Almost Christmas

Well, we have what, 7 days until Christmas?

I'm sure all of you have finished your shopping and are completely prepared in every way imaginable. I personally have to wait until the very, very last minute, as no one in my family can actually verbalize what they want.

There's a lot of 'oh, I don't really want anything' or 'no, you don't need to spend money on me' or 'you being here is gift enough.' This is obviously baloney and we all know it, but we say it anyway (it's a tradition).

This means that on the 23rd or so, there will be frantic flurry of phone calls, as people demand to know what the hell everyone else wants. We then, begrudgingly, tell each other and then we storm the malls to find the Deluxe Fairy Barbie with Detachable Kitten Cannon that Really Fires.

This will obviously be sold out, so we get the next best thing (Spontaneous Combustion Barbie) and hope it's the thought that counts.

Speaking of gifts, it would make Leigh and I very happy if you could take the time to vote for us. It's the gift that keeps on giving, provided you do it every day :)

Look for the usual blogs and posts next week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Tinfoil and Togas: Part 2

So after the mandatory 24 hours of psychiatric observation, I was set free. I immediately went to the nearest grocery store and purchased $40 in ingredients. Once I got home, I realized I’d simply bought 10 boxes of Lucky Charms, so I went back again (10 boxes would only last about 3 days, after all).

I then bought a whole bunch of other stuff that could conceivably go into a burrito bowl. I got several different kinds of cheese, copious amounts of rice, some spices, ketchup, beans, 9mm ammo, tin foil, a tiny shovel, and several other things I probably shouldn’t have.

Oh, yeah. Chicken. Like, 5 pounds.

I got home, spread my purchases out on the counter and stared at them for a while. I would like to say I was waiting for some artistic inspiration or something like that, but in truth I didn’t really know what to do. I picked up a can of beans and placed it atop the chicken. This seemed like a start, so I quickly built a little food pyramid. It was rather impressive, if I do say so myself, but it still wasn’t turning into anything edible.

It was time to get serious.

First of all, I needed the proper attire. I don’t own an apron, so I grabbed an old sheet and made a toga. I then made and donned a tinfoil hat. This was mostly for the look, but also just in case the chicken tried to use some sort of mind-control powers on me.

NOTE: Yes, I know the chicken was already dead. That just meant it might be a Chicken Lich, hence the precautionary hat.

Now, thusly clad for battle, I got a machete, a hammer, seven feet of rope and set about opening everything and putting it into the largest pan I could find. My oven is apparently ancient, as it had no ‘make edible’ setting, so I picked a random temperature and set it to ‘Bake’ or ‘Clean’ or something. I’m not really sure which.

In went the pan, I set the timer for 87 minutes (give or take) and then wandered off to watch whatever happened to be on the Military Channel.

It was around three hours later that I noticed the smell. After a quick check to make sure the ninjas hadn’t set me on fire again, I followed my nose (it always knows) to the kitchen, where I discovered smoke pouring out of the oven. I had forgotten to actually set the timer, you see.

Which takes us back to the beginning. My magnificent pan of burrito bowl fixin’s was now a thick, black rock that tasted terrible, regardless of the amount of ketchup I put on it.

I like to think I learned a lesson that Sunday. Something meaningful about hope and charity and the boundless joy and beauty found in nature. Or something. In reality, I just learned that while I can’t cook, I look really, really good in a toga.

The tinfoil hat works too.

Cheers,
-Jason

Tinfoil and Togas: Part 1

Last Sunday found me in the kitchen wearing a toga and a tinfoil hat. I was wearing the toga because I don’t own an apron. I was wearing the hat because I wanted to feel stylish. I was wearing both items because I was attempting to cook.

‘Attempt’ is the proper word, as the pan in front of me was covered in a thick, black, charred substance that at one time had been a chicken. Smoke was rising and for once I was thankful that the ninjas had replaced my smoke alarm with a fugu fish.

NOTE: I don’t quite know why they did it. I can only surmise that they assumed I wouldn’t notice it was a fugu fish when I went to change the battery and I would somehow eat one of the poisonous bits. It was a cunning plan, foiled only because I don’t like seafood. Or generally eat bits of smoke detectors.

You see, Saturday for lunch I had a ‘burrito bowl,’ which is what you get when you dump everything that normally goes inside a burrito into a bowl. As I ate, I happened to notice what my burrito bowl consisted of: namely, chicken, cheese, corn, rice, beans, and some salsa.

And then I had an idea.

I could, given the proper tools and ingredients, make this myself. The next few minutes were kind of hazy. I may have shouted ‘Eureka!’ I may also have leaped onto the table and done some sort of dance. Said dance may have involved ‘groinal gyrations.’ As I mentioned earlier, I don’t really remember. I guess I’ll just have to check the police report.

Tomorrow: Part 2

Three Things

First off, I’d like to apologize to everyone within a ten-foot radius of my cubicle today. While the Triple-Beefy-Beany-Cheesy-Magnum-Burrito with extra jalapenos I had for lunch was delicious, the aftermath was not as pleasant.

Secondly, Cataclysm-itis seems to have cleared up and the studio is once again filled with happy, contended workers who seem to do nothing but talk about Cataclysm. I haven’t actually played yet, but I feel like I have. At some point, I’ll be able to rock a Tauren Paladin.

And third, please vote for us! We’ve dropped a bit in the rankings and I while I realize that many of you are visiting friends and relatives and are away from your computers, please feel free to log in on their computers and vote for us. And make us their home page.

Have a great weekend everyone. We will be back next week with our usual page updates and blogs.

Cheers,
-Jason

The ‘Flu’

I walked into work this morning like normal, punched a mime, got some water, checked my email, fed the orca, y’know, all the usual things one does at one’s place of work if one happens to be a complete psycho.

After about fifteen minutes, I noticed . . . something. It took me a while to figure it out. At first, I thought maybe it was the lack of screaming, but that wasn’t it. Then I wondered if the coffee robot had broken again and everyone was asleep at their desks, but that wasn’t it either. Then I realized what it actually was: everyone was gone.

Seriously.

This had happened before. Sometimes, an emergency meeting will be called early in the morning and the whole studio will be in the big meeting room. So I wandered over and checked. Nope, no one was there either.

I passed one of the other designers. He was hurrying out the door, his hat and coat on.

“Hey, Volpar” I said.

He barely glanced at me. “Sick,” he said. “Gotta go home.”

“Ah,” I said, making a sign to ward off the evil spirits that had infected him.

And then Volpar was out the door. Leaving me alone again.

I began to wonder if I was the last man in the studio, if not the last man on the planet.

NOTE: I once saw a French movie about a man who was the last man in the world. Eventually, he met the last girl and then she died. There might have been a dog too. Needless to say, it was not a happy film.

So I did what anyone of us would do, which is why thirty minutes later, when a producer wandered by, I was building a crude shelter out of office supplies and not wearing any pants.

“Yo,” the producer said.

“Hi,” I responded.

We stared at each other in silence for a moment. He had enough wisdom not to ask why I was trying to make fire by rubbing two staplers together.

“So,” I finally said. “I kinda assumed I was the only one here.” I gestured at my crude barrier of paper boxes. “This was in case zombies attacked.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “You do know what today is, don’t you?”

“Is it my birthday?”

“I have no idea. It’s December 7th.”

I shrugged.

“Cataclysm went live today. Everyone called in sick so they could stay home and play.”

“Ah,” I said. “Why are we still here?”

“Good question.”

Cheers,
-Jason

Dresses – Seriously

There have been a few questions regarding our lovely heroines getting fitted for dresses during the last few updates. They have ranged from ‘why do the dresses look like that?’ to ‘wait, what?’ to ‘WTF?’

So, here’s a quick history of dresses:

In the way olden days, nice dresses were made by hand to fit a particular (wealthy) woman. They measured, cut out the necessary shapes from the appropriate cloth, and then stitched the whole thing together. Obviously, if the woman in question gained or lost any weight, the whole thing would have to be taken in or let out as appropriate.

A bit later, (in just the olden days) the individual parts for the dresses were pre-cut and then they fitted them to the individual lady. This was much faster, but everything still had to be custom-fit. And yes, still limited to only those who could afford it.

Only in the last hundred or so years have dresses (and clothing in general) been ‘off-the-rack’ so to speak.

NOTE: If you’re an expert on clothing and are now furiously screaming at your computer for my massive generalities (or mistakes), please do not resort to violence.

So in the scenes you saw, Lily and Iri were getting the second version: pre-cut pieces were being pinned on for fitting and comparison. Those were not the finished dresses by any means. You’ll be seeing those in a bit.

In short: trust us, we’re nerds. We live for the details. Heated discussions have been had over how a helmet would buckle, what kind of hilt a sword should have, and who was the better Captain of the Enterprise.

So have a good weekend and look forward to a new page on Tuesday! And vote! Pretty please! And don’t ask how I know so much about women’s clothing!

Cheers,
-Jason

TMHLLDJYD for Short

I had yet another amazing idea for a show. Hold on, this will take a bit of back story.

Last week I went to visit my mother for Thanksgiving. It was a pretty average visit, all things considered. I showed up at her door and she took a shot at me. I went to the bathroom, she took a shot at me. I reached for the remote, she took a shot. You get the idea.

And yes, mother is a terrible shot.

Anyway, on Tuesday evening she insisted on watching the finale of Dancing with the Stars. I decided to go ahead and watch it with her, owing to the fact that she was armed. In short, it was a two-hour finale with about ten minutes of actual dancing.

Now don’t get me wrong, the dancing was fun to watch. I found the majority of the show rather dull, but it did live up to the name: there were stars and they danced. A bit.

The big problem I had with the show was the fact that there were about a dozen gorgeous female dancers on hand, all of whom seemed to be at least three-quarters leg, and the show didn’t spend nearly enough time on them. I wanted to watch the pretty girls dance. A lot.

So here’s my idea: make a new show called Thirty Minutes of Hot, Long-Legged Dancers Just Y’know, Dancing. Or TMHLLDJYD for short. It would be much cheaper to produce, seeing as you wouldn’t need the judges, audience, stars, or honestly, much in the way of wardrobe.

