RETURN OF THE BADGER
A long time comin'. Badger last appeared with IDW in the six-part series,
Badger Saves the World. And he did. But the world didn't
notice. This time we assumed nothing. Many readers will encounter
Badger for the first time in Wooly Bully, so we had to introduce him all
over again for a new generation. Longtime readers know that I don't get
hung up on continuity. Except with Nexus. I got this dude on
my ass.
We looked at the elements that made Badger work: the multiple personalities,
the abrupt shifts in mood, the crazy humor, the martial arts. In updating
Badger for a new age I went back to the beginning and phase shifted. I
looked at old characters that I had dreamed up in a drug-induced stupor and
wondered how to make them relevant.
You will find old friends here, and friends turned enemies. We seldom get
a chance to correct the mistakes we make in life. In comics, we get that
chance. This will be the wildest, most substantial Badger ever.
As I write this, we have not yet finalized the artist. The choices are
between several great artists, all of whom crush.
Two Cents on Writing
TWO CENTS ON WRITING
"In writing, MY goal is to remove any reference that might draw the reader's attention to the writer." No. In writing, the goal is to remove any reference that might draw attention to the writer. Write what you know, THEY say. You know who THEY are: the Illuminati, the Trilateral Commission, and the Elders of Zion. Most young writers write about their experiences and inject themselves into the story. If you're writing about yourself that's fine so long as it's interesting. There is no greater sin than boring the reader. But if you're writing about something outside yourself, it's best to keep personal observations personal, or to make it clear out front that the subject is your reaction.
There are many writers, especially newspaper columnists, rely on their feelings and observations for subject matter. "You could have knocked me over with a nine iron." Even seasoned columnists can't help injecting themselves into the story. It worked for Erma Bombeck and Dave Barry. Self-deprecating humor is always welcome. Weekly columns are demanding, often excruciating taskmasters. A daily column usually results in a constant state of anxiety and sleeplessness as the columnist must mine his every thought for material.
But when making a statement, writing a story, or reviewing a movie, it is better for the reader to experience the writing without thinking about the writer. At least in MY humble opinion.
My Interest In Cycle Gangs
MY INTEREST IN CYCLE GANGS
I worked as an editor at the now defunct Boston Phoenix in the early
seventies. A couple hairy bikers in colors kept stopping by the office
requesting we do an article on them. "Because we're like
interesting, man." So one evening I took the train to blue collar
Randolph to hang out with the Rum Pot Rustlers in their clubhouse, an old
garage in which the boys wrenched their rat Harleys.
Their president Wild Bill had a perfectly circular scar in the middle of his
forehead. "One day I hear this yellin' so I go out on my front yard
and there's a bunch of Wild Childs (a rival MC gang) doin' doughnuts so I tell
them to get the hell off my lawn and one of 'em throws a beer bottle at
me. Hit me dead center in the forehead and knocked me out."
Mostly they talked about gang rape. They didn't call it that. They
called it "sharing" with their brothers. I dutifully wrote it
up. They day after the article appeared three of them were arrested for
gang-raping F. Lee Bailey's secretary whom they picked up in a bar. When
I went to work the next day the secretary warned me to lay low--I was about to
be deposed by the District Attorney. The publisher refused to supply me
with an attorney. The entire editorial staff led by Carl Oglesby walked
out in protest and I got my attorney.
In the days that followed Rum Pot Rustlers dropped by the office asking for
me.
I was never deposed.
I began studying karate.
Horror Horror
THE HORROR OF NATURE
Clive Barker says that all horror is based on the horripilations of the
flesh--the fact that we grow old and die. These mortal vessels don't hold
up. And it's true, to an extent. Look at The Picture of Dorian
Gray, Frankenstein, or any David Cronenberg movie. They all
deal with mortification. Complacent 21st century consumers, snug in their
homes, cannot imagine the struggles of their ancestors just to survive, let
alone conquer a continent. Michael Lesy's Wisconsin Death Trip
chronicles what happened in Wisconsin at the turn of the century.
"Lesy documents the unsettling record of one small corner of
rural America, turning up accounts of barn burnings, attacks by gangs of armed
tramps, threatening and obscene letters, death by diphtheria and smallpox (the
Wisconsin townsfolk had, some years, to attend several funerals a week),
alcoholism, madness, business and bank failures, and even a case or two of
witchcraft." (From the Amazon review.)
In the 20th century, Wisconsin gave us Ed Gein, inspiration for both
Hitchcock's Psycho and Thomas Harris' The Silence of the Lambs.
The 20th century also gave us modern totalitarianism, technological genocide
and the threat of mass extinction. We choose not to think about those
because, really, who wants to spend their time dwelling on the worst of
humanity? Herman Kahn wrote a book about it: Thinking About the
Unthinkable.
The situation among animals is even worse. Fortunately animals cannot
experience the emotion we know as horror. But we can experience it for
them. Take a look at two pictures. The first is ticks on a snake:
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-chat/2844228/posts
The second is a fungus that attacks tarantulas:
http://io9.com/5918948/fungal-infection-causes-tarantula-to-grow-antlers
If these two images don't send you screaming into a wall, you are one tough
cookie. Why, then, do we experience such a pleasurable frisson
when we immerse ourselves in horror fiction? It has less to do with the
horror of nature than the nature of horror. The most effective horror
deals with the supernatural. The least effective deals in ingenious ways
to dispatch horny teenagers. The shadow of mortality hangs over horny
teens because of their sexuality. It's kinda puritan, don't you
think? But when the credits roll and the lights go up we know it's just a
movie. We get Freddie and Jason. They have their reasons.
