He doesn't need defending, crazy cat lady

http://www.screamifyouwantit.com/mambo/content/view/73/27/

Some people need to get help

Hey lady, he's not real you know

It could stand to be said, for a lot of reasons.
http://www.screamifyouwantit.com/mambo/content/view/73/27/

If they wanted to make him a post-operative trans-sexual who renounces his activism in favour of a new career as a lingerie designer, they can, because he is a creative property, not a person.

The Byrne board weigh in

With their reaction to the Cockrum Call-Out, but Byrne manages to make it all about his pain, again.

Paty managed to take offense when I said Dave's work was "gorgeous". I think that puts everything in perspective, no?
But Gary Hart soars in with the insight-bomb of the topic
Is Paty Cockrum the Latoya Jackson of the Comics World?

Jewish Comics Conspiracy

Here is Patty Cockrum, proving why thyroid problems and comics don't mix. Millarworld, respond in a thread started by OMAR. Yes, the meta-troll, who Baker_Baker dreams of being. Bendis responds here.

But Marvel aren't anti-semitic because Moon Knight, Kitty Pride and The Thing are jewish, so there!

Artists

Not a rant, but more of a surprised reaction to the talent that is coming through after a well-placed ad on Digital Webbing. I believe in what I am writing, and that powers me as much as it entertains me.
My bronchitis still hurts like fuck, but this makes me feel a damn site better on a Monday morning!

FBR IDST

I will miss this blog immensely

Wisdom from the Engine

The Engine is Warren Ellis' forum, a place for non-superhero writers and creators, with a side order of general Ellis-ness and whatever grab=bag of cliches you might assign to him. But it is bloody useful for aspiring creators: this is from Matt Fraction, a writer and creator who has some notable books behind him

http://www.the-engine.net/forum/index.php?webtag=ENGINE&msg=453.12

Rules and Regulations

From Robert Heinlein, via James Coppervale
1. You must write.
2. You must finish what you write.
3. You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order.
4. You must put the work on the market.
5. You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.

George, Part 2.

The Download

Name: Matthew Brian Blissett
D.O.B.:08/28/1976
Occupation: Retail Team Leader
Influences: COMICS: Grant Morrison, Warren Ellis, Alan Moore, Frank Miller
FILM: David Fincher, Robert Rodriguez, Ridley Scott, Joss Whedon.
LITERATURE: Brett Easton Ellis, Chuck Palahniuk, John Connolly, Cormac McCarthy, George R R Martin.

Comic Projects: George(with Damian Street)
Undisclosed projects at various stages

Freeing Oneself

Having, almost shamefully developed Mr Forbidden, I am now developing other science heroes for my own gratification and a desire to explore the myths and themes inherent in those concepts.

THE ORB.