Oh, and if you liked to watch the guys, we could have a companion show called . . . uh . . . Dancing . . . Guys. It could use the exact same set and come on right after. Everyone would get to watch the group they preferred and some would want to watch both, so bonus for them.

And ideally, the guys would distract my mother long enough for me to get away. She’s gonna get lucky one of these days and I’m a big fan of not bleeding.

Cheers,
-Jason

Blogs Sketchy

Hey all,

I apologize for the lack of blog updates this week, but we're going into crunch mode at work and it's hard to think of strange and/or humorous things after 10-12 hours. This will likely continue into next week, but I'll try and get at least one blog up.

In other news: our first week of two updates appears to be a success, in so much that no one has complained that two is 'too many.' Though if you desperately want us to go back to one a week, please let us know. We value all your opinions.

Also, please take the time to vote for us. It's the little blue button just to the right of the comic. Just get in the habit of clicking on that when you're done with the comic or blog, if you wouldn't mind. Those votes help us keep the site running and a steady stream of Wayfarer's Moon coming out.

Have a great weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

Bellingham Comicon: After Action Report

First of all, let me note that the actual con was not in Bellingham, but in Ferndale. Curious, I looked up the city’s website was helpfully informed that ‘post apocalyptic biker gangs are rarely seen in Ferndale.’ This, I thought, was incredibly valuable information. We have to pack so much into the car, including anti-zombie kits, anti-vampire kits, anti-lycanthrope kits, and a flamethrower (just in case), that it was nice not to have to include the anti-post apocalyptic biker gang kit.

Sadly, the webpage lied, but more on that later.

To our left was Shannon Devine of Psychedelic Circumstances and to our right was John Lustig of Last Kiss. Many of our usual con buddies were also there. Artist Jason Metcalf was there, as was Quenton Shaw of QEW Publishing. Brian Randolph was also there representing the Hero Initiative, a fantastic charity for comic veterans. And last but not least, Travis and Ash from Creator’s Edge Press were just a couple tables down

The con went pretty well. It was a smaller con, but there was a pretty good turnout, post apocalyptic bikers notwithstanding. We talked to a lot of cool folks and had a good time. Leigh even proclaimed the bbq covered hot dog he had for lunch as the ‘best bbq covered hot dog I’ve had since breakfast.’

Sadly, we should have included our anti-post apocalyptic biker gang kit, because when we left the hall, we found ourselves quickly surrounded by a group of leather-clad desert-mutants who demanded meatloaf. Normally, we would have used our anti-post apocalyptic biker gang kit on them, but instead, we just gave them the meatloaf. It just seemed simpler that way.

NOTE: The city of Ferndale does not have a problem with post apocalyptic biker gangs. I’m sure Ferndale is a lovely place, filled with hard-working, industrious, and good-looking citizens. Please feel free to visit Ferndale secure in the knowledge that you won’t be attacked by post apocalyptic biker gangs.

Just a quick note: If you haven’t noticed, Wayfarer’s Moon is now updating twice a week! We’re now posting on Tuesdays and Thursdays! And please vote for us! We have more meatloaf! I’m not kidding!

Cheers,
-Jason

Now Updating Tuesdays and Thursdays!

Good news, everyone!

We will now be updating Tuesdays and Thursdays.

That's right! You will now be able to get Wayfarer's Moon twice a week!

Tune in to see Iri and Lily battle the forces of evil! There will be magic! Mayhem! Double digit body counts! And shopping!

And if you can, vote before you go! It's the little blue button just to the right of the comic. Voting helps keep us afloat, so please do it as often as you can.

Thank you all for reading!

Cheers,
-Jason and Leigh

Bellingham Comicon

Greeting and salutations!

First off, just a quick reminder that we will be at the Bellingham Comicon this Saturday. I plan on wearing a dapper ensemble of a black Wayfarer's Moon t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. I might wear a black overshirt or a sweater, should the weather be incliment. I realize I'll be slightly overdressed for the occasion, but that is the price of fashion.

I don't know what Leigh will be wearing, but I'm sure it will likewise be stunning.

At any rate, there will be a cadre of talented artists, writers, inkers, colorists, letterers, madmen, and comicmongers there, so I encourage all of you to come and say 'hello.'

And regarding Single Edge Studios, look for an announcement next week that I'm sure will delight you all.

Have a safe and pleasant weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

El Payaso: Part 5

The mime staggered, his hands going to his stomach. He veered first to the left, then to the right, staring at the imaginary blood on his hands. With a silent scream he slowly sunk to the floor, twitching a bit before growing still, his eyes still wide with shock and horror.

He then jumped back to his feet and charged us, shouting some sort of wordless mime battle cry. At which point the Dame shot him in the stomach and he did more or less the same thing he’d just done, save that he actually died.

I was in a corner with the Dame. I had a chair at the ready and was bludgeoning anyone who got to close, while she shot the occasional mime. All in all, it was a strangely quiet chaos.

The ninjas fought almost silently, save for the occasional yell. The mimes were true to form and made no sound, even as they took horrible injuries. The clowns were the noisiest, what with their beeping noses and air horns, but they too made relatively few sounds. If it weren’t for the fact that people were being strangled by their own intestines, you’d have thought it was a particularly strange bit of modern dance.

“All in all,” the Dame said, as she reloaded. “This isn’t too bad.”

A clown staggered by, a shuriken stuck in his forehead, but just when he managed to pull it out, a mime ran him through with an imaginary spear.

“Compared to what?” I asked, ducking as a balloon grenade exploded nearby. “We need to get out of here.”

“Why, it looks like the clowns are winning?”

It was true. The ninja reinforcements hit the mimes first and there was a great slaughter on both sides, ninja-tos and imaginary axes thudding into flesh, red blood mingling with the black and white. The clowns hit them both in a great charge of oversize shoes and dingy top hats.

“But look at the box.”

The box containing the gall bladder was imbedded in the wall from when a clown threw it through a ninja. It was starting to vibrate.

“Is that bad?”

“Relatively speaking: yes. If that gall bladder goes, it’ll take the whole building with it.”

“Then perhaps,” she said, as she took a shot at a ninja and missed. “We should leave?”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But there’s a small battle going on in front of us.”

“Then why don’t we use the exit door directly behind us?”

I turned and found that the exit door was indeed directly behind us. A spleen splattered against it as I looked. Thirty seconds later, we were well across the street. The Dame offered to get us both ice-cream, so I settled down to watch the battle.

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the double scoop of Sticky Chewy Chocolate. “The gall bladder’s going to go any minute now.”

“Probably,” she said, as she nibbled at her single scoop of strawberry.

We watched in silence for a minute, wincing at the occasionally extra savage blow or ducking when a mime cut loose with an imaginary submachine gun.

“You know,” said the Dame. “I feel like I should apologize.”

“For what? Shooting me in the leg?”

“No, for poisoning your ice-cream.”

I sighed. “Is this going to be a running theme with us?”

“Probably.”

And then I passed out.

I was home when I woke up. Nothing seemed out of place, save for the small card on my kitchen counter. It was white and had a picture of a harlequin on it. When I turned it upside down, it read ‘We’re not done yet.’

I sighed, tossed the card back onto the counter, and then went to see if any cartoons were on.

Cheers,
-Jason

El Payaso: Part 4

I couldn’t think of anything to say. We sat in silence, as the mariachi version of the 1812 Overture thundered out of the speakers on the wall. A tumbleweed rolled by. Someone across the street yelled “Yahtzee!” In all likelihood, somewhere on the planet a piano exploded.

“I don’t much care for mimes,” I finally said.

“Who does?”

“No,” I continued. “I really, really don’t like mimes.” I took a deep breath. “It all started back in pre-school. A mime came to visit the class.” As I spoke, the room defocused and the 1812 Overture began to fade. “It was supposed to be a regular day. A normal day. A happy day. We were going to make macaroni ducks. Then every-“

I jumped at the gunshot. The Dame was pointing her .38 in the air, a curl of smoke rising from the barrel. “I don’t have time for a full flashback,” she said. “Just give me the quick version.”

“The mime locked me in an invisible box and I cried.”

“Good. The clowns appreciate enthusiasm.”

I shook my head. “I never said I was going to help.”

She smiled. “You think you have a choice?”

“After-school specials taught me that I always have a choice.”

The Dame leaned forward. “They lied.” She reached down to her purse and pulled it into her lap. “The clowns thought you might be reluctant,” she said, as she pulled out a small white box. “So they gave me this.” She placed the box on the table, turning the latch side towards me. There was a picture of a harlequin on the lid.

I flipped the top open. Inside was a small, grayish object. It looked kind of like a deflated sack. I flipped the top shut. “Very funny,” I said.

“No joke,” she responded. “You just assumed the gall bladder you found in the bathroom was yours. It wasn’t. This,” she said, tapping the box, “is.”

There was a noise from the kitchen, as if a can had fallen off a shelf. Neither the Dame nor I looked, as our gazes were locked on one another. Then a red balloon wafted out and over the counter. It slowly sank to the floor from a slow leak, flattening into a small red pool.

“You clowns play hard ball,” I finally said.

“Oh, I’m not a clown,” she responded. “I’m just an idiot who had an organ problem.”

“Then I’ll make you a deal,” I said.

“What could you possibly have that I’d want?”

“Well,” I began as I folded my napkin and put it on the table. “My guess is that our ninja waiter just took out a clown in the kitchen. Ninjas and clowns always travel in packs, so a fight is inevitable. On top of that, we haven’t seen a paper airplane in a few minutes, so that means the mimes are moving. And once the smell of blood hits the air, that gall bladder’s going to go ballistic. We’re about to be in the middle of a four-way ninja, clown, mime, gall bladder battle.”

The Dame froze, eyes going to the kitchen and back.

“What do you say? You want a partner for this dance or are you gonna try it solo?”

Tomorrow: The Finale!

The Little Things

Sometimes, I don't think we stop enough to consider the little things in life. Things like the way the sun hits my apartment window in the morning, casting a single ray of light across my room. The way my truck shudders when I'm at a stop light. And the fact that this weekend is Halloween and you can buy a ginormous bag of candy for roughly 10 bucks.

Personally, it's all about the candy corn. Sure, they're nothing but wax and sugar (and probably more sugar), but I can eat metric tons of them. I don't like them so much the next day, granted, but they're mighty fine going down.