We don't get the voice from beyond, Lovecraft's hideous unknown, or scariest of
all, the demon from The Exorcist. These horrors lie outside human
experience and it is their unknowable nature that we find so frightening.
The most effective horror touches that atavistic spot in our lizard brains that
cowers before a superior force we cannot understand. That is why supernatural
horror always trumps the slasher.
It is the latter which interests me and what I have tried to achieve in Helmet
Head and my upcoming novels, Skorpio and The Banshees.
Mike Baron
Please visit my website at: www.bloodyredbaron.net
Skorpio
CHAPTER ONE "Last Chance"
Heat lingered in the desert, even at dusk. The VW bus
wedged between two dusty pick-ups outside the Last Chance Bar & Grill
outside Gap, AZ, was plastered with Grateful Dead stickers, peace symbols and
flowers, a relic from the dawn of rock and roll. The symbols were barely
visible through the patina of dust that descended on any vehicle on the
plateau. Even vehicles kept in closed garages were covered with dust.
The Last Chance formed the end cap of an exiguous Main Street stretching for
two blocks, consisting of a couple two story brick office buildings, a feed
store, the Last Chance Bank, a storefront bank, Vern's Hardware, the
Abercrombie Motel, and directly across the street, Vern's Gas. Buck eleven
a gallon.
It was 1985.
The Last Chance itself was an adobe structure with shorn logs protruding from
its brow, a plank porch that ran the length, and a landscape window in which
the neon Vern's light flashed over the small Budweiser. It had once been
pink but now like everything else exposed to the Sonoran desert it was sandy
beige. Constant wind whipped through the streets sandblasting everything
in its path. It was ninety-eight degrees outside, the only living thing
an old dog on the bar's porch, which got up and circled five times before
settling down again in a filthy blanket. A hand-made Navajo bowl held
water.
The only sounds were the wind, the whine of the rooftop air-conditioner, and
very faintly, the Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit."
Inside, Curt Mayweather and Ronnie Potts, juniors and roommates at Creighton
University in Thronson, IL, sat at the bar. They were stoned to the
gills. Each had a sixteen ounce glass of Rattlesnake IPA before them, ten
per cent alcohol. Curt hunched over the bar ball pen in hand sketching in
a bristol board pad he carried with him at all times. Ronnie looked
around the bar, at the stuffed rattlesnake and coyote over the bar, the tin
signs celebrating defunct motor vehicles, WW II nose art, and shootin', the
sawdust-covered plank floor, the dart board, and the patrons themselves, four
cowboys in boots, Stetsons, and bonaroo belt buckles the size of Texas, and
thought, how cool is this?
Ronnie was five eleven, second of three children belonging to Marge and Daniel
Potts of Evanston. Daniel Potts of Stankle, Murphy and Crowder, Attorneys
at Law specializing in corporate litigation. Ronnie was a varsity
wrestler at 170, working toward his bachelor's degree in Anthropology.
After which he would go straight for the Masters while trying to hitch a ride
on every archaeological dig he could find.
Curt bent over his drawing. He majored in psychology but was toying with
the idea of changing his major to art. He had always drawn, ever since he
was a child. He drew in the margins of his books in grade school.
He created little flip books by drawing the same image over and over
again--with slight variations--so that when you gathered the pages between
thumg and forefinger and let 'em rip, you saw a tiny skeleton dance the
hoochie-koochie.
His teachers tried to discourage him at first but by the time he reached Junior
High, it had become evident to all, even his parents, that Curt could draw.
He was an only child. His father was an accountant for Sheldon Property
Management in Evanston, and his mother worked as a librarian. He was an
only child. Unlike the lithe Ronnie, Curt was a round-shouldered hulk
with a beer belly and a beard. Unlike the other patrons, the students'
faces were as smooth and unblemished as freshly laundered sheets.
The interior winked and gleamed through its gloom--Christmas tree lights
surrounding the bar, the neon in the window, and the bubbling Wurlitzer in the
corner into which Ronnie had plugged a buck in quarters, a full album's
worth. He'd had to search among the Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Johnny
Paycheck and Merle Haggard that dominated the little rotating selection
menus. Nobody so much as looked up when Janis Joplin began to wail.
Herders and cowboys, they were taciturn and tolerant and frankly grateful for a
change from the usual fare. The bartender was a middle-aged half-Apache
with Muriel stitched on her blue bowling shirt in red script. He long
grayish hair was tied in a ponytail and she wore a silver and turquoise brooch
around her neck. Her skin was the color of brick yet remarkably
smooth. Like the regulars, she viewed the two college kids with bemusement.
They were so obviously "not from around here" in their cargo-shorts,
high-zoot hiking shoes and backpacks.
Muriel wandered over to where the boys were grooving and looked at Curt's
sketch. Even from upside down it was readily apparent as a butte,
beautifully rendered in pencil with shading that rendered it almost real.
"Whatcha drawin' there, hoss?" she said.
Curt reversed the notepad so she could look at it right side up.
"It's this place I keep seeing in my dreams."
A faint shiver trickled down Muriel's spine. She looked up. Damned
condensation from the ancient AC. It seemed to her that she'd seen the
butte too, but couldn't recall when or where. Maybe in her dreams.
"You ever see this place?" Curt asked.
"Now how would I see that place?" Muriel said. "You couldn't pay
me to go out there. I hope you boys ain't goin' out there."