Page 6:
A translucent, luminous orb, floating in the darkness of space, as wide across as a city.
Caption: IT WAITS, PATIENT AS BUDDHA, DRINKING IN THE GLORIOUS SONG OF STARS, AS IT PREPARES TO GIVE UP IT’S ONLY SON FOR SOME DISTANT PROMISE…
Cut to a close up of a fingertip, wrapped in a metallic liquid.
Caption: …OF SALVATION.
Pull back to reveal THE ORB(a rejuvenated and modified Kevin), an athletic male human physique clad in a suit of liquid metal that accentuates and diminishes (no nipples or genital bulges!) The only features on the face are a pair of ovoid reflective lenses that are a shade darker than the rest of the suit. He stands before a translucent column of light, one hand resting upon it.
Kevin: SELF IS READY TO RE-INTEGRATE INTO NOT-SELF STREAM.
Orb-Mother: CO-ORDINATINATION IMMINENT.
Medium close up as Kevin turns his head to one side.
Kevin: WHAT WAS THAT?
Page 7:
Pouring through a shimmering rift in space, a column of black, green and blue sludge, which contains within it, humanoid shapes struggling to become distinct amidst the entire structure. Imagine reality as a body, this is the infection that is killing it slowly, manifested as the seeping pus that you get when you infect a wound. This is the MALIGNANCY, humanity’s lowest point - a soldier-virus that corrupts and recruits whatsoever it touches.
Caption: THE MALIGNANCY. SOLDIER/VIRUS/GOD, INFECTS AND CORRUPTS ENTIRE REALITIES IN IT’S QUEST TO RECYCLE THE UNIVERSE.
Have this panel be tucked away in the bottom-right corner.
Kevin’s face-mask contorting to reveal the fear and confusion within.
Kevin: WHAT DO WE DO?
Page 8.
The Malignancy, swarming, suffusing the Orb as it gives off flashes of disinfecting light in an attempt to ward off the aggressor.
Cut To: Inside as Kevin has the column of light wrapped around his left arm as the interior of the Orb has quickened to a dismal gray.
Kevin: TELL ME WHAT TO DO, IS THERE ANYTHING MORE I CAN DO TO HELP?
Orb: CANNOT COMPLETE DOWNLOAD AT THIS TIME…MISSION PARAMETER DOWNLOAD 38% COMPLETE…
Drop the angle so that we are looking up as a tendril of Malignancy has penetrated the Orb and hangs there, dripping ichor as it looks upon Kevin.
Orb: LISTEN TO ME…YOU DON’T HAVE ENOUGH OF THE OPERATING SYSTEM DOWNLOADED TO COMPLETE THE MISSION, BUT IT’S TOO LATE…
The tendril striking towards us, in a blurred motion.
Page 9:
Kevin, leaping away, arms parallel by his sides and legs straight as a column of zeroes and ones emerge from the soles of his feet as the tendril penetrates the ground.
Caption: USING THE INFORMATION THAT COMPRISES THE UNIVERSE TO TRAVERSE INFINITE DISTANCE, MEANS THAT THE ORB IS CAPABLE OF GREAT FEATS OF PHYSICAL PROWESS.
Kevin, turning, arms outstretched with his palms facing out as beams of light punch out of the center of each one, the back blast illuminating his cheekbones.
Caption: CONSTANT ABSORPTION OF AMBIENT FORCES THROUGH HIS EXOSKELETON ALLOWS HIM TO REFRACT AND LAZE LIGHT AS PART OF AN EXTENSIVE ARMOURY.
The tendril, evaporating where the blasts impact it.
An outpouring of Malignancy is encroaching on Kevin in the foreground.
Orb (no tail): TIME TO GO PLAY WITH THE BIG BOYS, KEVIN.

Endings

One of the things that Alan Moore did during his time reinventing superhero comics was to point out the blinding obvious to an audience and an editorial/creative community. Mythology resonates because there is an end: Robin Hood fires the arrow to determine where he will be buried, ultimately the hero departs.

Now commercial considerations determine that for most characters in superhero fiction, that does not happen. With my own creation, Mr Forbidden and his family/friends associates, there is an ending in mind. I am writing it, even though I am ignorant of the chances of him ever being published, but because I want to know going in, that I am not creating someone who will disappear into stasis. The ending is there, even if no-one but me will ever see it.

