Carnageland vs Naked Metamorphosis: ROUND 2

What’s that?  You’re dying to see who survives the bizarro crossover onslaught of the decade?  Here’s Round 2 of the crossover between Carnageland and Naked Metamorphosis.  Words by Eric Mays and Pictures by me.


“Is there a reason you’re cleaning that mess?” demanded Garry Snotter.

Osric was on his knees, madly focused on the task of sweeping massive crud into a meticulous pile.  The aforementioned crud had been Rosen Crantz only seconds before.  A blast from a pre-pubescent wizard with little training and daddy issues will do that.

“Sorry, sir,” the courtier humbly said.  “Just seems wrong to leave a man laying about.  I was only trying to be hospitable.”

Osric, after agreeing to serve the young wizard, avoiding instant doom, had been talked into letting Garry into Elsinore.  The courtier knew the entrances well and the wizard was persuasive enough, so thus here they were.

They’d made it through a rear entry and into a bailey.  Garry’s wand was at the ready, should any guards come across their path.  “I’ll muggle ‘em good,” was all Garry would mutter as the tip of his wand licked electricity into the night.

“Are you sure you’re using that expression proper, sir?” Osric asked.  He was not a smart man, but that word seemed somewhat misplaced.

“Shut it!”

And that’s when the two men clad in outfits that would be becoming a ninja, but unbecoming a homosexual couple studying economics, stepped into the shadows.  And, within that second, there was only one of them still standing.

The one standing, Guilden, was releasing a stream of profanities, all with quick bursts of air, as he was hyperventilating.

“That’s how you muggle,” said Garry.

Osric, still sweeping entrails on top of bone, said, “I’m still not sure that you’re using that word proper.”

“Bugger you, old man!  I know what I’m doing.  You’re like everyone else, telling me I’m too young, too dumb.”

“I didn’t mean to imply such a thing, my lord, it’s just…”

“Bastard…cunt…” the expletive waterfall kept flowing from Guilden.  Still he remained paralyzed in terror.

“Just what, eh?  Just that I may muck up a spell here and there?  Well, I’ll show you!  It’s been nice having a friend, but now I’ve no need for either of you!”

It was a little surreal.  An ordinary enemy – hell, even a frienemy – would have, in a moment of angst and anger, disposed of the two.  Garry, in his teenage waste, was more set in the flashy show-and-tell approach.  He pulled a book from his robes and began flipping pages.

“Ah ha!  That’s the ticket!”  He began jotting notes.  “Says here I need the eye of a newt, which I’ve got in my pocket.  A hair of a courtier.  Well how fortuitous is that?” He plucked a hair from Osric’s head.  The meek courtier still swept.  “The will of a ninja.  I guess some of this goop’ll do, eh?”  He picked up a chunk of Rosen.  “And the blood of a prince.  Now, where am I going to get that?”


“I think the little girl was real, my lord,” said Horatio.  He and Prince Hamlet were making their way through the torchlit baileys – Hamlet still slaying imaginary demons and chanting conspiracy theories, Horatio begging the Prince to get some sleep.

“Those demons can be a pesky lot, mate,” replied Hamlet.  “The trick is to take out the innocent looking ones before they use their cunning on the blokes that matter.”

“And, again, I think that was a real little girl, my lord.  I don’t think it was a demon.”

“Well, you’ve not got the gift, Horatio.  If you had, you’d’ve seen the horns.  Like rams they were.  Fangs too!  Plus, there’s the smell.  They smell a bit like cinnamon and the stuff that you pick out of your toes.  Rotten and sweet are the demons.”

Hamlet stopped for a moment.

Horatio waited.

“Reckon it was a little girl?  Do you think the demons could be so cruel as to trick me in such a manner?  This is surely a play by Beelzebub.  The death of a child would secure my place in the ninth circle undoubtedly.  Oh, Horatio, what am I to do?”

Eyes rolled into the back of Horatio’s head.  “My lord, I’m sure it’s not as dramatic as all of that.  You need sleep.  I’ll…clean it all up tomorrow.  I’m sure it will all be crisp in the light of morning.”

“You’re a good friend, Horatio.  I can always count on you.”