Now if I could only come up with some sort of 'Peeps and Candy Corn' creation, all my seasonal goodies would meld into one massive, heart-stopping creation. And I literally mean 'heart-stopping.'

Be safe and enjoy the holiday.

Cheers,
-Jason

El Payaso: Part 3

The Dame’s right eyebrow went up by a fraction of an inch. “Really?”

“’yep.”

“How can you be sure?”

“How many Tex-Mex-Chinese placed do you know serve sake at the correct temperature?”

“Good point.” She frowned. “This could be a problem.”

“Oh, goody,” I said, leaning back in my chair. Yet another paper airplane wafted by. This one said ‘I’m walking against the wind.’ “So, back to my original question: what does the clown mafia want?”

The Dame took a deep breath. “Let me be frank. The clown mafia is in trouble. A war’s coming and they’re not sure they can handle it.”

“How big a war, Frank?”

There was a muffled ‘bang’ from under the table. “That was a just a warning,” she said. “Any more stupid jokes and you can kiss a kneecap goodbye.”

“That wasn’t a warning,” I said. I was particularly proud of how evenly I managed to say it.

“What do you mean?”

“You winged me.”

The Dame looked under the table and then straightened up. “Perhaps a band-aid?”

I shook my head. “I just need to say a bad word and put pressure on it.” I pressed my other calf against the new flesh wound. “Crap. My dad was corpsman,” I said by way of explanation. “Anyway, Fr- nice lady, who could scare the clowns.”

She leaned close. “There’s only one group that’d scare them this bad: mimes.”

Tomorrow: Part 4

El Payaso: Part 2

“It’s complicated,” she said, as she motioned to the waiter.

He shambled over, feet scraping loudly on the tile floor. He was a big man, in a Hawaiian shirt and a white apron. A Mariner’s ball cap was pulled low over his eyes and he barely looked at us.

“May I take your order?”

“Tofu and cheese enchilada for the lady. I’ll take a lunch size of the stir fry chicken fajitas.”

“Tofu and cheese enchilada and a stir fry chicken fajitas,” he repeated. “Anything to drink?”

“Water’s fine for me,” said the Dame.

“I’ll take a sake,” I said.

“Your order will be right out.” He shuffled away. Another paper airplane sailed past, embedding itself into the wall by the bathroom. ‘Help, I am in a box’ was written on the side. I ignored it.

“Well,” I said, tossing a tortilla chip into my mouth, missing, and having to fish it out of my shirt. “What do the Rubber Noses want?”

The Dame frowned. “You shouldn’t call them that. People that call them that have accidents.”

“What do they do? Beat them to death with rubber noses?”

“Actually, yes. Assuming the rubber nose is attached to a crowbar.”

The waiter shuffled over and placed my white bottle of sake down, along with a matching cup. He bowed slightly as he shuffled away.

“Big sake fan?” the Dame asked.

“Can’t stand the stuff,” I said, as I poured some out and stuck my finger in it.

“And what are you doing?”

“Checking the temperature.” I wiped my finger off. “Did you happen to bring a gun?”

“My .38 is actually pointed at you under the table.”

“Good, ‘cause our waiter’s a ninja.”

Next week: Part 3!

El Payaso: Part 1

“I don’t much care for guacamole,” I said, pushing the dish away. We were the only two customers in El Payaso, a dimly-lit Tex-Mex-Chinese place that also did donuts. Behind the counter, a tall, thin man in a sombrero was standing motionless. “What’s his problem,” I asked, jerking a thumb at the man behind counter.

“That’s a skeleton,” said the Dame. “Y’know, Halloween?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” I shrugged. “So, let’s get down to business.”

We eyed each other across the table, as a mariachi version of ‘My Sharona,’ the 1979 hit from the Knack played in the background. It was, all things considered, pretty good. The Dame was dressed in a conservative dark suit that left everything to the imagination. It was so concealing it actually bent light around it. I was wearing jeans and an anime t-shirt, just to show I meant business.

“You go first,” she finally said, as she toyed with a cardboard coaster. It had a picture of a parrot with a machete on it that reminded me of the ‘parrot and machete’ stand my grandpa ran back in the old country (Chicago).

“Nah,” I replied with a shake of my head. “I’ve been to this dance before. Last time I got knocked in the head with a trophy and woke up next to a guy peeing.”

“You wanted a tango, you got a tango.”

“I don’t recall asking you to lead.”

“You seemed desperate for a partner.”

“Maybe I just wanted a waltz? A simple box step.”

She frowned and tapped her coaster on the table. A paper airplane floated by. It had a dirty word written on it. “I’m completely out of dancing metaphors,” she finally said.

“You could go with something like ‘you were in the wrong ballroom’ or something.”

“Why don’t we pretend that we had a good ten minutes of witty dancing repartee and get on with it?”

“Fine.” I cleared my throat. “I’m going to have the stir fry chicken fajitas.”

“Tofu and cheese enchilada,” she said.

“Now that we have that out of the way,” I said. “What does the clown mafia want?”

Tomorrow: Part 2

Doom!

I'm going to play D&D this weekend. My very good buddy Sean is running a campaign and I'm playing an Illusionist for the first time.

NOTE: This is AD&D with lots of home brewed rules. Yeah. We're old.

You see, the thing is, I just got to 3rd level and will now be wreaking illusory DOOM on everyone and everything. I've got 10 hit points, 6 useable spells, and some major havoc on my mind.

This is, of course, a joke. I'm going to hide in the back and maybe cast a spell if I think it's safe. With 10 hit points, I roll a critical on a sneeze and I can literally kill myself. A plant hit me last adventure. Once. And I was at half health.

NOTE: it was a rather vicious plant, but still. Getting your ass kicked by a vegetable is kind of embarrassing.

I did pet a rust monster, so that was cool. I wanted to keep one and train it as a pet, but Sean wouldn’t let me.

Anyway, have a safe and fun weekend. I’m going to try really hard not to die in game.

Cheers,
-Jason

This, Not That: Part 2

EDITORIAL NOTE: Several people have expressed concern that my health is poor and that I may die at any moment. I do appreciate the concern, but let me reassure you that things in my blogs are often exaggerated for comedic purposes. For example, I quote my doctor as saying ‘That’s very, very bad,’ when in truth, she only used one ‘very.’

EDITORIAL NOTE #2: Yes, I’m still exaggerating. Let me just say that I am fairly certain that I am in fact, immortal. This hypothesis has been tested on a couple of occasions and I’m still here, so there you go. I realize this is not rigorous science, but that’s why I was an English major.

EDITORIAL NOTE #3: Please do not try and test my assumed immortality. Do not try and hit me with a car, shoot me, stab me, drop things on me, poison me, set me on fire, drown me, hide a bear in my closet, duct tape a steak to me and then let loose a cheetah, or anything else that might hurt. Anvils are right out.

So, there I was at the doctor. She was showing me a printout with lots of numbers on it. Several (okay, most) of the numbers had three digits.

“Very bad,” she was saying. “Dead people have numbers like this.”

“What about that number,” I asked, pointing at a single digit. “It’s low. Isn’t that good?”

“That’s the page number.”

“Then what about that one,” I said, pointing at a number in the low 20s.

“That’s supposed to be high. Around 180.”

“Ah. So what am I supposed to do?”

“Do what you normally do,” she said. “But do the opposite. If you want to eat a hamburger, eat a salad. If you want a soda, drink water. If you want to sit down, run in circles.”

“But what if I want to exercise, should I just sit down?” I asked, somewhat smugly.

“No. Do a different exercise. Here,” she said, handing me a small stack of paper. “These are all your prescriptions. Take them all. Everyday.”

I took the stack of prescriptions. It was like a small phone book. “Wasn’t there anything,” I asked after a moment’s reflection. “That I scored well on?”

My doctor considered this. “Well,” she finally said. “You’re very hairy.”

“Is that good?”

She shrugged. “Probably won’t kill you. Maybe.”

Cheers,
-Jason

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 6

I woke up.

I was in a bathtub full of ice. A bottle of gin was next to me and half a six pack of Coke. This was not the first time I’d woken up in a bathtub full of ice and alcohol and probably not the last, as this always happened when I visited my mother.

I looked around. I appeared to be in a bathroom, which made a certain amount of sense. The odd part was that it was a public bathroom and a heavyset man in overalls was peeing in a urinal a few feet away. As per male bathroom etiquette, we pretended not to see each other.

I waited until he left before I clambered out. Everything below my chest was completely numb and I discovered I was wearing a party hat. I took the hat off and looked at it. It read “Happy Anniversary!”

And then I saw something strange. Inside the hat was a folded note. As I pulled it out, I noticed a faint, rotting smell coming from one of the stalls. I took a few steps away and checked the note.

“Look at your stomach,” read the first line, so I did.

I lifted up my shirt and discovered I had a new scar. It was large and curved under my ribs. Whomever had done it had thought to make two small incisions above it, so it vaguely resembled a happy face.

“Look in the stall,” was the second line of the note, so I opened the door. On the seat was a tray. On the tray was a small, grayish organ that kind of looked like a sack. In the small, grayish organ was a switchblade, which was pinning it to the tray.

“Yes,” read the next line of the note. “That’s your gallbladder.”

I sagged against the doorframe. At long last, it was over. No more sleepless nights. No more sudden, stabbing pain. No more logging into my WoW account and deleting my gear. My gall bladder was dead.

“There are pain meds in your pocket,” was the next line of the note. “And there’s no charge,” it continued. “But, there will come a time when we’ll ask for a favor. You can choose to ignore our request and nothing will happen to you.”

“Really?” I asked.

“No,” continued the note. “We’ll do horrible things to you involving balloon animals. A very small car may be involved, as well as oversized shoes.”

I had a sudden realization. I had to pee. A minute later, I was reading the note again.

“Love and kisses,” ended the note. There was a small drawing of a harlequin mask. I looked at it upside down. “No,” it read, “this is absolutely a harlequin mask.”

I had another realization and then relaxed. My car keys were still there. I then had a third realization about the nature of humanity, but we won’t get into that. A fourth realization then followed: I now owed the clown mafia a favor.