Stack

Stack was/is my attempt to do something about a posthuman, based around the engine of the present being blasted with bits of the future
STACK
Issue 1
An underpass, across the crumbling expanse of wall is a detailed graffiti tag; we are looking at it through the lens of a digital camera.
Text: WHEN BRANNON TOOK OVER THE ROLE OF CHIEF OF POLICE IN 1992, PROPERTY DAMAGE OF $400 BECAME A FELONY, THE IDEA BEING THAT THIS WOULD DETER GRAFFITI IN LOS ANGELES.
Side view of HENRY UNDERWOOD, a black male in his early twenties, cropped black hair, goatee and spectacles. He is wearing a UCLA hooded sweatshirt and has a laminated pass around his neck on a rawhide thong, and he is bringing a small digital camera down from eye level. On his shoulder hangs a leather bag, where he keeps his laptop and cellular phone.
Text: BUT GRAFFITI ISN’T ABOUT VANDALISM, IT’S ABOUT IDENTITY, EXPRESSION AND PRIDE. YOU CANNOT PUT A PRICE ON THAT.
Henry’s lap top, USB cable to his camera connecting it all up as he downloads his pictures, the screen shows a huge amount of. JPEG files on there. Do this from Henry’s POV, the whole set-up is sat precariously on his lap.
Text: THE BROKEN WINDOW PRINCIPLE OF POLICING THAT HE PIONEERED IN NYC UNDER RUDY AND BROUGHT WITH HIM. KEPT THINGS REAL NICE FOR THE TOURISTS AND THE PEOPLE WHO COULD AFFORD A CERTAIN LEVEL OF DISTANCE FROM ANYTHING APPROACHING ‘REAL’ CRIME.
Page 2:
Henry, riding a mountain bike along the street, illuminated by the street lights, do this as an upshot so that we are looking at him.
Text: MY NAME IS HENRY UNDERWOOD, I WAS TWENTY-TWO AND A PHOTOJOURNALIST FOR STREETDOTCOM, WHICH WAS AN URBAN CULTURE SITE. ONE WEEK IT WOULD BE BOTOX PARTIES IN San Fernando, BUT THIS WEEK IT WAS GRAFFITI. I WORKED WITH MINIMAL OVERHEADS AND LITTLE TO NO EDITORIAL CAVEAT, SO I WORKED AS I CHOSE.
Henry, looking up and enjoying the breeze on his face. A small panel, a beat before we move onto the scene proper.
Text: TONIGHT WAS WHERE IT ALL BEGAN. AND ENDED.
Up ahead, A Lincoln, idling at the kerb. Around it are three black males, one sat on the hood of the car is POKE, painfully thin with cornrows, a white tee and blue jeans that sit low on his hips over white trainers, who is swigging on a can of beer. The second man, who is stood on the kerb is NEEDLE, he wears a short sleeved Von Dutch shirt, jeans and a red do-rag. He is puffing on a blunt, and his eyes are heavy-lidded with intoxication and next to him is RAY, who is wearing a wife beater, jeans and a ball cap worn to one side, from the waistband juts the handle of a .22 revolver. He is pointing ahead of him; he’s noticed HENRY.
Ray: THASS MY BIKE, MOTHERFUCKER!
Henry, staring straight ahead, a grim expression on his face as he pedals on.
Thought balloon: show a storm cloud with drops of rain and a fork of lightning.
Page 3:
RAY, walking into the path of Henry, arms out to each side and his head cocked to the left, eyes blazing with a crazed, malevolent energy.
Ray: I KNOW YOU HEARD ME, MOTHERFUCKER, THASS MY BIKE YOU RIDIN’ AN SHIT.
POKE, laughing as he hands the can over to Needle.
Poke: RAY, THAT AIN’T YOUR MOTHERFUCKING BIKE, YOU SOLD IT AT THA SWAP MEET!
Needle, looking at Henry through a fog of dope smoke as he brings the beer can to his lips.
Needle: MIGHT NOT BE HIS BIKE, POKE. BUT THIS BITCH DON’T LOOK HE EVER BEEN TO NO SWAP MEET.
Henry, holding onto the handle grips of his bike, on the verge of tears as Ray walks towards him, as we look over his shoulder.
Henry: PLEASE, MAN. I’M JUST GOING HOME, ALRIGHT.
Ray: YOU BEGGING ME, MAN?
Henry: NO, I..JUST.
Ray, up close, feeding off of the fear he’s creating in Henry.
Ray: GET OFF OF THE FUCKING BIKE.


