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Happy Day After Thanksgiving!

I hope you had a good day, even if you live in one of those evil countries like Canada where they don't celebrate Thanksgiving in November. I've always thought that Thanksgiving is an important holiday, but at the same time, I understand that a lot of countries are a lot less enlightened than is the United States, and for that I suppose I must be thankful for the Bush Administration's tendency to use American military power to ram the rightness of our way of life straight up their collective asses. Ya gotta love that.

In all sincerity, I do have a lot for which to be thankful. I'm married to a great woman and have two great kids. And we live in a decent house in a very nice neighborhood. And I have a pretty good job. I enjoy both the work and the people that work with me. This past year hasn't been the easiest year of my life, but even saying that, I feel like I do need to acknowledge all of the good things that have happened, too. For every down, there has been an up. On balance, it's been a challenge but a rewarding challenge. But then again, that's what life is... if you're lucky.

What with the holiday and all, I'm not sure how many folks are going to be reading today's column, so I've decided to cut it a little short. Actually, there will be plenty to read, but much of it won't be new. In re-writing my short story The Stone Priest's Wife, I've started adding in some stuff, with the result that it's becoming a novella more than an actual short story. So since that makes it virtually useless for commercial purposes, I'm going to put the first chapter here at the bottom of the page. If you want to read it and comment on it, have at it. I'd be more than happy to hear from you, either on email or at my hosted forum on the ASJ-41 website.

And by the way, as long as we're dealing with administrative issues, the mail forwarder from my PBR account hasn't been working too well for me lately. So that means that if you've tried to email me at dan@paperbackreader.com, I probably didn't get your email. And that means that I need to do something I didn't want to do, which is give you my permanent email address. It's danthead (at) optonline (dot) net.

Let the spamming commence.

THE KILLER #1

Illustrated and translated by Luc Jacamon

Written by Matz

Published in America by Archaia Studios Press, 32 pages for $3.95

Originally published in France and Belgium by Casterman

The Killer is a new ten-issue mini series from the fine folks as ASP comics. Originally published by Casterman in Europe, ASP acquired the rights to this fine graphic novel and re-imagined it as a 10-issue mini series for mature readers here in the US. Good idea. This is a great series with really terrific art. In this first issue, we're introduced to a hired killer who's on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Having had to wait on his most recent target by himself for nine full, lonely days, he's had more time for uninterrupted introspection than any morally repugnant personal really ought to take. Thus, we find out that his job is basically simple: he kills rich guys for other rich guys. And though he tells us over and over again that he doesn't have a problem with it, the sheer number of times that point is made begins to gives us a pretty good idea that he's not trying to convince us. He's trying to convince himself.

If you've never heard of Casterman, they are the publishers of Tin Tin and any number of other very successful, world famous brands. They're right up their with Marvel and DC in terms of penetration in their own markets, even if they haven't yet broken in over here in America. I first heard that Casterman was looking to license some popular European graphic novels to the US market at the NYC Comic Con last February. At the time, Proletariat Comics was a going concern, and we strongly considered participating in the program because it offered us a chance to put out some really great product with relatively little investment. I personally thought it would be an ideal way to introduce (or perhaps re-introduce) our brand to a skeptical market. Sadly, we weren't able to take advantage of the opportunity, but I'm far from surprised that somebody did, and more to the point, that somebody is somebody smart. I've been a big fan of both ASP's books and their strategy for awhile. Here again they've proven that they know a good thing when they see one. Regardless of what this title does as a mini series, it's already done, and it's guaranteed to ship on time, and I'm quite sure it will find a following in the bookstore market. To me, that's a nice opportunity. They've bypassed the worst of the industry's risks.

The best thing about getting a comic this way is that the product you're getting is a really, really great product. Few mature readers comics are drawn by guys getting paid enough to take the time to do the job right, but this one is. The artwork here is simply fantastic. This is a dense story that nevertheless isn't rushed. Matz and Jacamon take their time and do it right. Thus, in the pacing and execution, this is a welcome change from what we're accustomed to as American comic readers. This story isn't decompressed at all. Nor is it a product of some guys trying to tell a story in too few pages. The story is what it, and the pacing is what it needs to be to tell that story in the best way possible. If you don't know what I mean by that, pick up the book and check it out. It's kind of miraculous that way.

ASP is the company that publishes the best no-punches-pulled comics on the market. They tell the stories that they want to tell, and if that pisses people off then that's too bad. Artesia is like that. Robotika was like that. Hell, even Mouseguard is like that, in its own way. The Killer fits right in with the rest of their brand. And like the rest of their brand, it's excellent. Really, truly excellent. It's a Comic You Should Be Reading if you like hard-hitting comics that don't dumb it down. This is a great book. Don't miss it.