"That's why we're here!" Ronnie gushed. "I mean, I'm an
anthropology major and we hear there are all sorts of glyphs out
there." He did not mention the other reason, that they had both read
Aldous Huxley's The Doors of Perception and wanted to trip in the desert like
Timothy Leary and Cary Grant.
One of the regulars eased out his booth against the front wall and ambled to
the bar, slightly bow-legged from years of ranch work. He had a face like
a sharpei and a white handlebar mustache. He set a cut glass tumbler on
the counter.
"Muriel my love if you don't mind."
Muriel emptied the glass, scooped in more ice, and added two inches of Old
Rattlesnake Fine Distilled Spirits. "Here you go, Pete."
Pete gazed over Curt's shoulder at the drawing, which had returned to its
original position. "Seems I seen something like that once."
Curt looked up. "Where?"
The old cowboy nodded his head to the east. "Out there. Back
when I was young, dumb and fulla come and we used to ride dune buggies out
there. Nothin' out there but sand, rattlesnakes and
scorpions."
"That's what I'm tellin' 'em, Pete. This here's an
anthro-pologist."
Ronnie turned grinning, his horn-rimmed glasses reflecting the neon
lights. "Ronnie Potts, sir. Student at Creighton
University."
Pete took the kid's soft hand in his own rough one and shook it.
"Anthropology, huh? When I was a boy we studied ranching, business,
and water management."
"Understanding ancient cultures is the key to understanding
ourselves," Ronnie said.
"Ain't that the truth. Well you can call me Pete. You goin'
out there?"
"We're prepared," Ronnie said. "We've camped before."
"Ahuh. Take plenty of water. I mean plenty. Take twice
as much as you're thinkin' of takin'. Got any guns?"
Ronnie's grin went wide-screen. "No, of course not. We're
students."
"Of course not," Pete said. He hefted his glass.
"Good luck to ya, son."
Mike Baron
Please visit my website at: www.bloodyredbaron.net
Free "Helmet Head"
HELMET HEAD
Helmet Head has received sixteen amazon reviews averaging Five Stars.
5.0 out of 5 stars Surprising, Action-Packed Horror
Novel October 11, 2012
I don't read many horror novels, but I enjoy a good one now and then, and Mike Baron's HELMET HEAD certainly falls into that category. I've read many a good comic book written by Baron, but this is the first novel of his that I've read. If you want action, you'll definitely find it in this yarn about a cop and a motorcycle gang joining forces to battle a demon biker with a big-ass sword who's been murdering people on the rural roads of southern Illinois for years. Helmet Head is considered to be a legend among bikers, but the characters in this book discover that he's all too real. As in all good books, though, not everything is as it first seems. There's more to Helmet Head, the character, than you might think, and the story goes in directions I didn't expect at all. Not only that, while most of the action takes place over the course of a few hours, Baron also delves into the back-stories of his characters and makes them real. This is one of those books where you don't know who's going to live and who's going to die, and if you try to guess you'll stand a good chance of being wrong. That creates a lot of suspense and makes for an effective ending. HELMET HEAD is, as they say, not for the squeamish, but it's fast, well-written, and very entertaining.
If you like horror fiction with a lot of action, you should definitely check it out.
And now it is free, 2/24 - 2/29 at the Kindle Store on Amazon!
Enter The Badger
ENTER THE BADGER
In Spring of 2012, Kenneth F. Levin, publisher of First Comics, contacted me
and asked me to develop a six issue Badger series. I wrote a wild,
hallucinogenic magical realism story whose central conceit was Badger vs.
Galactus. Ken hooked me up with the Fillbach Brothers, two immensely
talented artists who converted the first script into art. Ken pulled the
plug on that series because he did not think that it successfully introduced
Badger to a new generation of readers and perhaps because it was impossible to
film. There was also a great deal of risible satire.
Ken paid me for two scripts.
In July of 2012, Ken called and we had a long conversation on relaunching
Badger. I thrashed around with a top-heavy outline. Alex Wald came
on board as editor and urged me to go back to the beginning. I wrote a
half-assed origin story. Of course one never thinks one's work is
half-assed at the time, but when Alex wrote my a very detailed critique, I saw
that indeed half my ass was missing. So we kicked it. And kicked
it. Then the clouds parted and Glorious Sol shined down on me.
We would begin with Norbert Sykes enlisting in the Army.
The entire first episode appeared in my head and when I got it down, I sent it to
Alex. "That's it," he said. Finding that narrow pivot
point between tragedy, farce, and comedy is never easy. Tone is
everything. And the tone was there.
Some elements of the previous outline survived. They are outrageous,
head-exploding elements I hesitate to discuss. Except for this one:
Badger is going to kick Vlad's ass.
"But who will draw the Badger?" the Rump-Fed Runyan cried.
"I will!" said the Little Red Hen.
"No good," quoth the Runyan. "Your art looks like chicken
scratches!"
Next up: the artist.
Free Gershwin
FREE GERSHWIN
Sully’s
mother swore she’d played Gershwin for him in her womb and that he was born
singing but that’s a mother for you. Sully worshipped Gershwin above
all others.
Being
the only son of a single mother whose husband died of a heart attack while
delivering the mail, Sully stayed on well past the point when most young people
flee the nest. His mother needed him. She’d gone to
pieces since Stan died and couldn’t put together a grocery list much less drive
to the store.