Page 4:
Pan around to a side angle as Needle and Poke are walking over, Ray has the bike by the handlebars as Henry sits on it, feet on the asphalt.
Needle: GET THE FUCK OFF!
Poke: NEEDLE, NEVER MIND THE BIKE, WHASS IN THE BAG, RAY?
Henry, closing his eyes, as a single tear rolls down his cheek.
Henry: NO.
Pull back and pan around to a medium close up as Ray slaps Henry, his glasses flying towards us, cracked lenses and a bent arm as his head rocks back on his shoulder.
Henry, falling away, still clutching his bag. Do this as a downshot.
Cut to a blurred, out of focus upshot as Ray stands over him, the revolver in his hand with Needle and Poke flanking him.
Ray: GIVE IT UP, BITCH, THIS AIN’T YOUR NIGHT.
Page 5:
Cut to a falling cigarette butt, the end glowing in the twilight as we see it fall from a gloved hand.
The butt, hitting the floor.
The toecap of a cowboy boot, crushing it beneath. On the toe is a wolfs head, iridescent against the highly burnished black leather.
Upshot of an unshaven chin and a mouth, revealing white, even teeth, curved into a predatory smile.
Stack: NO, THIS AIN’T YOURS.
Head-level shot of Ray, Poke and Needle, Ray looks terrified, Poke is shocked and Needle looks deeply uncomfortable.
Page 6:
Medium shot in full profile. STACK somewhere between an extreme sports athlete and the Marlboro Man. He stands about six feet tall, with black hair worn stylishly unkempt and a faint trace of silver at the temples. He wears designer sunglasses, Oakley or Wayfarer, the kind worn by extreme athletes low on the bridge of his nose, above which his cerulean blue eyes twinkle, there are the faintest traces of crows feet there. He is a big man, but a lot of his bulk is concealed beneath the biker jacket he wears, a designer motley of colors (no logos). He wears blue jeans and the aforementioned boots; his hands are squeezed into his pockets. Think a grizzled Brad Pitt or a young Jack Nicholson. Around his neck, on a chain is a symbol, a golden triangle with a circle inset and inside of that is a caduceus.
Stack: STEP AWAY FROM THE MAN, AND DROP THE WEAPON ON THE GROUND.
Ray, pointing the revolver at Stack, it is held to the left as he looks at Stack, terrified.
Ray: FUCK YOU, MAN. BEST BACK OFF BEFORE I PUT YOU DOWN.
Needle hands behind his back, staring at Stack.
Needle: MOVE YOUR ASS, MOTHERFUCKER.
Cut behind him, as we see him racking the slide on a Glock-17.
Stack (no tail): WOULDN’T RECOMMEND THAT, MY MAN.
Needle, pointing the gun at Stack.
Needle: RAY AIN’T GOING TO DO SHIT, UNDERSTAND?
Page 7:
Poke, pointing at Henry on the ground, bemused.
Poke: THOUGHT WE WAS FIXIN’ TO ROB THIS BITCH, NOW WE’RE GONNA SHOOT THAT BITCH?
Ray: THAT’S RIGHT, POKE.
Needle: DAMN STRAIGHT.
Stack, stood there, still smiling.
Stack: IT APPEARS TO BE THAT WAY, SIR. WOULD YOU BE PULLING A GUN AT THIS POINT?
Poke, shrugging his shoulders embarrassed.
Poke: NOT UNLESS YOU GONNA LET ME GRAB IT FROM MY GLOVE COMPARTMENT?
Stack (no tail): THAT MIGHT BE STRETCHING IT THERE, MIND IF I DECLINE THAT?
Poke, frowning as we are looking over Stack’s shoulder at this point.
Poke: SEEMS FAIR TO ME. BUT THEN I AIN’T THE ONE WITH TWO GUNS POINTED AT MY CRACKER ASS.