The Stone Priest's Wife, Chapter 1

Modor circled to his right. He watched the distance carefully and tried to stay light on his feet. Punja came in again, faster than before, seeking to sweep Modor’s leg. Modor was ready for it. He jabbed twice, snapping the little man’s head back with each blow. The crowd roared. But though the jabs rocked Punja, he ducked and danced easily away from Modor’s follow-on combination punches. The mob roared, demanding tribute in blood, but Modor knew his jabs hadn’t done any good. Punja still looked light and mean. The little man was clearly ready to fight for another hour if that was what it took to wear Modor down.

Modor liked to fight. He liked to hit things and feel them break. He liked the sounds that his fists made when they pounded wet flesh, and he liked the feeling of power that he got from crushing an opponent’s will to resist. He never felt more alive than when he was standing in the center of a square ring, a dingy canvas floor beneath his feet, preferably spattered with the blood of his enemies. Bald and battered, Modor had the face of a fighter, and the crowd loved him for it. They loved his bent nose and his clubbed ears just as they loved his thick neck, his bulging shoulders, and his seemingly limitless capacity for physical violence. Modor felt their love. Around the ring, the throng roared. Highborn and commoner mixed in a cacophony of color and sound and cheap cigar smoke in seats that ascended from the floor all around the ring. Before the fight had begun, Modor had been able to see individual faces, but in the midst of combat things were different. The mob became a single living, palpable thing. The power of its Bishop and its intensity buffeted him and lifted him above the level of his everyday life, so that he became more than he was. He knew in his heart that this was where he belonged.

Unfortunately, Punja was just the wrong sort of opponent. Small and fast and possessed of both an iron chin and an indomitable will, Punja was a grappler from the highlands of Pinot Tar. He stood a mere five and half feet tall, but what he lacked in reach, he more than made up in wiry stamina. For four straight rounds he had taken the best that Modor had thrown at him without flinching before settling in to wear the larger man down. It was a strategy that Modor knew had a good chance of working if he let it. Despite the fact that sweat flowed freely across Punja’s chest, the man showed no sign of tiring. He had come prepared to fight a protracted struggle against a much larger opponent, and now, seven rounds into the bout, Modor was starting to feel it in his arms and chest. Given enough time, Punja would wear Modor down and eventually shoot the leg. Then it would be over.

Modor was aware of his strengths. He was a brawler. If he could land a solid combination, then he knew he could finish Punja, iron chin or no, but even after seven rounds, he still hadn’t been able to score more than a few stiff jabs. And though he didn’t want to take a chance that might allow Punja to get in close, he also couldn’t afford to let the fight drag on forever, and that was just what it was starting to do. The roaring crowd buoyed Modor, but it wouldn’t sustain him forever.

Modor knew he needed to change the dynamic, and he needed to do it quickly. He slid forward and jabbed vigorously, not merely looking an opening this time but actually trying to create one. Punja ducked and landed a jab of his own, but Modor barely felt it. Instead, he closed the distance, trading more blows for the hope of an opening until punches fell in a staccato rhythm that whipped the crowd into a frenzy. But Punja’s defense was impenetrable. The mountain man ducked and weaved between blows, accepting a few glancing shots but avoiding everything Modor threw with any force. Soon found himself breathing hard and working just to stay on his feet.

Modor danced back, narrowly avoiding another leg-sweep and firing off a straight right that would have taken Punja’s head had it connected. But Punja stepped inside, launching a knee-strike into Modor’s torso that would have leveled most men. Modor let the blow come, exchanging a kick to the gut for the chance to land an uppercut that exploded into Punja’s jaw and made him stagger. Modor followed through with a straight right that he knew would end the fight. But Punja wasn’t there. Instead, he’d grabbed Modor’s leg at last. Suddenly Modor was in trouble.

They fell to the canvas in a heap, and the crowd came to its feet. Punja scrambled over Modor’s legs, looking to turn his momentary advantage into a decisive one. He hooked one of Modor’s ankles in a powerful grip and twisted. Pain shot up Modor’s leg. But if Punja had the advantage, he couldn’t move while he exploited it. And in that moment, Modor knew he wouldn’t be denied. Despite the pain, he hammered Punja relentlessly. Modor landed blow after blow even as Punja tried to wrench Modor's ankle and snap it in two. But no one, no matter how solid his jaw, could stand up to the pounding that Modor delivered in those few seconds. One moment, Punja had the fight won. The next he was lying bloody on the canvas like so much crushed meat.