I staggered out of the bathroom, blinking in the harsh, sudden glare of the sun. I was still at the Palm Tree Office Plaza. I ran for the Dame’s office, got lost, had to ask for directions, paused to catch my breath, and then finally made it to her office.

It was empty.

Was the Dame part of the clown mafia? Could she be the Harlequin? Or maybe she was a patsy who owed them a favor? A patsy like me?

I walked outside, threw my hands into the air, and screamed “Noooooooooooo!” to the vast, empty sky. This wasn’t because I owed the clown mafia a favor, but rather because someone had stolen the chair out of the back of my truck. And my bungie cords.

And then I went home and watched cartoons.

-Fin-

Cheers,
-Jason

This, Not That: Part 1

I went to the doctor last week. It’s not something I normally do.

You see, my dad was a corpsman in the Navy (a medic, more or less) and he had a very simple approach to health care. It went like this:

• If there was no blood, you were fine.
• If there was blood, you said a bad word and then put pressure on it for a minute.
• If it was still bleeding, you doused the wound with alcohol and put a band-aid on it.
• If the miraculous duo of a band-aid and alcohol didn’t do it, you were allowed to stop work and sit down. Reapplication of the alcohol and band-aid could occur.
• If you were still bleeding, an old hand towel would be placed on the wound and then tightly bound with duct tape.
• If, by some miracle, the towel/duct tape combo didn’t work after an hour or two, then it was time to think about going to the hospital.

NOTE: My mom had the sole power of circumventing the above steps and having someone taken to the hospital. She was not a firm believer in the power of duct tape.

Now, you’re obviously thinking that I’m exaggerating for the sake of comedy, but let me assure you, the above list actually happened on more than one occasion.

This is a true story: when I was fourteen and working with my dad on a construction project, a framing hammer (32 ounces) was dropped on my head from about twenty feet up. I remember blinking and realizing I was lying on the ground. I sat up, got really dizzy, almost threw up, and the laid back down again. My dad appeared above me and said (I quote) ‘just rest there a minute, you’ll be fine.’ At some point later, he yelled at me to stop goofing off and get back to work. Which I did.

The above story was not to suggest that my dad was a horrible beast who regularly allowed his children to work with power tools while mildly-concussed. He did the same thing when he was injured as well. Three of his fingers were once smashed under a steel I-Beam. He jumped around for a minute, said multiple bad words, and then duct-taped his fingers together and continued working.

The doctor, as far as I knew, was someone you only saw if an actual limb was severed (happened – seriously, ask me to show you my finger).

So there I was, in the doctor’s office for a follow up after a physical and a blood test. My doctor is a tiny Asian woman who talks very, very fast. She showed me a printout and pointed at some numbers. “These are very bad,” she said. “See this one?” She pointed at a particularly high number. “That’s very, very bad.”

“How bad?” I asked.

“Make you dead bad,” she responded.

Yeah, my doctor rocks.

Tomorrow: Part 2

Time Off for Azeroth

Honestly, if you think about everything that’s happened, it would really suck to live on Azeroth.

For the three people out there who haven’t heard, Blizzard is releasing the third World of Warcraft expansion: Cataclysm.



To sum up: things are trying to kill you. Again.

Let’s recap the last few decades of Azeroth’s history:
• Orcs invade
• Orcs invade again
• Arthas, perhaps the greatest twit in history, tries to kill everyone. Everyone fights back and Arthas runs away.
• Much like recess in the 4th grade, sides are picked and the Alliance and the Horde declare open season on each other
• A portal opens and everyone decides it would be nice to go to through and fight in a place where you can literally fall off the world
• Someone notices that there’s an entire continent full of giants, undead, and other vicious critters just to the north. Oh, and Arthas lives there. 10 million people immediately rush there to kill things and take their stuff.

And now, Deathwing, a rather pissed-off dragon who was supposed to be dead (I think), basically blows up the ocean and rips apart the continents (though honestly, the Barrens needed a bit of a touch up).

Personally, I think Azeroth needs a break. Seriously. Just a year or two where no new ultimate evil shows up, it stops raining fire, and everyone can just, y’know, chill.

The Horde and the Alliance could get together and maybe have a barbecue, listen to the Azerothian equivalent of Jimmy Buffet, knock back some margaritas, and just not be in dire peril. And rather than slaughtering giant mutated three-headed boars for their livers, the various races could just spend some time in the garden or reading a nice book. Something relaxing.

Seriously. I work a 40-hour week at a computer and I desperately need my weekends. Spending years fighting demonic invaders who want to rip your heart out with a corkscrew and a Barney hand-puppet should get you at least a fortnight off.

NOTE: A fortnight is two weeks and comes from the Old English phrase ‘fēowertēne niht’ which means ‘cow bladder.’

And frankly, the denizens of Azeroth should really take a break while they can, because once everyone gets tired of killing Deathwing, something even worse will happen.

Oh, and I might just have to roll a Tauren Paladin. That would rock :)

Cheers,
-Jason

Jet City ’10: After Action Report

There was no fanfare that morn. No trumpet sounded a call. No sergeant yelled obscenities. It was a morning just like any other, save that men and women would clash in a convention center. A place that would henceforth be sanctified by their struggle.

I speak, of course, of Jet City 2010.

The morning began badly, as I overslept and had to rush to Leigh’s. We dispensed with the customary ‘shovel-to-the-face’ and instead leapt straight into his car and after a few minutes, back out again, realizing we were in the wrong automobile.

After a quick stop for coffee and some competitive arm wrestling, we arrived at the Convention Center, where hordes of nerds were already gathered, eager to gape and paw at the wares displayed inside.

To our right was Cari Corene, writer and artist of a book called Toilet Genie, a marvelous modern fairy tale about toilets and . . . er . . . genies. To our left was Randi Emberlin, a veteran of the comics wars, whose steady nerves kept our spirits up in the face of the impending horde.

Our back was guarded by our most worthy friends and artists Jason Metcalf, Randy Kintz, and Jason Martin of Super Real Graphics. Shane White manned a table by himself towards the rear and Beth Guizzetti of Famine Lands held the far right flank, while Chuck Messenger and Josh ‘Bile’ Cantrell of Creator’s Edge Press formed a salient ahead of us.

Just as our final book was put in place, the doors opened and battle was joined. There were nerds to the left of us and nerds to our right. There were cries of joy and shouts aplenty. Someone spilled a coke. A child cried. I cried. Leigh cried too, but he won’t admit it.

Just as our strength began to wan our colorist, Leah Rivera, appeared to bolster our line and I was able to range out to help our comic brethren. Keith Curtis of Crater on the Moon was there, along with Erik Thompson of Mad Atom Studios. The Indies were also represented and John Kantz was also seen amongst the throng. Brian Beardsley of Night Rail Press was also there.

A special mention of Brian Randolph, Sherpa Extraordinaire and local representative of the Hero Initiative should be made. They help comics veterans who've fallen ill or likewise in need of aid. Truly, a worthy cause.

Throughout the day, Brian Meredith of the Lynwood Comic Stop and co-creator of Jet City ranged back and forth shouting words of encouragement. The Knights of Solaris stopped by to lend their aid with mandolins and pointy things of foam. Scott Kurtz of PVP even appeared and said nice things to us, as did Phil Foglio of Girl Genius. Phil is true gentleman, as he always pretends he remembers me from the numerous times I've said 'hi' to him at cons. Blue Sun, a friend and fan showed up and chatted with us for a while, much to our delight.

At long last, the day was done. The booths were in tatters, their wares expended in the fray. The vendors, young and old alike, sank into their chairs, wiping the sweat of a hard day from their brow.

Books were packed away. Tablecloths folded. And then to a pub we went, where much beer was consumed and the phrase ‘huffin’ on the downstroke’ was used. No, I don’t know what it means, but it took three pitchers of beer to come up with, so it has to mean something.

This first Jet City is long over now, but its memory will linger on . . . oh, wait. Three pitchers of beer have pretty much blotted everything out. In fact, I’m not sure how I got home. Nor why I now have a tattoo of a fedora on my butt.

NOTE: I’m the designated driver, so yeah, I just drove us home. Still no clue about the tat though.

Cheers,
-Jason

Fiery, Smoky Death

I am referring to the hard drive on my mail machine. Yes, it went bad. No, it didn't actually smoke or spew flames. Things just sort of stopped working. Like my entire Office Suite, for starters. Other programs quickly joined in and I'm now left with a squarish lump that really doesn't do much.

But not to fear, I religiously back up all my data, so nothing is permanently lost. I just have to transfer stuff to my old machine and hope it too doesn't decide to bite the dust.

So, this Sunday I get to buy a new hard drive, reinstall everything on it, including three different anti-virus programs, and then get it set up so all of its parts are working in harmony once more.

Saturday, however, will be JET CITY! Yes, the first show is this weekend and I urge you all to come out and say 'hello.' Leigh and I will be there in all our pasty glory and we're looking forward to seeing all our con-buddies and fans.

Look for the usual blogs and updates next week.

Cheers,
-Jason

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 5

“Come on back,” she said, padding down the hall in her bare feet. I followed and noticed a tangle of twisted, brightly-colored rubber in the corner of the hall, as if someone had made a balloon animal and then savagely murdered it. I didn’t give it much thought.

We went into one of three doors and I saw a sparse office that just contained a desk with a chair behind it, a trophy that showed a woman running from a zombie, and an empty birdcage.

She sat down in the only chair, placing the gun on the table in front of her.
I stood there for a moment, debating whether or not to just sit on the floor, and then decided to lean against the wall.

She smiled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Last guy that leaned against my wall didn’t do so well.”

“Why’s that?”

“Clown got him.”

I raised an eyebrow. “The outline downstairs?”

“Yep.”

I shifted. “Why’s a guy talking to you getting whacked by a clown in someone else’s office?”

“Ask the Harlequin.”

“No thanks, I like breathing. So, you never did say how you knew about my gall bladder.”

“I have a bug downstairs.”

“I see. The beauty mark?”

“One of several.” She picked up the Desert Eagle and idly scratched her temple with it. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, when she saw my expression. She pointed it up and pulled the trigger. A small flag popped out. It said ‘KA-BLAM!!!!’

“I thought they said ‘BANG?’