Page 8:
Needle, pointing the gun at Stack as he looks to Ray.
Needle: SO WHAT NOW, DO WE SHOOT HIS ASS?
Ray: THAT’S UP TO HIM, IT’S DARK, MIGHT BE THAT HE GOT HIMSELF LOST AND MIGHT WANT TO WALK HIS ASS OVER THE STREET.
Stack, slipping the glasses up the bridge of his nose with a gloved forefinger, the smile has left his face entirely.
Stack: THAT’S VERY THOUGHTFUL OF YOU, RAY.
3. The other hand, sliding from the pocket, gripping something. 4. Pull back as Stack has a dart gun, something that resembles a cross between a paint ball gun and a squeeze bottle in his hand, firing it with his arms stretched ahead of him, in a two-handed grip.
Needle, falling away, clutching his pelvic area, the gun relinquished entirely.
Ray, folding over as he is shot.
Poke, aghast at what has happened.
Pull back as he lurches towards Ray’s revolver.
Upshot, the dart gun pointed downward, a gloved finger on the outside of the trigger guard.
Stack: DON’T.
Page 9:
Henry sat upright, broken glasses askew on his face, cradling his bag.
Text: NOW THAT WOULD’VE MADE FOR SOME DAMN FINE PHOTOS.
Stack, pocketing the gun, whilst Poke cowers at his feet.
Stack: NOW, I INTEND TO DIAL 9-11, WHICH IS PROBABLY MORE THAN YOU’D HAVE DONE FOR THIS MAN HERE, AM I RIGHT?
Poke, crying and nodding as he trembles at Stack’s feet.
Poke: PLEASE MAN, DON’T KILL ME, I AIN’T DONE SHIT TO YOU.
Stack, smiling kindly as he helps Poke to his feet.
Stack: YOU EVER SEEN ME BEFORE?
Poke: NO, MAN. NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE.
Stack: YOU KNOW WHY YOUR BOY RAY IS ACTING ALL SKITTISH?
Poke, shaking his head and hugging himself.
Poke: HEARD HE GOT INTO SOME SHIT WITH THIS WHITE BITCH IN TORRANCE, CLAIMING HE RAPED HER, BUT RAY SAID HE DIDN’T DO SHIT.
Stack: HE SAY HOW OLD THIS ‘WHITE BITCH’ WAS?
Stack one hand on Poke’s shoulder, as he looks him in the eyes.
Stack: SHE WAS YOUR SISTER’S AGE, POKE. HE FORCED HIMSELF ON HER, THEN HE CUT HER AND HE LEFT HER BARELY BREATHING. I KNOW WHAT YOU FEEL NEEDS TO BE DONE IF YOU ROLL WITH A CERTAIN CROWD, BUT…
Poke, his head bowed, as he looks disgusted. Tight head and shoulders shot here.
Poke: THAT AIN’T RIGHT, DOG.
Page 10:
Poke, looking up confused and disoriented as Stack helps Henry to his feet.
Poke: HOW’D YOU KNOW I HAD A SISTER?
Stack: I KNOW A LOT OF THINGS, POKE. I KNOW THAT YOU’RE NOT LYING THERE IN A POOL OF YOUR OWN BLOOD, RIGHT NOW…
Angle the shot so that we can see Henry holding his glasses as Stack turns to Poke.
Stack: BUT KEEP ROLLING ON THESE STREETS AND YOU WILL BE. GO HOME TO YOUR MOMMA, POKE. TAKE SOMETHING GOOD OUT OF THIS WHOLE SHITTY DEAL, ALRIGHT?
Poke, walking away, shoulders down back to his car.
The car, pulling away.
Stack, turning to Henry and smiling at him.
Stack: ARE YOU ALRIGHT? NAME’S STACK
Henry: HENRY. YES. I AM, AND I DON’T KNOW HOW TO THANK YOU.
Stack: THERE A GOOD BAR AROUND HERE?


