James Bryan's Podcast

What would you Kill for? 4 Da Boys – Strummin’ Through the Minefield of "What Would You Kill For?" Alright, sons, huddle up by the fire. This is 4 Da Boys, where your old man, Papa, strums this beat-up guitar—badly, like a drunk coyote tryin’ to play “Dixie”—and lays down the raw truth about bein’ a man of Principle. My chords are shaky, but my heart’s iron, and today we’re marchin’ through a...

When you feel like it's time to give up the fight, give up the fight! Get back to where you were created to be in the first place Papa’s Redemption: Strummin’ Through the Dark The Nebraska night was a bleeding scar, the plains reeking of frost and despair, the stars above sharp as broken glass. Papa, a weathered drifter with a face like cracked leather and eyes like smoldering embers, sat on a...

Papa’s Raid: Strummin’ Through the Woke Abyss The Seattle night was a festering wound, the city’s alleys choked with the stench of burnt rubber and desperation, its neon signs flickering like a junkie’s last hope. Papa, a grizzled drifter with a face like cracked pavement and eyes sharp as razor wire, slunk through the shadows, his busted six-string guitar slung across his back, its strings...

Papa’s Quest: Strummin’ Through the Heart of Evil The Verdaran night was a fevered vision, its twin moons spilling green light like God’s own tears over jungles that throbbed like a living wound, the air thick with sap and the electric snarl of unseen predators. Papa, a grizzled wanderer with a face like scorched leather and eyes sharp as shattered flint, crouched on a vine-snarled ridge, his...

A cover, of course. The original (as far as I know) was by Jamie Cullum. My version is with a gang of gifted friends on Kompoz.com. I'll update with more deets on the Kompoz mob (these guys are fabulous). This is just to tide you over. My next story (episode) will be tomorrow.

Swift Coyote’s Warpath: Drumming Through the Bloodlands The Comanchería night was a howling void, the plains reeking of dust and blood, the stars above sharp as arrowheads. Swift Coyote, a Comanche brave with a lean frame and eyes like burning coals, crouched in the buffalo grass, his war drum—a stretched hide taut as a scalp—thumping low, its beat a pulse of death. He was no farmer, no builder;...

Lenin’s Descent: The Bloody Forge of Utopia The Petrograd night was a frozen abattoir, the air thick with coal smoke and the metallic tang of blood, the city’s streets a jagged scar of war and starvation. Vladimir Lenin, a wiry specter with a bald skull gleaming like a guillotine blade, paced his Kremlin office, boots grinding ash into splintered floorboards. The Russian Civil War howled outside,...

Papa’s Tale: Strummin’ Through the Cartel Slaughterhouse The Sinaloa night was a festering wound, the air choked with diesel, sweat, and the sour stink of fear, a shantytown sprawl that’d make a hyena puke. Codename “Papa,” a Delta Force operator with eyes like broken glass and a soul scraped raw by too many wars, ghosted through the shadows, his busted six-string guitar slung across his back,...

Juan’s Tale: Strummin’ Through the Woke Word Minefield The sun was fryin’ the desert like a cheap taco, castin’ shadows like lies across the cracked streets of Woketown, a town so warped it made my skull ache worse than when I tried pronouncin’ “Worcestershire” in English class. I’m Juan, fresh off the border, 5 year’s worth of English clawed from greasy diner menus and night school flashcards,...

Buck’s Tale: Howlin’ Through the Minefield of the Way Things Are The sun was clawin’ its way up the sky, spillin’ gold across the farm’s rollin’ fields, and I, Buck, stood proud on the hill, a German Shepherd, young, strong, and master of all I survey—and pee on. My fur gleamed like a wolf’s, (because I AM the Sigma of all Wolves!) my tail high like a flag, and my howl ripped through the...