“Most do. This is a Desert Eagle. I couldn’t fit ‘OH MY GOD, THIS THING IS SO LOUD IT CAN BE HEARD IN SPACE!’”

“Good point.”

She dropped the gun into a drawer and leaned forward, her chin on her hands. “I can take out your gall bladder,” she said.

“Good. How much?” I pulled my wallet out. “I’ve got about 100 bucks, a set of floor mats, and a sweet chair.”

She shook her head. “I have something else in mind.”

“Like what?”

She rose, gesturing towards the bird cage. “Someone grabbed my bird. Left a note.”

“Really?” I looked at the cage. It was a nice model, with a swing, a mirror, a little tiny moat, and a sniper’s nest.

And then she hit me with the trophy.

Tomorrow: Part 6 – THE CONCLUSION

My Little Pacifists

So, I'm playing this game called Majesty 2. It's a fantasy-sim where you build up your town and hire heroes whom you send on quests and such. Each level has a theme or particular challenge and I've been going through them and having fun, but now I'm completely stuck on this one level.

You see, there are a couple of rival lords and my town is right between them, so I'm stuck betwixt an enemy sandwich, as it were, and their heroes keep stomping the snot out of my town.

The thing is, my heroes seem really loathe to attack the enemy. In fact, they often run away (even when they're much higher level) and it's driving me nuts. They will walk right by the enemy heroes as they're busily destroying my castle and completely ignore them in order to fight a rat or something equally wimpy.

The only thing I can come up with is that my little men are all pacifists and can't bear the thought of shedding a fellow heroe's blood. This is unfortunate, as it reduces me to screaming 'No! Attack him! Him! The guy with the sword who's murdering the peasant DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF YOU!' at my computer. Strangely enough, this does nothing to motivate my little guys.

I'm also sure my upstairs neighbor really appreciates this.

Anyway, if anyone knows a good tactic for getting past this level, let me know.

Have a good and safe weekend. We will be back next week with the usual updates and blogs.

Cheers,
-Jason

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 4

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “How’d you know?”

She tapped her foot on the floor. “Old building. Thin floors.”

“I doubt it,” I replied. “Otherwise I would have heard you walking around. Stiletto heels aren’t terribly quiet.”

“Good guess.”

“Not really. Women who hang around in the shadows smoking cigarettes always wear stilettos. I bet you have a little hat with a veil on it too.”

She smiled at me. Well, she showed her teeth, so I assumed it was a smile. “And I suppose you know what I eat for breakfast?”

“Lucky Charms. You say it’s just for the toy surprise.”

“Close. I’m a Captain Crunch girl.” She walked forward into the light. She was wearing a severely cut woman’s suit with stiletto heels. Dark hair framed a pale face, but the thing that drew my attention was the Desert Eagle in her right hand.

“Huh. I figured you for a snub-nosed .38.”

“It’s in the shop.” She leaned against the wall, gun held level at my midsection. “So, cowboy, you’re awfully glib for a guy with an organ trying to kill him.”

“You’re awfully well-armed for a Dame.”

She laughed. “Well, you kill a vampire in front of the Queen, it tends to leave an impression.” She waved the gun nonchalantly. “Relax. I’m not pointing it at you. I’m pointing it at your gall bladder.”

“How considerate.” I glanced around. “A chair or two would be nice.”

“I only had one left and I didn’t want you walking off with it.”

“That was a gift.”

“It was a figure of speech.”

We looked at each other for a few moments in silence. Ash from her cigarette dropped off, leaving a little clump on the otherwise immaculate floor.

“So,” I finally said. “Are we going to keep up the bad film noir parody or should we move on?”

“Oh, thank god!” she said, kicking off her heels. “Those things kill my feet.”

Next week: Part 5

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 3

I turned, denting the wall with one of the chair legs. “Did you reconsider?”

He shook his head. “I was just going to validate your parking.”

“No need. I parked on the lawn.”

We stared at each other for a moment. Well, he stared at me. I was watching the beauty mark meander down the hallway.

“Look,” he finally said. “I know a Dame.”

“Congratulations. And I don’t think anyone calls them ‘dames’ anymore.”

“No, she’s a Dame. Like, when women get knighted, they’re not ‘Sirs,’ they’re Dames.”

“Like Dame Judy Dench?”

“Exactly.” He produced a pen and drew a picture of a frog slapping an elk on the side of my chair. “Turn it over,” he said, just as I was about to protest. It was an address. “You go talk to her. Tell her I sent you. And tell her I liked the gift basket, though brie gives me gas. And then, if you’ve got time, tell her about the situation in Prague.”

“What situation in Prague?”

“Exactly.” He nodded and turned to go back into the examination room.

I left the office, stepping carefully over the body outline and made my way back to my truck. I secured the chair into the bed with some bungie cords and took a look at the address. It was for an office on the third floor of the Palm Tree Office Plaza.

I turned around and looked at the sign on the wall behind me. I was at the Palm Tree Office Plaza. The office was directly upstairs from the one I just visited. I decided to just leave the chair there.

The door to the office was labeled ‘Mad Mongoose, Inc.’ There was a little drawing of an upset mongoose with a knife. I looked at it upside down, but I can’t read Chinese.

This waiting room was painted stark white and contained nothing but a small mobile hung from the ceiling featuring a walrus, a whale, and an albatross.

“So,” said a feminine voice. I looked over past the reception desk. A woman was there, mostly hidden in the shadows. A curl of smoke rose from her cigarette, the ember glowing brightly as she took a pull. “I hear you have a gall bladder you need taken care of,” she said.

Tomorrow: Part 4

Friday, Yet Again

Hey all!

It's been a busy week as usual. I went to visit my surgeon for my post-op visit and he said everything went great in surgery and that I now (quote) 'can do anything I want.'

Several things I wanted to do immediately sprang to mind:
Eat an entire Meat Lover's pizza
Take my pants off
Make someone incontinent solely with the power of my mind
Teach a hot alien babe about this thing we humans call love
Go back in time and kick my 13-year-old self in the ass
Solve the world's problems via buying everybody ice-cream
Talk to a girl

Obviously, none of these things happened. Well, my pants were already off, so it kinda did.

Have a great weekend. We'll be back on next week with more blogs and pages.

Cheers,
-Jason

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 2

The man shook his head, his finger going to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he wrote something on a pad of paper. “I think you have the wrong person.”

“But, Meredith-“ I began, only to stop at his glare.

He held up the paper, showing me a crude drawing of a dog, or possibly a donkey, farting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

I pointed at the drawing and shrugged. He looked at it, his eyebrow going up at what he saw. He rotated the page 180 degrees and held it up again.

The drawing was now a sentence. ‘Careful,’ it read. ‘It might be listening.’

“Oh, that’s okay.” I said. “I stunned it with a double-bean burrito with extra sour cream at lunch.”

“Good. You’re smarter than you look.” He tossed the page to one side and ran a hand through his thinning black hair. “Gall bladders are tough,” he said. “This ain’t going to be cheap.”

“I’ve got a hundred bucks, an unused lottery ticket from 1993, and this chair.”

He chuckled. “Not even close. If it goes wrong, your gall bladder’ll come after me.”

“You afraid of a gall bladder?”

He sneered and reached down to pull up his pant leg, revealing a shiny, plastic artificial leg. “Lost that fifteen years ago.” He tapped it, letting the hollow sound reverberate through the office. “I’d taken out three gall bladders, thought I knew it all. I got cocky. Didn’t take precautions. I lost my leg. Smitty lost his life.”

He fell silent. The beauty mark landed on one of the Seventeen magazines, right on the model’s cheek. Outside, a bird warbled, sounding just like the guitar solo from ‘Teen Spirit.’

“Who was Smitty?”

He looked away. “He was my second cousin, once removed. Great kisser. He drowned in a vat of salsa twenty years ago.”

“The gall bladder got him?”

“Nah. He just didn’t listen to the tour guide.”

“So his death is totally irrelevant to the story?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “It sounds better when I add that in.”

I leaned on the chair on my lap. Somewhere in the building, a clock chimed four and a half times.

“I could go one-twenty and I’ll throw in a set of floor mats for an ’87 LeBaron.”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t tussle with gall bladders anymore. You got an appendix you want bumped off, I’m your man. Tonsils? No problem. Electrolysis? Well, I know a lady, but no gall bladders. Not anymore.”

“Guess I am in the wrong place,” I said, as I slipped off the examination table. “I was looking for a professional.” I brushed past him. “Thanks for the chair,” I said, as I opened the door.

I was halfway down the hall when he called out.

“Wait!”

Next week: Part 3

Never Trust a Woman in a Mask: Part 1

The address was scrawled on the back of a used envelope and it led me to a dimly lit corner of the Palm Tree Office Plaza. I found the door I was told about: flaking green paint and a burn mark that looked like a top hat, and went in.

The dark lobby smelled of cigarettes and bug spray. A clown nose was stuck to the wall with a switchblade and I’m pretty sure the red mark on the floor beneath it wasn’t grease paint. I ducked under the police tape and stepped towards the counter, trying to avoid the remains of a balloon animal on the floor.

There was a cough from the counter and I looked up, to see a woman in a faded blue dress watching me. Her brown hair was up in a tight bun and she was smoking a cigarette. There was a large beauty mark on her left cheek.

“Whaddya want?” she said, blowing a smoke triangle towards the ceiling.

“I need to see the professional.”

She blew a smoke parallelogram, causing her beauty mark leap off and buzz about the room. “He ain’t in.”

“Meredith sent me,” I said, laying a buck fifty in loose change on the counter.

The change disappeared. “Take a seat.”

I found the chair with the smallest bloodstain and picked it up. The lobby itself was done in the same faded green paint as the door, with only a few old pictures on the walls for decoration. A single magazine lay on the floor in the middle of a chalk outline. It had a bullet hole in it.

My arms started to get tired from holding the chair. “What’s his story?” I asked, nodding at the outline.

The receptionist shrugged. “I heard he got on the wrong side of the clown mafia.”

“It’s the greasepaint,” I said. “Makes ‘em crazy.”

There was a buzz and the receptionist glanced down. “He’ll see you now.” She gestured towards the back. “First door on the left.”