Page 11:
Establishing shot, a bar, somewhere cheap and cheerful but not entirely a dive of ill repute.
Drop the angle of the shot so that we are looking at a tabletop, a frosted pitcher, two glasses, both empty and an ashtray on one side.
Henry: THAT WASN’T THE FIRST TIME YOU THREW DOWN BACK THERE, WAS IT?
Stack: NO, CAN’T SAY THAT IT WAS. WHAT WERE YOU DOING IN THAT ‘HOOD ANYWAYS?
3. Henry, raising a glass to his lips and smiling to himself as Stack lights a cigarette.
Henry: TAKING PHOTOGRAPHS OF GRAFFITTI TAGS, AS IT HAPPENS. AND YOU?
Stack: TRACKING DOWN A SICK RAPIST WITH THE INTENT OF CLAIMING A FAT REWARD THAT THE GIRL’S FATHER THREW UP YESTERDAY.
Stack, exhaling as Henry looks at him quizzically through his broken glasses.
Henry: IS THAT WHAT YOU DO?
Stack: WHEN THE OCCASION ARISES, YES IT IS SOMETHING THAT I DO.
Henry, sipping once again at his beer.
Henry: SO, WHAT DO YOU PULL DOWN ON THAT, AFTER TAX?
Stack: IT’S NOT ABOUT THE MONEY, TO BE HONEST, NOT THAT I MIND BEING PAID FOR DRAGGING SOME WASTE OF SKIN BACK TO JAIL.
Page 12:
Stack, pausing as he lights a cigarette, sucking up the courage to tell Henry about who he really is, he’s slightly turned away as he does this.
Stack: YOU’RE A JOURNALIST, RIGHT? IMAGINE YOU’VE SEEN SOME THINGS, YEAH?
Henry: YOU COULD SAY THAT, THERE’S NOT A LOT THAT CAN SURPRISE ME, I SUPPOSE.
Hold on Stack, as he looks at Henry over his cigarette.
Stack: SIX MONTHS AGO, I WAS THE SORRIEST PIECE OF SHIT YOU’VE EVER SEEN. A FUCKED-UP SKIN-POPPIN’ SKANK WHO SLEPT WHERE HE PASSED OUT AND STOLE WHAT HE COULD.
Cut to Henry, appraising him, looking for holes in his story already.
Henry: YOU LOOK REMARKABLY WELL, STACK. I’VE KNOWN PEOPLE ON BOTH SIDES OF ADDICTION, AND NONE OF THEM, EVEN THE ONES WHO SURVIVED, LOOK AS WHOLE AS YOU DO.
Stack: I COULD CLAIM ALL KINDS OF SHIT, BUT THAT’S THE PROBLEM, HENRY—
Pan back to Stack.
Stack:--I DON’T REMEMBER HOW I CLEANED UP. AT ALL.
Page 13:
Henry, smiling politely.
Henry: EXPLAIN THAT.
Stack: LAST THING I REMEMBER, SHUFFLING DOWN SUNSET, LOOKING FOR SOMEWHERE TO FIX UP AND CRASH, GET THE TASTE OUT OF MY MOUTH—
Henry: NOT THAT MUCH DETAIL, STACK—
Stack: I TURN INTO THIS ALLEYWAY, SEE THIS DUMPSTER I CAN CRASH IN AND
Cut to a ragged, bone-thin junkie, who bears only the slightest resemblance to the present Stack, wreathed in a corona of white light as tesseract shapes surround him.
Voice (no tail): INITIATING PROCEDURE, PREPARATION STAGE ONE
Henry (no tail): AH, COME ON.
Henry, smiling, awkwardly as he suddenly seems uncomfortable, repaying Stack’s hospitality with his own incisive insights.
Henry: ALIENS TURN YOU FROM SKANKY MCSKANK INTO THE MARLBORO MAN? COME ON, WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL HERE?
Stack, sat there, appraising Henry, not insulted or angry, as he slightly leans over the table, taking Henry in, breathing in his aura, palms flat on the table as he looks at him. Angle this panel slightly from the side, so that the perspective is slightly distorted.
Stack: NOT PULLING ANYTHING, HENRY. I HAVE SOME PROOF, NOT ALL OF IT HERE.