Sully
got a job straight out of high school driving trucks for Schroeder Mobile
Meals. This proved a benefit in more ways than
one. Schroeder’s breakfast menu included “Sausage patties and
apple/cinnamon French toast sticks, serves 8.” The lunch menu
featured “the light Italian lunch (serves 2,)” and “drumsticks, veggies, and
whole strawberries for 9.” Dinner was Schroeder’s
specialty. Sully and his mom often dined on the “marinated salmon
and asparagus spears,” even when they didn’t have to. Schroeder’s
had a Kosher menu, and were working feverishly on their Moslem menu.
Sully
took night classes at the Berklee Institute in Boston, commuting each day from
his home in Somerville, sometimes in the company truck. He studied
piano. He wanted to play Gershwin.
With
proceeds from his job as a driver for Schroeder Mobile Meals, Sully purchased
an old Yamaha upright which took over the front parlor in their
three-decker. A boarder occupied the basement
apartment. Sully had seen the pious young man praying through the
window.
Sully
never wanted to become a professional musician. He only wanted to
play Gershwin, setting his sights on Rhapsody in Blue. It was an ambitious
target. Halfway through his second year his instructor said, “Son,
you’re wasting your money.”
Sully
turned his enthusiasm toward collecting. He had over 2000 CDs
devoted to Gershwin and his music. One day while cataloging he
heard Rhapsody in Blue from
his mother’s bedroom. Rushing in, he stopped cold in the doorway,
eyes falling on the never silent television.
As Rhapsody in Blue played, cartoon
businessmen boarded cartoon airplanes and flew to cartoon capitals.
“What
the fuck is this?” he demanded.
“Sully,”
his mother said from the bed where she was swaddled like an Inuit embarking on
a seal hunt. “There’s no need to use that kind of language.”
“I’m
sorry, Mother. I just can’t believe these bastards have hijacked
Gershwin!”
“Oh
grow up. They’ve been doing it for years.”
Sully
researched the problem on his computer. The vampires acquired the
song in 1987. They’d been whoring Gershwin out for over thirty
years! Could the culture have become so debased that people didn’t even
know the song? Did they think it was the “United
Jingle?”
Tumblers
fell into place. Complex mechanisms clicked and joined in perfect
harmony. Sully hummed like a generator. Life had purpose.
1439 Eich St.
Somerville, MA
02158
President and CEO of United Airlines
Dear Mr. Iverson:
Two
weeks later he came to the grim conclusion that he’d been blown
off. He phoned United, was put on hold for forty-five minutes but
when his moment came he made the most of it. A robotic female instructed
him to make his selections from the following menu.
“BRRRRPPLL!”
he replied trying to approximate the sound of a Bronx cheer.
“I’m
sorry,” the robotic voice said. “I didn’t catch that last
part. Would you repeat that please?”
“BRRRRPPLL!”
“I’m
sorry. “I didn’t catch that last part. Would you repeat
that please?”
“BRRRRPPLL!”
“Would
you like to speak to a United agent?”
“YES!”
“One
moment please.”
Within
a half hour he had made considerable progress.
“This
is Gretchen. How can I help you?”
“I
need to speak with Mr. Iverson. It’s important.”
“To
whom am I speaking?”
“Sully
Mackie. I sent the letter about Gershwin.”
“I’m
sorry, Mr. Mackie. Mr. Iverson is presently occupied. I’m
Mr. Iverson’s executive secretary. Why don’t you tell me your
problem.”
He
told her.
“Yes,
Mr. Mackie, I can understand your concern, but it might help you to better
understand our position if you know that United gives generously to several
major symphony orchestras including the New York Philharmonic. We
support Gershwin. I’m sure most of our customers are aware that
Gershwin wrote our theme song.”
“I
doubt that.”
“Well
I assure you, Mr. Mackie, that United is doing everything in its power to honor
and respect Gershwin.”
“HA!”
“I’ll
bring this to Mr. Iverson’s attention. Thank you for calling.”
Click.
He
waited a week before acknowledging they’d blown him off again. It
was time to get serious. It was time to get scientific. Sully
knew that if he simply paraded in front of United’s corporate headquarters with
a sandwich board he would be regarded as a harmless kook.
A
terrible crime called for a terrible remedy.
At
six-fifteen the bloodshot sun dipped below the crepuscular net of television
antennae, power, and phone lines that criss-crossed the sky. Sully
steeled himself and rapped on one of six square glass panes in Faoud Ouama’s
front door. The entrance to Faoud’s apartment lay off a tiny alley
running between the Sully manse and their neighbors, the
Vitriolas. Four listing concrete steps led down to Faoud’s tiny
stoop.
Silence. Perhaps
Faoud was praying. Sully felt a flush of shame, that he should
interrupt a holy man at prayers. Then he realized that his own
mission was at least as important, and that God smiled upon him.
He
was about to rap again when the door opened suddenly revealing Faoud in all his
Mideast intensity. The man wore a fluffy white shirt beneath a black
leather vest. He stood five five with a proboscis suitable for an
A-10 Warthog. He had olive skin, limpid, close-set black eyes, and a
black whisk brush on his upper lip.
“Yes? Oh
it is you, my friend. And how are you
tonight?”
“Very
good, Faoud. And you can call me Sully.”
“Very
well, Sully. And how are you tonight?”
“Very
good, Faoud. I wonder if I could speak to you for a minute.”
“Yes,
certainly.”
“Uh,
could we go inside?”
Faoud
looked around furtively; up, down, side to side. No one was
watching. He stepped back and motioned Sully nervously into his
domain.
“Quickly!”