I walked past her, banging the chair on her desk as I went by. She didn’t appear to notice. There were three doors in back and I went into the first on one the left. The room was empty save for an examination table, a rack of power tools, a pair of Italian loafers on a shelf, a saddle, a large stack of pizza boxes, and three years worth of Seventeen magazine sorted by month. So yeah, empty.

I sat on the examination table, letting the chair rest against my thighs. After a few minutes, the door banged open and a heavyset man with slumped shoulders shuffled in. He leaned against the wall and stared at me with his good eye.

The receptionist’s beauty mark buzzed by.

“So,” he finally said. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s my gall bladder,” I said. “It’s trying to kill me.”

Tomorrow: Part 2

The Next Comic Will Be Late

So, as a distraction, here's a video of a cute kitten.



Honestly, this is one of the most adorable things I've ever seen and I'm not one to use 'adorable' lightly. When my niece was seven and dressed up as Tinkerbell for Halloween, I rated it as merely 'cute.' This is also when my mother declared that I was a soul-less robot.

I may have also been cut out of the will. I'll have to check.

Anyway, the page will be up as soon as Leigh's power is restored, hopefully on Wednesday.

Cheers,
-Jason

Less of Me to Love

Hey all,

I just wanted to let you all know that the blogs will be back next week. I took this week off due to having surgery on Tuesday. Some of you may recall me complaining about my gall bladder trying to kill me, but I struck first and had the little bastard 'eliminated' when it wasn't looking.

So I spent most of this week sleeping and eating several times my body weight in soup. I'm feeling pretty good, all things considered, so look for new blogs next week.

Coincidentally, the first one will probably be about my surgery and how I had to fight a tyrannosaurus while wearing one of those gowns that opens in the back.

At least, I’m pretty sure it was a tyrannosaurus. It might have been a doctor in green scrubs. Which would also explain why I woke up with a black eye.

Cheers,
-Jason

Comic Announcements!

Hello everyone, this is Leigh. I usually let Jason do all the blog posting, but I have a couple of things I wanted to mention.

Some of you have probably noticed that the page dimensions for updates have changed. This is part of the website redesign we’ve been talking about. In the upcoming months we’ll be making changes to the website design as well, all hopefully for the best. We’ll keep the updates coming as they are for the next several weeks but our plan is that beginning November 1st we will be returning to our original Tuesday/Thursday update schedule.

That’s right, two updates of Wayfarer’s Moon each week! As Jason has mentioned in earlier posts we will also be adding a second set of stories in the Wayfarer’s Moon Universe. These stories will be featuring various artists and we hope you’ll like them. In order to run more than one storyline and not create huge amounts of confusion we will be making changes to the website itself.

In addition to these other announcements, I have to admit that I have been negligent. I never mentioned that Shon Burke has been helping us out by inking several pages for us, specifically Wayfarer's Moon pages 154-156, 157 and also 160-162. He’s a talented inker and we’ve been lucky to work with him. You can see more of his work here http://barquiel.deviantart.com/ where he also has links to purchase some of the original inks he did for us. I’ll also be putting links up for that this week in the links section.

We expect to be working more with Shon on some of the upcoming stories we mentioned as well as future projects that we hope to be able to tell you about soon!

Thanks Shon!

Assassinate Your Cavities: Part 2

We take two of the most feared creatures in the universe and then combine them into a force for good. Like the old saying goes, two wrongs make a right. Or is it don’t make a right? I forget. This may explain why my brother was so upset when I lost one of his Matchbox cars and then hit him to make up for it.

Moving on.

Combining ninjas and dentists would give us an unstoppable, nigh-invincible, and above all, stealthy method of eradicating our cavities.

Think about it. You’re at home, eating dinner, when suddenly the world goes black. You wake up two hours later and discover that you were face down in your spaghetti. After staggering to the bathroom to wash the marinara off your face, you realize that your teeth have that ‘just scraped by a metal object feeling’ and that there appears to be a new filling in your #21 molar. The bill taped to your shirt confirms it. You were just visited by a ninja dentist, who knocked you out, drilled and filled a cavity, and then billed your insurance (the cleaning was done by a ninja hygienist).

NOTE: I decided to look it up dental numbering. I was close. According to the FDI World Dental Federation Notation, molars are labeled 18, 17, 16, 26, 27, 28, 48, 47, 46, 36, 37 & 38. I also learned that there are multiple ways of numbering teeth. Also, the World Dental Federation sounds like a league where dentists wrestle each other and have names like ‘The Masticator.’

It would be perfect. You’d never have to worry about scheduling checkups, as your checkup would come to you. And you’d never have to be worried about the pain or inconvenience, as you’d be unconscious via subtle pressure point manipulation or a good old-fashioned bludgeoning.

Once people get accustomed to ninja dentists, the demand will go through the roof. Now I just have to get the funds for my Ninja College of Dentistry and Assassination.

Cheers,
-Jason

Assassinate Your Cavities: Part 1

I just had the best idea ever. Even better than the last one ‘best’ one about constructing humungous diapers to put on giant monsters. Admittedly, I still don’t know how you’d get Godzilla to stand still long enough.

Like I said, this one is better, which would make it ‘bester.’ ‘Besterest?’ ‘Gibesterest?’

I’ll stop now.

Quick! What are the two most terrifying things on the face of the planet?

No, not clowns, though that’s a good guess.

I’ll give you a hint: the first one sneaks into your bedroom at night with malicious intent. That’s right: chickens. They wait for you to fall asleep, and then creep in on clawed feet, nothing but hatred in their tiny, tiny brains. They climb onto your bed, nestle down, and they prepare to lay an egg of doom upon you!

Whoops, sorry. The correct answer is ‘ninjas.’ Ninjas sneak into your bedroom, turn off your alarm, put knots in your shoelaces, and rearrange your underwear drawer. That way, you get up late, you can’t find a clean pair of underwear, and then have to spend precious seconds sorting your laces out. Oh, and they murder you, which kinda makes the previous points moot. So yeah, ninjas are the first most terrifying thing in the world.

The second is: chi- No, nope. Not going to go there again. The answer is: dentists.

Everyone fears the dentist.

NOTE: I apologize to any dentists who might be reading this. I know you perform a valuable service and that oral hygiene is a vital part of staying a healthy, productive member of society. It’s just all the, y’know, PAIN.

Now I shan’t bore you with all the reasons everyone fears the dentist, which are numerous and well documented. What you really want to know is: why am I telling you all this?

Simple. What if we combined the two?

Tomorrow: Part 2

FRIDAY!

And yes, I'm continuing the 'ALL CAPS' theme this week. Next week, maybe I'll try something else, like fish references.

"CARP!"

Then again, maybe not.

It's been yet another busy week at Single Edge Studios. Comics were written. Pages were penciled. Bodies were . . . nothing. Absolutely nothing was done with a body or bodies. Seriously. There are no bodies anywhere in our vicinity. At least, not anymore.

So, how about that local sports team?

At any rate, please have a fun and safe weekend. We will be back with our regularly scheduled updates and blogs.

Cheers,
-Jason

REVENGE!

If you have not noticed, the theme for the week is apparently titles in all-caps. I didn't plan it that way, but there you go.

Anyway.

Some of you may remember a short film called 'The Red Balloon.' It was a very . . . French. In it, a young boy is friends with a sentient red balloon that follows him everywhere. For reasons unknown, other boys want to kill the balloon and the entire movie revolves around them chasing the boy and his balloon and (SPOILER ALERT) eventually managing to pop the balloon. However, other balloons from all over the city then band together, swarm the naughty boys, lift them high into the air, and then let them fall to their deaths.

I wish.

NOTE: The balloon's death is very dramatic. It gets hit with a rock, which causes a slow leak. It then drifts slowly down, despite its best efforts to float back up. Once on the ground, the bad boys then stomp on it. I'm not kidding.

In actuality, the other balloons lift the good boy up and take him flying across the city. Now, my school system owned a copy of this movie, so I saw it roughly a thousand times as I went through elementary school. I assume it was supposed to teach us about the strength of friendship or something, but being a ten-year-old boy, I was much more interested in the strength of napalm and hand-grenades.

And yet, I have always remembered the movie. It seems that other people remember it as well, as Leigh sent me this funny video of revenge most red.

I give you: Revenge of the Red Balloon:

TV & Movie Spoofs
Tags: Atom.com,Atom Originals,Atom Blog,Upload Videos

I especially liked the bit with the Easy Cheese.

Cheers,
-Jason

LOKI!!!

You may not be aware of this, but the Pacific Northwest is undergoing a terrible heat wave. Stores are sold out of fans and air conditioners. Ice cream shops are running out of product. Participation in wet t-shirt contests has quintupled, simply for the opportunity to get splashed with cold water.

In fact, last weekend it almost reached 90 degrees Fahrenheit, which is something like 4(!*x(spoon)) in Celsius.

NOTE: Yes, I could have looked up the actual conversion. Yes, I am that lazy.

In the past, I’ve blamed these heat waves on Canadians, penguins, and a variety of starch-based foodstuffs, but I’ve discovered the true culprit: the Norse God of Mischief, Loki.

You see, Loki is using his nefarious powers to subtly alter the delicate geothermal balance between the tectonic plates via pinpoint manipulation of solar flares, which are caused by an inordinate consumption of beans and other legumes by our sun, therefore minutely . . . ummm . . . discombobulating something science-y or . . . yeah.

Fine. You got me. I pretty much decided to just blame Loki for everything. I was at work the other day and after yet another computer crash, I shook my fist in the air and shouted (albeit quietly) “Damn you, Loki!”

It felt good.

So the next time something went wrong, I did it again. “Curse you, Loki! Spawn of Fárbauti and Laufey!” I exclaimed, after dropping my notebook. I felt better, though I did scare the crap out of most of coworkers, seeing as we were in a company meeting when I did it.

Despite a short, pretty much one-sided conversation with my boss, wherein it was suggested that I not do that anymore, I have not given up cursing Loki. In fact, I made a small sign that says ‘Damn you, Loki!!!!’ just for those occasions when a more exuberant display would be frowned upon, such as weddings.