On his own, Modor might not have made it to his feet. But the mob’s roaring approval sustained him. It lifting him up until he stood howling with it, his arms raised in triumph above his head. He was Modor. He was victorious.

Alaira waited until well after the fight was over before she went to see him. Modor was always a proud man, but he could be intolerable after a fight, and anyway, Alaira had no desire at all to be around the innumerable hangers-on that always crowded a champion. She knew that he would start to come to his senses once the mob had gone and only the bruises remained. He’d start to feel weak and tender, and she’d be there to take care of him.

Alaira headed down the stairs towards the trainer’s area and smiled. Save for the occasional fighter packing up his gear, the place was deserted. In a way, it was almost sad. The promise and the anticipation of violence had gone away, and all that was left was the wreckage of men trying to pick up the pieces in the aftermath.

She took a moment to straighten her dress and to make sure that she was as presentable as she could be. The dress was a red silk number she’d bought with the proceeds from their last job. She knew she looked good in it. It hugged her waist nicely, and the slit up the side allowed her to show her legs to their best advantage. She was athletic more than buxom, and though she would never be classically beautiful, she knew Modor appreciated her, and that was what mattered. Plus, her shoulder-length brown hair was combed over to one side and lightly curled the way he liked it, and happily, the curl seemed to be holding despite the locker room’s oppressive humidity. Of course, there was little she could do about the scar on her right cheek, but then again, Modor had scars, too. That was one of the reasons she liked him so much.

Alaira opened the door to Modor’s private training room and frowned. He was already deep in conversation. Alaira shook her head with mingled humor and frustration. She recognized the woman Modor was speaking to and wondered if he had lost his mind.

The woman was actually barely more than a girl in every way save for her poise. She had large almond shaped blue eyes, straight black hair, and full lips. A sky-blue translucent robe covered her body, but it was opened down the front to her waist and just barely long enough to be fit for polite conversation. Even where it covered her skin, its sheer fabric made little effort to protect her modesty. It revealed more than enough to grab attention without quite giving away all its mysteries. To make matters worse, the girl had the graceful, plentiful curves of well-fed youth. She was soft and round in just the right places and firm in ways that only a young woman could be.

Thankfully, Modor saw Alaira a moment later and cut his conversation short. The girl smiled at Alaira and smiled as she left, and despite herself, Alaira smiled back. What the Hell? she thought. Modor always has had good taste.

“You’re insane. You know that, right?”

Alaira turned sharply and reached for the knife in her garter, but she relaxed when she realized it was only Belle. Alaira hadn’t noticed her, but that was hardly surprising. Belle could be like that. Instead, Alaira turned back to Modor and found him smiling.

“Insane is such a strong word,” he mused. “I am… aroused.”

Despite herself, Alaira laughed. Modor Ulgoth was a natural monstrosity. Standing nearly seven feet tall, he had bent, cornered ears and a single protruding incisor that marked him clearly as a demi-human. Plus, he had a crooked nose and he was bald. Yet for all that, the man, if a person with that much infernal blood in his veins could even be called a man, was not without his charms. He possessed a ready smile and an easy, self-deprecating wit in addition to the kind of chiseled musculature that made women swoon. Alaira had been disappointed but hardly surprised to find him already in conversation with a woman after his triumph in the ring, even one as striking as the one in the blue robe had been.

“Do you know who that was?” Alaira asked.

“Of course,” Modor replied, grinning wider. “Don’t you?”

“Gods,” Alaira said, “You really are insane. Cindar Belam is not going to be happy when he learns you’ve been ogling his newest trophy wife.”

Modor settled into a wicker-backed chair and put both hands behind his head contentedly. “By the time I’m through with her, my ogling will be the least of his worries. Trust me. I dare say that he’ll be more than merely unhappy… if he ever finds out.”

Alaira shook her head, but she wasn’t surprised. “When are you meeting her?” she asked.

“Tonight. It’s a new moon, and she seemed anxious.” He shrugged.

Alaira grunted. “I should go with you,” she said sarcastically.

Modor turned. “Do you want to?” he asked. His smile broadened. “I’d thought to make it a tête-à-tête, but as you saw, the lady is a vixen. I’m sure she’d be up for something more.”

Alaira blushed and looked away. “That’s not what I meant,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Modor asked, getting up from his chair. He cupped Alaira’s face in his hands. All trace of mocking vanished from his voice. “I think she would like you. And I would love to share her with you.” He paused for a moment and then added, “That’s a lovely dress, by the way.”