The
dark interior was redolent of sesame oil, gun oil, patchouli, and
hash. Sully stood uncertainly waiting for his vision to
adjust. The small living room was sparsely furnished with an old
overstuffed sofa, a telephone company cable spool table, and a free-standing
goose-neck lamp casting its spot on a map of Boston on the table.
On
the wall Faoud had mounted the Saudi flag and a map of the Middle East that was
not entirely accurate. An AK-47 leaned in the corner next to a small
stack of banana clips. The map of Boston was held down at each corner
by a red plastic brick labeled “C-4.”
Faoud
swept up the bricks and map. “Let me just make some room for you my
friend. Would you like tea?”
“That
would be nice.”
“I
shall put on a little music.” Faoud studied his abbreviated
collection, withdrew a CD and inserted it into a portable SONY boom
box. The Rolling Stones softly sang “Street Fighting Man” while
Faoud fussed in the kitchen. He returned with a tin platter
containing a tea pot, two small ceramic mugs, and a selection of Pepperidge
Farm cookies. He set the tray down on the table and sat on the sofa
next to Sully.
“Now
then, my friend, how can Faoud be of service to you?”
“Faoud,
United Airlines has perpetrated a grotesque fraud and great injustice on the
American people.”
Faoud’s
single brow, which rambled from temple to temple, formed twin
peaks. “What injustice?”
“You
are familiar with the American composer George Gershwin?”
“Of
course.” Faoud cleared his throat and began to sing in a surprising
baritone. “Bessss, you is my woman nowwww…”
“Wow,”
Sully said. “You can sing.”
“Thank
you. I was in Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade Harmony Cats when I lived in
Lebanon. But where is the injustice?”
“Gershwin
died before anyone had any idea that someday some sleazy commercial enterprise
would get their meathooks into his greatest work and use it to hawk airline
tickets. It’s as if someone used the Prophet Mohammed to hawk used cars,
you see what I mean?”
Anger,
understanding, sympathy flashed across the tar pits of Faoud’s
eyes. “The arrogance of these American executives is astounding, is
it not?”
“Would
you, that is, do you have any experience extracting concessions from airlines?”
Faoud
reached for a ceramic hookah by the side of the sofa and set it on the
table He reached beneath the sofa and drew out a small wood
box inlaid with mother of pearl. Opening the box, he withdrew an
aluminum-foil wrapped nugget of stucco-colored Lebanese hash which he crumbled
between thumb and forefinger into the hookah’s brass bowl. He
withdrew a wooden cooking match from a ceramic bowl and scraped it along his
thumbnail, igniting same. He held the match over the bowl and
inhaled until the hookah emitted a disturbing gurgling
sound. Holding his breath, he offered the mouthpiece to Sully.
“Not
now, thanks.”
Faoud
exhaled a stream of gray smoke. “As to your question, not me but my
cousin Ali knows about such things. I suppose we could ask
him. What do you have in mind?”
“Nothing
dangerous. I just want United to understand the seriousness of their
transgression.”
Faoud
gripped Sully’s wrist with surprising strength. “I understand, my
friend. Let’s go visit Ali. I’m almost out of hash
anyway. One minute while I phone.”
Soon
they were jouncing along in Sully’s ’88 Taurus headed toward the bad part of
Cambridge, the pendulous peninsula that dipped south where the Charles bent.
“So
your cousin’s a hash dealer?” Sully said, trying to be polite.
“We
call him Chemically-Dependent Ali.”
C.D.
Ali lived in a ramshackle triple decker next to a floundering
church. Ali also lived in the basement. Faoud knocked on
the door. Ali opened it and greeted his cousin with a bear hug and
kisses on both cheeks. Ali was tall and thin with Buddy Holly
glasses and a bushy black mustache.
“Come
in, my friend, come in,” he said, extending a hand. Sully entered
the cramped apartment. A garment dummy occupied the center of the
room wearing a khaki-colored vest with narrow pockets all the way around and in
back. The room smelled of creosote.
“Are
you a tailor?” Sully said.
Chemically-dependent
Ali grinned like a split coconut. “Yes yes, my father was a tailor
and his father before him. Now then my cousin Faoud says that you
are having a problem with the airline.”
While
Faoud made tea in the tiny kitchen Ali listened intently, chin in hand, elbow
on his formica-topped breakfast table.
“Yes
yes I can see that you have a very serious problem,” Ali said, accepting a
small porcelain cup from his cousin. “But I think I see a way for
you to get your point across. Are you adverse to taking a short
flight?”
“You
want me to fly.”
“Certainly. Right
now you are just a grain of sand in the Vaseline to them. But if you
buy a ticket, you become a customer. Then they have to listen to
you.”
“Ahhh,”
said Sully, grateful that he had such friends. “What if I bought
some of their stock? Then they’d have to listen to me as a
shareholder.”
“I
wouldn’t do that, my friend,” Ali said, looking Sully in the eye. “I
have it on excellent authority that their stock is about to take a
nosedive.”
“Well
aside from buying a ticket, what else?”
“You
need a special pen,” Ali said.
Sully
eyed the kafiyehs and white cotton robes hanging from the coat
rack. “Should I wear one of those?”
Faoud
held his hands up, palms out. “Oh no no no! You only
cause trouble wearing that. This is America. Wear what
you usually wear. Once the flight is underway, write a note to the
pilot regarding the abuse of Gershwin. He will immediately notify
the home office. That’s the law.”
“What
about the pen?” Sully asked.
Ali
smiled and rose. “One minute,” he said, heading for the back
bedroom.