Now, I realize that Loki is probably not actively working to make my life difficult. It’s just that ‘Loki’ is such a shoutable name, second only to ‘Khan!’ for the sheer exuberance you can put into it. And, honestly, it’s rather nice to have someone to blame for all of life’s petty annoyances. So, the next time your computer goes down, your car won’t start, or a giant, ravenous wolf tries to eat the sun, just shout ‘LOKI!’ and you’ll feel much better.

Cheers,
-Jason

Thursday!

Welp, it's Thursday again, which means that tomorrow will be Friday, followed rapidly by Saturday and Sunday. This is (I would expect) not news to any of you, but you can never know.

It has been a busy week here at Singe Edge Studios. And yes, our company is actually called Single Edge Studios. Wayfarer's Moon is but the first of what we hope will be many more comic-based products.

Though, truth be told, Wayfarer's Moon was not our first idea. We were originally going to have a strip called 'Panda on an Iceberg' which would feature the titular panda sitting on an iceberg, musing about the works of great philosophers. In binary.

NOTE: Panda's being black and white are rather binary, being either 'on' or 'off.' Well, it was either a panda or a zebra. We went with cute and fuzzy.

Let's just say it tested poorly.

And so, you got Wayfarer's Moon. And soon, though no date has been decided, you'll be getting Wayfarer's Moon: Tales. And even more not soon, there will be a new, mystery strip. Only six people in the world know about it (well, maybe thirty or forty), but they're not talking on pain of . . . something. It's never been established.

So, enjoy your weekend. We'll be back next week with the usual blogs and updates.

Cheers,
-Jason

Murder Most Delicious

My mother came for a visit last weekend. As my longtime readers will know, my mother is a woman of impeccable charm, style, and wit, who also tends to forget who I am, generally when she’s holding a shotgun.

Now, my mother didn’t actually tell me she was coming. I just got an email with her flight details and a note to pick her up ‘or else.’ Obviously, I did. I may not fear ninjas or Cat-Men from Pluto, but yeah, I don’t mess with my mom.

I took the day off from work and spent the morning furiously cleaning my apartment. I even cleaned the fridge. Yes, I actually took the shelves out of the fridge (not hard, as there was nothing in there), and went at its innards with a sponge. I didn’t just dust things, I picked them up and dusted underneath them. If it was fuzzy, I vacuumed it. If it wasn’t fuzzy I wiped it with a sponge. If it moved, I caught it, buffed it to a mirror shine, and then let it go, which resulted in a couple very confused spiders. And then, when I was done, I cleaned the sponge and the vacuum. My place was so clean it hurt to look at it.

Later that day, I picked my mother up.

I knew something was up when she hugged me and called me ‘honey.’ We chatted amiably the whole way home and then went out and had teriyaki. Afterwards, we got ice-cream, and then picked up some snacks for later. The next morning, we went out for breakfast, then lunch, had a snack of hot pretzels, then went to dinner, and had more ice-cream afterwards. This continued throughout her whole visit. It was a gastronomical Mt. Everest and we were all out of Sherpas.

NOTE: Yeah, that didn’t make much sense. I was originally going to do a Sherpa/Sherbert joke, but that one was even less coherent.

It was around lunch on the first day that I figured it out. My mother’s a devious one: she was trying to murder me with food. Yes, be it through cholesterol, high-blood pressure, or gall stones, she was trying to do me in. It all fit.

Granted, it’s an improbably long, convoluted, labyrinthine (took three tries to spell that one right) way to go about killing someone, but who would suspect? Even if she was questioned, all she had to do was say ‘but I’m his mother! I just wanted him to make sure he was eating!’ Who would argue with that?

So I was determined to outfox her. Whenever her back was turned, I would exercise. At home, I took some weights into my bedroom and did a couple dozen reps every hour. I did wind sprints in my hall. When we ate out, I would excuse myself, go to the restroom, and do a bunch of sit-ups and push-ups. Trust me, you don’t want to touch the floor in a men’s room, but I did. My very survival depended on it.

And after three days, my mom left and I could claim victory. Despite all the eating, I’d actually lost three pounds.

Unless, it was all some sort of weird scheme to get me to exercise more. In which case, I lost, but I’m not sure how. She could be trying to get me in shape to harvest my organs. Or maybe she’s planning on moving and wants me in top shape so I don’t drop her credenza. I’ll definitely have to think about this one more.

Then again, she might have just wanted to see me and make sure I was eating right.

Nah.

Cheers,
-Jason

Cat-Men from Pluto

It’s been a busy week here at Single Edge Studios. I apologize about the lack of blogs, but I was away from my computer. You see, I was in space.

It all started on Monday morning. I got an excited call from Leigh, who said the government wanted to see us. Assuming it was about the whole ‘crossing state lines to fight vampires’ thing, we quickly prepared to make a run for it.

And by that I mean we ran in circles, crying, until men in suits and sunglasses picked us up. We were taken to an undisclosed location behind the Taco Bell in Kirkland, where we learned that the government needed our help.

It seemed that a force of Cat-Men originating from Pluto was heading towards Earth, bent on destroying us in a hail of asteroid-sized chunks of used litter. The government officer in charge, one Major General (that was his name, Major General of the Philadelphia Generals), explained that the Cat-Men were upset about us changing the classification of Pluto from planet to Kuiper Belt object and were thus intent on our destruction.

When asked why there were Cat-Men on Pluto, Major General explained that that was merely a humorous coincidence and had absolutely nothing to do with a plot by the Dog-Men of Kitten III. Major General went on to explain that only a crack team of comic-book creators could hope to stop the Cat-Men. The Cat-Men, he said, loved comics and only a superbly written and drawn comic could convince them to spare us.

After staring at him for a good thirty seconds, we were forced to then ask why they picked us for this most important of missions and Major-General explained that everyone else was busy and that Neil Gaiman gets motion-sickness in space.

So, there we were, the fate of the entire world in our hands. We had a scant four days to produce the greatest comic ever seen in the history of mankind, get launched into space, and then set-up a table at the first ever Space Con in the International Space Station.

Needless to say, Leigh and I set to work. I wrote as fast as I could. In a matter of hours, I burned out three keyboards, drank four cases of Coke, ate a pound of beef jerky, and consumed seven boxes of Everlasting Gobstoppers. Oddly enough, I then spent 90 minutes in the bathroom, but I digress.

When I was done, I handed the script to Leigh and he went off and did things with a pencil. No, I didn’t stay and watch (see the bathroom comment above), but I’m sure something magical happened, because some time later, the pencils were done.

And we did it. We had our comic, written and penciled. Major General whisked it off somewhere and after a light dinner, a finished comic, inked, colored, lettered, and printed was in our hands. I then pointed out that ‘equilibrium’ spelled wrong on page eleven and two hours and one gunshot later, the new comic arrived. We were set.

I will not bore you with the details of going into space (I only threw up twice), the difficulties of setting up a con table in zero-g, or how hard it is not to giggle when you meet a six-foot, eight-inch talking Cat-Man in battle armor and learn that his name is Boopsie-Tiddles.

And, as you may well have guessed, seeing as we’re all still here, we were successful. The Cat-Men decided to spare the Earth and we returned to the secret base behind the Taco Bell for a celebratory feast of Baja Gorditas and Nachos Bellgrande. Oh, we did enquire about a reward, seeing as we’d just saved the Earth, but Major General suggested that they would continue to overlook some of our more questionable activities (trying to transport flamethrowers into Florida to battle were-frogs, for one) in lieu of cash.

Seeing as we were in a heavily guarded secret government facility, we agreed.

And our comic? It’s safely locked away in case it should ever be needed again. We started to complain about that, but like I said: heavily guarded secret government facility.

Anyway, that was our week. Look for the usual blogs and updates next week, assuming the Fanged Lemurs of Epsilon IV don’t need to go walkies.

Cheers,
-Jason

San Diego '10: After Action Report

Few noticed the two men who got off Flight 490 that day. One was bearded and wore green. The other had on tan shorts and a Captain Hammer t-shirt. They were indistinguishable from the horde of nerds around them. That’s how they wanted it.

They strode to baggage claim, their eyes invisible behind black sunglasses. There they picked up several large, unassuming bags. If someone had been paying attention, they would have heard the unmistakable rustle of a belt of .50 ammo and the clicking of machetes against each other. These men were no ordinary nerds. They came not to just sell comics. They came to do battle with the very forces of hell.

Oh, wait. Sorry, those guys weren’t us. We were the nerds who couldn’t quite manage to get ten feet without dropping a piece of luggage.

Seriously.

Despite the luggage dropping, all in all we had a great con. We were in the Small Press area and it stayed really busy all four days. Leigh and I rarely left the table and we ended up selling out of issues #1 and #2. It was easily our best con by a long-shot.

To our right was Cody Vrosh and his lovely wife Sheatiel Sarao from Binary Winter Press. They were very nice, though I continually tripped over their display. To our left was Josh Warner from Hanging Chad and Sean Forney from Savage Mind Comic Studio. Both Josh and Sean were great guys and both of them helped chat up our books to attendees, so if you’re looking the best damn Super Hero Moose comic or Little Red Ridinghood adaption you can find, go talk to these guys.

Around us, in no particular order were: WCG Comics, Crowbar Medic LLC (can't find a page for them), Super Searnold, Strange Matter Comics, Possum Press/Ultraist Studios, Chris Wisnia, Pirate Cove, 17 Machine Studios, Devon Devereaux Illustrations, TNP Press, Kennon James Illustrations, Studio 407, Pen 2 Paper Entertainment, and Ms. Monster & B-Minus Productions. All of them were very cool and we had a lovely time in Rows K-L of the Small Press area.

Also, shout outs to our good friends Jason Martin from Super Real Graphics and Kevin McShane from Lobrau Productions. They weren’t lucky enough to be in the same row with us, but not everyone could be.

I also got to talk with writers and personal friends Bill Harms and Eric Trautmann, both of whom came by the booth. Bill even dropped off a copy of his new novel Dead or Alive for me, which was much appreciated. I also ran into Greg Rucka, a well-known comics and film writer. Weirdly enough, he was sitting about three feet away from me at the airport on Monday and I knew I knew him from somewhere, but my brain was shot so it took a while for me to recognize him. I actually went to elementary school and junior high with Greg (I went to his 10th birthday party), so it was great to have a chance to say ‘hi’ and talk about the industry.