The two took a turn and stumbled into another bailey.  A man dressed as a ninja stood shaking in the shadows.  His entire body shivered and vibrated a course of questionable metaphors filled the courtyard.  “Fuck…shit…bitchmonger…”

“What do you suppose his problem is?” asked Hamlet.

Horatio, who was becoming adept at the problem solving and drama directing, took in the scene as rapidly as he could.  Osric was on the floor sweeping up something that resembled slaughtered cattle.  A weird young man was fumbling about with icky, sticky things.  And a ninja was frozen in fear and babbling obscenities.  His first instinct, as was the case these days, was to ask Hamlet what he had done.  But, he’d been with Hamlet.

“Oh,” said the prince.  “Makes sense.”

The Prince pointed at the pile of smothered and chunked Rosen.

“I’m not sure that solves the problem.”

“To me, it solves it.  It’s obvious this courtyard has got the syphilis, Horatio.  I mean, it’s a disaster.  I understand it.  You can’t sit anywhere without catchin’ it.”

“I’m not sure that’s what’s going on here.”

“Excuse me,” said the odd boy who liked icky things.  “But, are you a Prince?”

“Demon!” Hamlet wailed and thrust his sword into the air.  He brought it down with such force that it impacted Garry’s skull and began to slice the boy in two.  As he pushed the blade further, organs and blood decorated the courtyard with macabre graffiti.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll clean it up,” said Osric with a hearty sigh.

“See this is what I’m talking about, my lord,” said Horatio as he dragged the Prince towards his bed chamber.

The Ballads of Ophelia the Faire

Ophelia was a lass, whose mind had gone and fled.

Still she tried to live life with nary fear nor dread.

And that’s not easy for a girl whose father’s dead.

Oh, Ophelia the Fair has strength!


She’d smashed the face of wizches and ate taters dripped in blood.

She smelled kind of funny ‘cause she was drenched in mud!

Oh, Ophelia could turn any man into a pile of crud –

‘cause Ophelia she had strength.


But love caught her eye as she skipped through the countryside.

Her knight was shiny and he was well endowed, she spied.

Oh, green was his skin, and that was fine with her, she lied.

Oh Ophelia the Fair would need strength.


She approached the little man with longing in her eyes.

He poked her with a Doomshooter; she thought it was a prize.

Her heart skipped a beat as he gave her a surprise.

Oh, Ophelia the Fair had no strength.


She lay in a puddle, oozing o’er the countryside.

Her organs and skin and bones completely liquefied.

Oh love had escaped her for quite the final time.

Oh, Ophelia the Fair has no more strength.


The War Letters

“Alas, it must be said that I am to do everything myself.

Why is it shunned that a women could be ruler, rather than be constant in the providing loin fruit to take over the throne.  Egad, say I.  Were I ruler of Elsinore, the nation would have suffered less than this.  These men always muck it up.  Muck it up and leave it to the women to clean.

Norway has already been active in its pursuits and with those fools, Claudius and Polonius, out of the picture I’m sure I’ll quell this and use my cunning to retain Poland.  The Pirates were an odd choice as an assassin, and I’m sure they’ll not be the last.  I know there is someone coming for me.  Evil knows the feel of evil very well.

That’s not to say that I’m admitting that I’ve evil in me.

Who am I to jest? Of course, I do.

I’m not sure who will be the end of me.  It is oft said that women die from sugar and spice and everything nice.  It’s that ridiculous double-standard that so plagues these times.  Women are not, as it were, made of sugar and/or spice.  We’re made of flesh and blood as are men.  And our deaths should come to us in violent ways.  Should that violence bear hints of sugary and spicy confections, so be it.

That implies I’m to be killed by a cookie man.  Ha!  The mere thought makes me laugh like a girl oft should.  Oh, and it stimulates my senses.  Why, I smell the faintest hint of nutmeg, caramelized sugar, and melted chocolate.  The smells are there, and yet brought on by an overactive imagination and nothing more.  Where would Norway find a cookie man?

So it goes…

Run, run, as Fast as you can!

Hope you enjoyed the show!  Round 3 will be coming soon, so stay prepared.  In the meantime, show your support for your favorite team by buying the book!




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