Sully
craned his neck toward the smallish front window. “Holy shit!” he
said. “I’m sorry. But a girl just passed wearing nothing but a
tiny black bikini.”
Faoud
bolted for the door. He returned a minute later
stymied. “She must have gone into one of these
buildings. Was she hot?”
“Hot? She
melted concrete!”
Ali
returned with an elegant box that said Dunhill. “For you, my
friend. To insure your success.”
Sully
opened the box and looked at the pen. He closed the box and slipped
it into his jacket pocket. “Why do I need a special pen?”
“The
ink is made with holy water from Ramala. It is certain to convince the
pilot, and through him, the CEO.”
“Ah,”
Sully said, handling the box reverently. “It’s a magic pen.”
“Exactly,”
Faoud said. “Wait until you are on the plane before you write the
note. Do not use it for any lesser purpose.”
Sully
rose. “Got to get back. They’re showing An American in Paris on
A&E.”
Ali
kissed Sully on both cheeks. “God be with you, my
friend. Allah akbar!”
Sully
raised his fist in power salute. “Word.” He looked at
Fauoud. “You coming?”
“Ah,
no, my cousin and I are going to catch up. I will see you when I see
you.”
Sully
was relieved The solution had come to him in a blinding satori
. By the time he reached Somerville he had come to a decision.
Security
was tight at Logan. The white robes Sully had “borrowed” from Ali
acted as a magical incantation. Impenetrable Ray-Bans completed the
outfit. With his fake beard and mustache, only his nose tasted fresh
air. The "magic pen" was at the bottom of the Charles
River. Federal personnel whisked Sully through the security
gates. “Go right through, sir. No need for you to take
off your shoes, either.”
Sully
made a sign, grouped fingers to the forehead. “Peace be unto
you.”
His
chin itched, but such was the price of wearing a very realistic fake
beard. Sully passed an elderly Jew in a yarmulke and wheelchair who
was forced to stand with the assistance of a federal screener.
“You’re
gonna have to drop the pants,” one of the screeners said.
“Drop
my pants?” the old man asked querulously. “What is this, the Spanish
Inquisition? Look!” He pointed at Sully. “There’s
your suicide bomber!”
The
two security personnel gripped the old man by his upper arms and whisked him
away to be interrogated.
Sully
moved on to his gate. At ten minutes to eleven, the United agent
announced preliminary boarding for Flight #227, non-stop to
Chicago. “Anyone flying first class, with small children, or who
needs a little extra time please board now.”
Sully
swept to the front of the line, cutting off a pregnant woman bearing twins: one
in front, one in back, like a well-balanced pack animal. The flight
agent greeted Sully with a frozen smile. “Thank you and enjoy your
flight.”
Sully
went no further than the last row of the First Class cabin, secreting his
boarding pass to seat 22D deep within his robe. The woman with the
twins waddled past on her way to steerage. A middle-aged man in an
Armani suit stopped at Sully’s elbow, staring at his ticket.
“Excuse
me…”
Sully
stared straight ahead and began to chant nonsense words softly under his
breath. The man swallowed and sat down across the
aisle. Gradually the plane filled. Some people gave Sully
the stink eye. A young lad grabbed his mother’s sleeve and said,
“Mommy, mommy!”
The
mother grabbed the child by the hand and yanked him forward. “Don’t
look at him.”
The
attendants recited their memes and the plane took off. There were
only two other people in the first class cabin so no one was stressed that
Sully had taken the wrong seat. He declined the free champagne so as
not to inspire terror.
Sully
was first off the plane at O’Hare and wasted no time in getting a taxi.
“Allah
Akbar!” the driver greeted him.
Sully
did the thing with the forehead. “Peace be upon you.” He
squinted at the hack license. The driver was Ahmed Fusil from
Pakistan.
“Where
to?” Ahmed sang.
“United
Airlines, 77 West Wacker.”
The
taxi dove into Chicago’s concrete intestines like a pachinko
ball. “Where are you from, my brother?” Ahmed sang.
“Somerville,
Massachusetts. And you?”
“A
little town in Pakistan. I’m sure you’ve never heard of
it. If you are in town for any length of time I invite you to our
mosque, the Grand Mosque of Medina, at 1717 South Dorchester
Street! Our Grand Imam, when he speaks, let me just
say…” Ahmed waggled his fingers in the rear-view
mirror. “Whoo! He really socks it to the infidels.”
“I’ll
check it out.”
They
pulled up in front of Sully’s destination. “Do you want me to wait
for you?” Ahmed asked.
“No
thank you, brother.” Sully gave him a twenty-five per cent tip.
United
HQ was housed in a fifty-story building with white granite pilasters and
stainless steel mullions. He entered the foyer through a revolving
door. There were banks of elevators to the right and left, and in
between them a large marble security desk behind which sat a well-armed black
man with a shaved head and a gold hoop in one ear.
Sully
headed straight for him. The guard rested his immense arms on the
counter and smiled. His teeth were perfect.
“How
may I help you, sir?”
“Would
you please to inform Mr. Iverson that Sheik Hassan Ben Jaild is here, from the
American Arab League to Promote Peace and Understanding.”
“Do
you have an appointment, Sheik Hassan?”
“No,
but I’m certain Mr. Iverson will see me.”
“Why
is that, sir?”
“Because
if he does not, I will have five hundred people marching in front of this
building in time for the morning news rush charging United with
discrimination.”
“Mmm-HM,”
the guard said, rubbing his chin. “One minute, Sheik. Do
you have a card?”