Alaira's blush deepened, and she pulled away, but even as she did so, she knew that a part of her really wanted to go. She had been very much looking forward to spending the night with Modor, and it would be hard to go completely unfulfilled after the anticipation of it. And more to the point, she could only imagine the antics of Modor Ulgoth turned loose in the bed-chamber of Cindar Belam’s youngest wife. Despite his vow of celibacy, the Bishop of the Stone God was known to keep his harem well-stocked.

Belle ended Alaira’s daydreaming abruptly. “I will go,” she said.

“You will?” Modor turned, his eyebrows raised in amazement.

Alaira stared at the other woman in open-mouthed shock. As ugly in her own way as Modor was beautiful, Alaira thought Belle to be one of the oddest creatures in the Known World. She was more than just thin, and like their erstwhile leader, Belle too had a bare scalp, though in her case it was bare because she shaved it, except at the back of her head where she wore a dirty ponytail of red hair tied closely in a knot. The effect was disconcerting, especially when coupled with eyes that often seemed to protrude nearly out of her skull. Her appearance was accentuated by the fact that Belle was exceedingly standoffish. On the rare occasions when she spoke, Alaira reflected, Belle always seemed to say something shocking.

Even stranger than her appearance was the fact that Belle had been with Modor for years. Modor had found her when she was a teenager, studying to be a monk in the Temple of the Bull God at the base of the Alacian Moutains. Alaira didn’t know why Belle had chosen to leave the monastery to follow a half-demon warlord, nor did she know what Modor had seen in Belle all those years ago that had made him want to associate with her for as long as he had, but she did know that their friendship was one of the central facets in each of her friends’ lives. Still it was difficult to imagine a more mismatched pair. After two years of traveling with Modor and Belle, Alaira knew many things about Modor but almost nothing about Belle. She didn’t even know Belle’s favorite color.

Modor took Belle’s comment in stride. He hoisted her into the air at arms length and smiled. It was very much the gesture of an affectionate parent for a much beloved child.

“Belle, my dear, I would never share you,” he said. “When you finally find your way into my bed, believe me, you will have my complete attention for as long as you wish to command it.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Belle replied in a voice devoid of emotion. She squirmed free of Modor’s of grasp without effort. “I want to make sure that you don’t get yourself killed.”

“Ha!” Modor said, and he chuckled. “You just want to watch.”

Belle shrugged. “Someone needs to.”

Alaira agreed completely. “She’s right, Modor.” She patted her huge friend on the shoulder. “You’re pretty good in a fight, but you couldn’t sneak past a blind man in a mid-day bazaar. How are you planning to get into the Bishop’s compound, anyway?”

“You don’t think I can do it?” Modor asked. He began to pull on a heavy black cotton work shirt. “I’m going to wear dark clothes and stick to the shadows. Isn’t that what you do?”

Alaira chuckled. “There’s a bit more to it than that,” she said, “but at least you have the basic idea. Still… make sure you take a weapon, preferably a small one.”

“I was planning to take Fang. You know, in case there’s some close-in work.”

Alaira slapped her forehead. “Can’t you just wear a dagger or something? Maybe take a pistol or two?”

Fang was Modor’s much-beloved hand-and-a-half sword. With two runes and a five-foot blade of black goblin-steel, it was a magnificent weapon, but it was neither quick nor quiet. Only a seven-foot demi-human could have considered it appropriate for close-in work.

“Should I wear a dress, too?” Modor retorted. He pounded his chest. “Phaw! What do you know of it? I’m a man. I will wear a man’s weapon.”

“Just promise me you’ll be careful, okay?” Alaira asked.

“You humans worry too much,” Modor said in feigned exasperation. “A night of a thousand pleasures awaits me, and all you two can do is fret over my safety. I’ll be fine. You’ll see.” Modor smiled. “Go find Xarian and worry over him. He should be deep in his cups by now and will appreciate your company more, I’m sure.”

With that Modor finished dressing and walked off into the night. The city of Brega called to him, and he was off to seek his fortune, for better or for worse. A few moments later, Belle got up and followed.

Alaira shrugged. She would see them both again in the morning, she was sure. In the meantime, perhaps Modor was right. Perhaps Xarian would appreciate a little company.

Stray Voltage

So that's the first chapter of my little novella. If there's interest, I'll run the rest. And if there's not, then I won't. It's up to you.

Other than that, I hope you have a great weekend. I'll be back next week. Until then, stay safe.

***

Dan Head is a utilities analyst and occasional freelance writer. He ate turkey in pomegranate juice for Thanksgiving, and it was wonderful.

To learn more about Dan and his work, check out his MySpace page or his hosted forum, DannoE's Den of Dastardly Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap), on the ASJ-41 website. If you want to get your book reviewed here, you can contact Dan at danthead (at) optonline (dot) net.