The absolute pinnacle of the con, however, was a little incident that happened on Friday.

Some quick backstory:

Three years ago, at our first con (Emerald City), I noticed that Bill Willingham was there. He’s one of my all-time favorite writers, so I went over to give him a copy of #1 and generally geek-out. He was very gracious and we chatted a little before I let go of his leg and left.

Fast forward to Friday at SDCC. I look up at one point and see, you guessed it, Bill Willingham walking up to our table. I don’t recall the exact conversation, but the salient points were:
He liked our comic.
He invited us to an after-con party.

At that point it wouldn’t have mattered if our table burned down, cannibals stole our comics, or an elephant pooped directly onto Leigh, ‘cause Bill Willingham invited us to a party.

We of course went, had a great time, and met a bunch of cool people, including the artist Inaki Miranda, James Sime (whom I will always remember as ‘the man in the purple suit’) from Isotope: The Comic Book Lounge, and Mike Maihack of Cleopatra in Space. There were more, but sadly, I can’t find all my business cards and I was so tired that night that I can’t recall any other names.

So, to sum up:
San Diego 2010 rocked.
We sold lots of comics
We met a ton of cool people
And Bill Willingham invited us to a party.

It’s going to take a lot to top that SDCC.

Cheers,
-Jason

We Survived!

We're back from the 2010 San Diego Comic-Con! Four day cons are an endurance run, but we had a great show! I'll be doing an After-Action Report tomorrow, but in the meantime, check out our photos HERE.

Cheers,
-Jason

San Diego Bound!

Next week, Leigh and I will be attending the 41st Annual San Diego Comic-Con! We will be at table K-7 in the Small Press area, so come on by and say 'hi!'

As a special treat, I plan on shaving at least ONCE while I'm down there.

We will be updating on Tuesday as usual, though I won't be blogging during the week on account of being far away from my computer.

Anyway, we hope to see some of you there. I will be writing free sentences as is customary and Leigh will be doing commissions. So if you've ever wanted a custom picture of your favorite super-hero and an unintelligible sentence of dubious worth, you know where to go :)

Have a good weekend.

Cheers,
-Jason

Wizard!: Part 2

Torgor blinked. “What? There’s no reason to get mad about it. Destroying the source of a wizard’s power is the classic way to defeat one.”

“But that’s not the source of my power, moron!”

“Oh.” Torgor nudged a piece of pottery with his foot. “What was in there?”

“My mother’s ashes!”

Torgor stopped, foot in mid-nudge, and then took a small step away. “This is kinda awkward,” he said after a moment.

Urgan glared at him. “You think?”

“I thought it was the source of your power!” Torgor said. “Wizard’s always keep them close at hand!”

“No we don’t. That’s just a story we spread so idiots like you’ll attack us in our towers.”

Torgor folded his arms. “Then it’s really your fault I broke your mother’s urn. If you spread stories like that, of course someone’s going to take a swipe at her vase.”
With a sigh, Urgan pointed over his shoulder. “You’re supposed to attack that.”

Torgor looked up. There was a large globe above the door, set in an ornately carved clawed hand. The orb pulsed with sickly blues and greens, with the occasional spark of red.

“Huh,” the barbarian said. “I completely missed that.”

“Obviously.”
The wizard and barbarian glared at each other.

“Well,” said Torgor suddenly. “It’s late and I’m sure you’d like to re . . . uh . . . inter your mother, so I’ll just let myself out.”

“Fine.” Urgan gestured and a large, leather-bound tome with a golden clasp appeared in his hand. He opened it and began scanning the pages. “I just need to see if I have some sort of ‘vacuum’ spell.”

“Okay then.” Torgor walked over to the doorway, stepping over the remains of the door. “No hard feelings!” he called out.

“Sure,” Urgan said, as the barbarian darted down the corridor. “At least until I get mother squared away,” he continued. “Then I’ll hunt you down and turn you into something small and fluffy and give you to my cats.”

Cheers,
-Jason

Wizard!

The barbarian, his massive frame covered only by a thick fur loincloth, shattered the stout door with a single kick.

A throne room stretched out before him, its floor inscribed in golden runes. Smoke from a dozen braziers curled up, as the smell of exotic incense filled the air. The stone walls were hung with tapestries worked in gold thread, depicting scenes of decadent delight. And upon a throne of marble, a silken pillow padding his bum, sat a man in a tall pointed hat.

“So,” began the man on the throne, as he made a note to call the carpenters. “Tardor the Barbarian isn’t it? You slew the Three-Eyed Dragon of Corumbia and vanquished of the Potentate of Fresno, did you not?”

“I am he. Him? Whatever,” said Tardor. “And you are Urgan, the Black Wizard of Bakeria!”

“Guilty,” said Urgan, with a slight chuckle. His hand rose to stroke his thin, white beard. “And I suppose you’re here to defeat me?”

“Yes! Everyone knows the villainy of Urgan!” Tordor pointed his huge two-handed sword at the wizard. “Your deeds are infamous! The destruction of Vomen! The burning of Avellia! The Baby-Souffle on Sundays!”

Urgan raised a finger. “Actually, I don’t do the baby thing. My marketer went a little nuts,” he said with a shrug.

“I care not! You will die for your crimes!” With a roar, Tordor leapt across the room, even as Urgan raised his hands, a spell tumbling from his lips. The barbarian’s huge sword swept down, cutting through the wizard’s point hat, but rebounding from his head as if he’d struck solid stone.

Urgan laughed. “You are a fool, barbarian, to challenge a wizard in his home!”

Tordor regained his balance and inspected his sword. The edge where it had struck the wizard was bent and twisted. “I thought the tales were a myth,” he said slowly, his eyes roving around the room.

“No, no myth. My magic protects me from simpletons with swords!” Urgan rose from his throne, tossing the remains of his hat to one side. He rubbed his head where Tordor’s sword had connected. “Not even a headache. Now then,” Urgan continued. “Time to die.”

The wizard raised his hands and lightning spat forth from his fingertips. Tordor leapt at the last second and the energy exploded against a tapestry, setting it alight. Urgan cackled, as he continued to spray lighting at the nimble barbarian.

Tordor dodged and weaved as the lightning crashed around him. He ignored the wizard’s taunts as he bounded, seemingly searching for something. After several minutes, he suddenly gave a shout.

“I have you now, wizard!” The barbarian leapt across the room, his sword raised high. Above the throne in a small nook, a golden vase rested upon a length of velvet. His sword swept across the vase, even as the wizard screamed.

The vase shattered, a fine powder billowing forth. Torgor landed and turned, a smirk upon his rugged features. “There, wizard! I have destroyed the source of your power!”

Urgan stared at his foe, his mouth open. “You . . . “ he began, as if unable to find the words. “You dick!”

Tomorrow: Part 2 – Someone Gets a Surprise!

Hot!

I may have just discovered my super power. I complained about the weather last week and now, all of a sudden, it's freakin' hot. The fact that it's now July probably has nothing to do with it.

It's been an exciting week here at Single Edge Studios. We started updating again, Leigh did not burst into flames when he went outside, and I spelled 'rhythm’ correctly on the first try.

And I’m not implying that Leigh is a vampire. It’s just that it’s very hot and both Leigh and I go outside as little as humanly possible. Basically, we both look like Gollum, only with more hair.

We’re both excited to be exhibiting at the San Diego Comic Con this year, as we plan on debuting our trade paperback! It combines all six issues and includes an illustrated story as well as guest art and a few other surprises for a total of 160 pages! As usual, Leigh will be doing commissions and I will be offering free sentences! Be the first on your block to have a custom art piece and an accompanying literary masterpiece!

NOTE: ‘masterpiece’ is a highly subjective term. Your sentence may very well contain words like ‘booger’ and ‘fart.’

Anyway, have a great weekend and we’ll see you next Tuesday with a new page and the usual bloggy goodness!

Cheers,
-Jason

Mom!!!

In a move that rocked the world of online gaming today, Blizzard announced that they would soon be displaying a user’s real first and last name in their forums. They hope this will cut down on the flame wars and insults that their forums have become known for.

For those of you who don’t quite get what that means, here’s a sample of what might go on:

BGB008s
Druids totally suck! They’re totally overpowered and only noobs play them!

URM0M
Hah! U suck, BGB008s.

ARtHass
Lol! Ur jast mAdd cus druids own u!

URMOM
Yah! LOL@ARtHass!

BGBOO8s
Sut up! You bth suck! F#()^*! U!

URMOM
U gona cry? ? I bet ur cryin r8t now!

ARtHass
Cryb8be!

However, if the users have to use their real names, things would change radically.

Billy Smith
Druids totally suck! They’re totally overpowered and only noobs play them!

Martha Smith
Hah! U suck, Billy Smith!

Dr. Phillip W. Jones
Lol! Ur jast mAdd cus druids own u!

Martha Smith
Yah! LOL@Dr. Phillip W. Jones!

Billy Smith
Wait, Martha Smith? Do you live on Green Street in Pittsburg?

Martha Smith
Actually, I do.

Billy Smith
Mom?

Martha Smith
Billy, is that you?

Billy Smith
Mom! What the hell?

Martha Smith
You watch your language! And no, druids don’t suck!

Billy Smith
But, you’re my mom! You’re supposed to support me!

Martha Smith
Not when you’re being a suckhole, dear.

Dr. Phillip W. Jones
Lollz!

As you can see, interactions on the Blizzard forums would be greatly changed. The user base, as you can well imagine, is not happy about this. Last I checked, there was a new post every 3 minutes on how much this would suck. Posters cite that marketing people could glean data on them, spammers and hackers could target Blizzard customers specifically, and those with odd or unusual names would be mocked relentlessly.

Honestly, I’m of two minds about it. Anonymity on the Internet can be a hassle, as some people use the lack of accountability to be jerks. A real name might very well curb a lot of that behavior.

On the one hand, I wouldn’t want my real name on a public forum like that. I mean, if people knew who I was, I could be the target of all sorts of insidious plots . . .

Oh, wait.

My name’s already all over the webcomic and our forum. You know, that might very well explain the increase in ninja attacks. Hmmm, and here I thought I was being targeted because of my rugged good looks and frighteningly advanced intellect.

I guess that’s only part of it, then.

Cheers,
-Jason