Sully
proffered a thick white card with embossed gold Arabic
lettering. The only English was Sully’s made-up name. The
guard took it, looked at both sides and picked up the phone. He
spoke for several minutes, waving at familiar faces as they passed. He
put the phone down and faced Sully.
“Security
will be down shortly, but first you need a pass.” The guard sat at a
computer and typed in Sully’s name, reading off the card. A machine
that looked like a postage meter whirred, popping out a small green
laminate. The guard punched a hole in the laminate with a paper
punch and hooked it to a lanyard with the United Logo, white on blue.
Shortly,
two men in navy blue trousers, crisp white short-sleeved shirts, black ties,
security badges and utility belts appeared. The guard spoke with one
of the men, handing him Sully’s card.
“This
way, sir,” the guard said. He had a gray mustache and looked like a
retired police officer. The other, younger man followed Sully toward
the rear of the vast lobby, through a steel door, down a short corridor into a
brightly lit room equipped with a metal detector, a linoleum-topped table, and
several plastic chairs.
“We
apologize for the precautions, sir, but these are parlous times. If
you’ll step through the metal detector.”
“No
need to apologize,” Sully said in a patently fake Mideast
accent. “The camel does not always lie with the horse.”
The
guards nodded sagely. One of them opened the door to the
corridor. “If you’ll follow me sir, this elevator will take you
directly to the thirty-fifth floor.” The guard walked toward the
rear of the building, around a corner, where a freight elevator was
waiting. A man in a gray suit and four hundred dollar haircut was
waiting.
“Sheik? Hi,
how are ya? I’m Roger Grambling, personal assistant to Mr.
Iverson.” He offered his hand. Sully stared at
it. Coloring slightly, Grambling hid the hand behind his
back. “Normally you couldn’t get in to see him without an
appointment. But you’re in luck. Another appointment
canceled. We’re very concerned with whatever you want to tell us.”
They
rode the elevator in eerie silence. Sully’s ears popped just before
the elevator slowed. The doors glided silently open on a reception
area that bore an uncanny resemblance to the boarding gate of an
airport. Several rows of plastic chairs were arranged back to back
with enormous canister wastebaskets, some with slots labeled “for paper
only.” There was a reception type desk with an electronic billboard
which said, “Welcome to United Headquarters! Fly the friendly
skies.”
A
dazzling blond flashed her chiclets. “Welcome,
Sheik. Please go right in. Mr. Iverson is expecting
you.”
Iverson’s
office was larger than Sully’s house. Parts of the floor were
covered with a deep blue plush, the rest with teak. The floor to
ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of the Loop and Lake Michigan in the
background. An archipelago of furniture groupings led to the massive
granite free-form desk. Iverson rose and came around the desk, hand
outstretched. He was a small dynamo of a man, a former jet fighter
pilot with a rakish mustache and his dyed-hair parted in the middle like Doug
Fairbanks Jr.
“Sheik
Hassan!” They shook hands. Iverson had a powerful grip
and no desire to release Sully’s hand. He turned to Grambling, who
had followed Sully in. “Shake Sheik! Get
it? Like my dog Otto!”
Grambling
made a desperate throat-slicing motion with his hand. “Ix-nay on the
og-day!” he hissed.
“Of
course,” Iverson said, grabbing Sully by the arm and steering him to a large
sofa finished in burgundy Italian leather. Copies of Fly the Friendly Skies were
neatly stacked on the free-form zebrawood table. A door opened
silently and a secretary came in with a tray. Coffee and baklava.
Iverson
sat opposite Sully in an overstuffed burgundy chair and picked up the
pitcher. “How do you like it, sheik?”
“Cream
and sugar, please,” Sully said in his patently fake accent. “Two
spoonfuls.”
Iverson
did as Sully said and placed the mug in front of the visitor. “Now
how can we help you, Sheik?”
“It
is the theme song.”
“Excuse
me?” The chairman blinked.
“Rhapsody
in Blue.”
“What
about it? It’s been our theme song for thirty years.”
“I
am sure you are not aware of this but it is deeply offensive to people of my
faith.”
Iverson
seemed flummoxed. “How can that be? It’s a great
song. Gershwin’s one of America’s greatest composers.”
“He
was a Jew, did you know that?”
Iverson
shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t realize… Is that
why the theme song is offensive?”
“Of
course. That is the reason more Muslims don’t fly the Friendly
Skies. I am proposing you look at the work of Frank
Zappa. There is music worthy of your great
corporation. Also, my cousin Eltaeb sings and plays the piano.”
“Did
Dweezil send you?”
“I
am here on behalf of the American Arab League to Promote Peace and
Understanding.”
“Well
I want to thank you for bringing this to our attention, Mr. Ben Jaild.”
“Sheik.”
Iverson
extended his hand. Sully gave him a dead fish
handshake. “No, I mean the proper term of address for you to use is
Sheik Ben Jaild.”
“Of
course.” Iverson reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a
large blue envelope. “Here’s a voucher for a round-trip first class
ticket anywhere within the United States and United Kingdom. We’ll
be in touch.”
Sheik
Hassan Ben Jaild rose to his feet, touched his forehead, solar plexus and
genitals with his right hand, and bid Iverson salaam.
He
was seated on the tarmac aboard the return flight to Boston when Gershwin’s
mood music abruptly ceased. Shortly thereafter a muzak version of
“Hey Jude” began to play. Sully smiled, pulled out his iPod, and
cued up the Leonard Bernstein version of “Rhapsody in Blue.”
