On Format and Fun

The Holotape presentation continues here, inspired by Fallout’s iconic audio logs. I aimed for something cinematic—like listening to a forgotten war record narrated by a half-drunk historian, a doomsday cultist with a flair for the dramatic . . . or both.

The tone remains purposefully unserious. After all, this is the saga of a god-bear Rickrolling a rage-fueled anthropomorphic rabbit.

Rubricon: The Bunny With a Bad Attitude

Previously, I mentioned Rubricon’s name was drawn from Transformers and Jeep’s Rubicon. But in spirit, he’s a grudge-bearing hybrid of Usagi Yojimbo, Lone Wolf and Cub, and every over-edgy anime anti-hero ever stitched together in a Fallout wasteland.

He blames the Bear God, Sin, for perma-polymorphing him into a rabbit—clearly forgetting that Druids can shake that off, and also that Druids are not Mages. But hey, misplaced anger makes for juicy drama.

Visually, Rubricon’s the guy who fell into a Hot Topic stockroom and walked out thinking he was the villain. Leather? Check. Glowing rage transformation? Check. A spear that’s (essentially) a glorified garden stake? You bet. Dangerous? Kinda. Ridiculous? Absolutely.

Also, yes—he canonically skipped leg day.

As someone who mained Horde in WoW, I naturally loathe Gnomes. Rubricon is Gnome-adjacent and deserves punting. Speaking of which, shout-out to the YouTube series Chronicles of the Annoying Quest. There’s a moment where a Gnome yells, “Lots of sex! I have a huge penis!” before a female Draenei coolly replies, “Umm. You know what? I’m a lesbian.”

This is a friendly reminder that it’s 2025, and we’re still terrible people. That video came out about 18 years ago. RIP.

Sin (The Bear God) and the Plot Armor Paradox

The Bear God isn’t impressed. Not because Rubi’s not a threat—but because this isn’t his story. Sin’s the protagonist, and Rubricon is just the current checkpoint boss.

This episode is a deliberate riff on the Dragon Ball Z formula:

5 minutes of grunting

10 minutes of posing

1 minute of actual fighting

Cliffhanger

Except here, we skip the buildup. Sin kicks it off with a Rickroll, supercharges himself with meme-fueled cosmic energy, and slaps Rubricon back to his glowing rabbit hole.

Think TeamFourStar’s DBZ Abridged with their Garlic Jr. Dead Zone movie. Short. Sweet. Just . . . chaos and comedy. “Drama queen!” Thanks, Mr. Popo.

Also, here’s a link to the “movie.”

Also, yes—there’s an early nod to Ultra Instinct. Goku was about to break the internet with it, so naturally, the Bear God got there first. Blondie cue’d. Universe shattered.

Victory, Glory, and Ice Cream

What comes after vaporizing your nemesis? A brooding monologue? Nope. Ice cream.

Because when you’re the Bear God and just left a crater the size of a stadium, you treat yourself. And you lick it like you mean it.

Behind the Scenes Bonus Thoughts

Rubricon’s transformation is a love letter to every glowing-haired anime hero that made 10-year-old you scream “AAAAARGH!” in the mirror. You know you did.

You know, you also did this (Gohan teaching Videl how to fly).

This episode’s shorter than most, by design. It’s a jab at bloated anime battles. We cut through the noise and get to the punchline.

What’s coming next? Glad you asked:

More enemies

More lore

Possibly more musical numbers

More unearned sass

Until next time . . . Beware the crater. It’s still steaming. —RJM

[abnormalpublishing]

Episode 10: Crash! Wham! Alakazam!

"Some say that from the ashes will rise an ally—and that ally will be a kind of key . . . a key to the Gatekeeper. Where there are no ghouls, only Dana Fembots. Pray, friends, for if they are released upon the world . . . feminism will have us all by the jollies."

— Bhal Aundy, Children of the Lost Marriage 1:03

[The scribe was kind enough to enclose an audio holotape for your eargasmic pleasure.]

Day 42

Since my last battle with Rubricon, the crater has remained untouched. From where we've traveled—up north—we can still see it smoldering, its gray puffs curling lazily into the sky.

As promised, I took my flock to the Lakeshore Creamery for ice cream. Each was ordered to choose their own and to have as many scoops as they desired. They seemed pretty content.

Tara, Shana, Tama, and Tata grew . . . aroused by their frozen treats. One moment they were licking, biting, and sucking with the zeal of true devotees—and the next, they had stripped bare, continuing their actions with each other and their desserts. It devolved into a frenzy. Some even began to defecate—[the remainder of this passage is indecipherable].

After their performance, they bathed. I executed the creamery staff responsible for tainting the confections with a concoction of Buffout, Psycho, Mentats, Jet, Deathclaw blood, Mirelurk eggs, RadAway, and Mutfruit. The locals called it a "Pudding Pop"—a euphoric drug cocktail. Whatever it was, it was unacceptable.

NONE MAY TAINT THE BITCHES OF THE MIGHTY BEAR GOD, LET ALONE MY FLOCK!

I have ordered my minions to ransack the facility. We shall make camp here for the night. The 'shrooms—or whatever was slipped into my sundae—have left me with a wretched stomachache. Maker above, I will be squirting this unholy sludge out for hours.

At least this time, there is toilet paper. Though . . . I suspect my flock took great pleasure in cleansing their Mighty Bear God. Probably too much. I will have to reaffirm boundaries.

Later, perhaps.