On Writing
ON WRITING
Writers are people who have to write. They write every day. They don’t talk about it, they do it. People who don’t write every day are not serious writers. All right. Five days a week, minimum. This is about writing comic books, but it applies to all fiction.
You must know your craft, the rules of grammar, how to conjugate a verb. Don’t get nervous. Most of you already know this without the fancy labels. I see, you see, he sees. It is part of your instinctive grasp of English. Everyone needs a little book of rules. For the writer, it is Elements of Style by Strunk and White. This slim volume has been in continuous publication since 1935. It takes an hour to read and is quite droll. Buy a used copy. Do not get the illustrated version. It has been bowdlerized in the name of pc.
All good fiction, whether comics or otherwise, is built around character. We humans are mostly interested in our own kind. The more interesting your protagonist, the better your story. Stories start with people. The TV show House on Fox is a perfect example. Hugh Laurie’s character is so thorny and unpredictable people tune in week after week out of fascination with his personality. Same thing with Batman, since Denny O’Neil straightened him out. Prior to O’Neil, Batman wandered from mood to mood, often “humorous,” seldom entertaining. Denny made Batman a self-righteous obsessive/compulsive. Obsession is always interesting.
While it’s possible to grow a great story out of pure plot, sooner or later it will hinge on the characters of your protagonists. “Character is destiny” holds true in fiction as well as life. Know who your characters are before you start writing. Some writers construct elaborate histories for each character before they begin. It is not a bad idea. Start with people then add the plot. Get a bulletin board. Write each character’s name and salient characteristics on a 3 X 5 card and tack it to the bulletin board. You can do the same with plot points. You can move characters and plot points around to alter your chronology.
What is plot? It’s a dynamic narrative with a beginning, middle, and end. It’s like a good pop song. It has to have a hook. Sometimes that hook is simply the narrator’s voice. Huckleberry Finnsucceeds mostly on the strength of Huck’s voice, by which I mean the way he presents words. In other words, it’s not the meat, it’s the motion. It’s not what you say, it’s the way that you say it. Huck comes alive through his words, which are fresh and immediate. We feel we know Huck. Same thing with Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe. It’s that world-weary, cynical with a heart-of-gold voice whispering in your ear. “He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.” Chandler also said, “A good story cannot be devised, it has to be distilled.” In other words, start with character and let character find the plot.
Comic writers think visually. No matter how bad our chops we can pretty much describe what we see in words. Some of us can even draw a little bit. I used to write comics by drawing every page out by hand—everything—all the tiny details, facial expressions, warped anatomy, half-assed perspective, all word balloons and captions. Editors and artists loved it. Why? Because they had everything they needed on one page instead of spread across three pages of single-spaced type. Some of the most successful writers in the industry write very densely. Each script is a phone book.
While drawing I became so immersed in the story I gave myself a spastic rhomboid muscle. Friends! Do not do what I did! Learn to draw properly. That means a drawing board, an ergonomically correct chair, and applying the pencil lightly to the paper. So much for art advice.
There is another advantage for writers who would draw each page. It forces you to confront issues of pacing, camera placement, and editing. It teaches you the natural pace of a story, when to break a scene, when to zoom in for a close-up, and when to pull way back for a two-page spread. Archie Goodwin and Harvey Kurtzman both used this method when writing comics for other artists. I’m not advocating such. Most of the best writers in this industry do not draw. If they do, they still write full script.
Even though you are only providing words, it is up to you to SHOW, DON’T TELL. This is the prime directive. What’s the dif? Tell: “The assassin drew a bead on Mac’s back and pulled the trigger.”
Show: “Mac stared at the wall. He was still staring when a thirty foot giant slammed him in the back with a titanium driver. A creeping numbness radiated from his right shoulder followed by the gush of warm blood and the scent of sheared copper.” We don’t have to mention the assassin because obviously someone pulled the trigger.
When writing for comics, try to show as much as possible. A finicky man entering a public phone booth might pull out a handkerchief to wipe the receiver. Maybe he’s obsessive/compulsive. Maybe he carries a box of Sani-wipes with him everywhere. By showing this man wiping down the receiver, you have established something about his character.
Never describe what the reader can see for himself.
There’s no established format for comic scripts. You can’t go wrong by doing it as a film script. You don’t necessarily need a screenplay writing program, just write it like a play. What does a play look like? Brush up your Shakespeare. There are a lot of books out there on writing comics. I’ve contributed to some of them. It never hurts to read about writing. We’re all curious as to how other writers do it. Many aspiring writers have recommended Robert McKee’s Story as the way to go. While Story contains good advice, it is also egregiously padded and never uses a nickel when a fifty cent piece will do. Joe Esterhaz’ The Devil’s Guide to Hollywood is the anti-Story. If you read one, you must read the other.
There’s also Denny’s DC Comic’ Guide to Writing Comics, a no bullshit primer by one of the best.
There are no writing schools but there are many writing programs. College level courses on comic book writing are a bull market. I’d advise any struggling writer with a Master’s degree to head toward the local college. Run don’t walk. Nobody can teach you how to write. You either got it or you ain’t. But a good teacher can help you improve your writing. Famous novelists in residence offer a career shortcut to those who are determined to become novelists or screenwriters. Same old adage, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know.
James Hudnall has an essay on writing that comes and goes on James’ homepage like a mirage. Go to www.hameshudnall.com and say James, where’s that great column on writing at? Elmore Leonard has a few choice words on writing:
http://www.elmoreleonard.com/index.php?/weblog/more/elmore_leonards_ten_rules_of_writing/