Henry: IS YOUR PLACE LINED WITH TINFOIL? FEEL I SHOULD, AT LEAST ASK THAT.
Close up on Stack’s eyes.
Stack: OK, I KNOW THAT RIGHT NOW, YOU’RE TORN BETWEEN GRATITUDE THAT I SAVED YOUR LIFE AND FEAR THAT YOU ARE TALKING TO A GENUINE NUTJOB. THAT YOU HAVEN’T CALLED YOUR MOMMA, EVELYN, IN OVER A WEEK BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY TO HER AND THAT YOU FEAR THAT SHE COMPARES YOU UNFAVORABLY TO YOUR ELDER BROTHER, RAYMOND, WHO WORKS IN INVESTMENT BANKING. HOW AM I DOING?
Page 14:
Henry, mouth agape, he’s been thinking that exact train of thought. A moment, a beat of silence.
Henry, draining his glass, eyes still bulging ahead.
Henry, slamming the glass down.(Have this panels form the top half of the page in a horizontal sequence, with the latter pair taking a widescreen approach)
Henry: MR STACK, I AM GRATEFUL TO YOU FOR SAVING MY LIFE, BUT THIS CONVERSATION IS TAKING ONE SEVERE TURN TOWARDS FUCKED UP.
Stack, lighting a cigarette.
Stack: IT’S NOT SOMETHING I ENJOY DOING, BUT I NEED SOMEONE TO BELIEVE, TO BEAR WITNESS.
Henry: WHY NOT JUST GO ON LETTERMAN OR SOMETHING?
Stack: BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE THE ANSWERS THAT PEOPLE WANT TO HEAR.
Pan around and pull back to encompass both men.
Stack: I KNOW THAT SOMETHING HAPPENED, THAT I HAVE BEEN GIVEN SIGNIFICANT ADVANTAGES TO SOME END, BUT I CANNOT SEEM TO PUT IT ALL TOGETHER, I CANNOT THINK AROUND IT, I CANNOT FORCE IT.
Henry: IT MIGHT BE SOME FORM OF BREAKDOWN.
Page 15:
Stack, looking slightly vulnerable.
Stack: COULD BE, BUT AS SMART AS I AM, I AM TOO CLOSE TO IT.
Henry: TRIED THERAPY?
Stack: IT’S NOT A TRAUMA, HENRY. IT’S A PUZZLE. I CAN FUNCTION, BUT I GET THIS FEELING THAT I COULD GET ALONG BETTER KNOWING MORE ABOUT IT.
2. Henry, shaking his head slightly dismissively.
Henry: STACK, IT MIGHT BE THAT YOU GOT YOURSELF FUCKED UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE, THE BRAIN IS CAPABLE OF ALL KINDS OF INVENTIONS.
Stack: SO HELP ME, OINK AROUND IN MY LIFE, AT LEAST GET A STORY THAT’LL MAKE YOUR EDITOR BLOW A FUSE.
3. Henry, smiling as he realizes that his journalistic instinct is being appealed to, here.
Henry: STACK THE PSYCHIC BOUNTY HUNTER, MIGHT PITCH IT AS A FUCKING MOVIE!
Stack: NAH, NOT THESE DAYS, GOTTA BE A REMAKE OR A SEQUEL TO GET A STUDIO INTERESTED. SO, YOU IN?
Henry, holding up one finger.
Henry: YOU GET ONE WEEK, I GET TO GO WHERE I WANT, WITH YOU OR WITHOUT YOU AND I WILL SEE WHAT I CAN DIG UP. THAT’S WHAT SAVING MY ASS AND THEN GETTING ME HALF-CUT GETS YOU.
Stack: I’LL GET MY KEYS, NEED TO KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE ANYWAYS.
Page 16:
Establishing shot, Stack’s car with the two men in the front. In terms of what he drives, I envisage something modified to the gills, that isn’t about being visually ostentatious but certainly doesn’t come close to being something off of a factory line – tough and fast, designed for the street, be it a hot pursuit or a cruise. Certainly not a SUV or similar, it has to be an urban man car.
Stack: SO WHERE YOU LIVE?
Henry: NOT FAR, PULL OUT AND I’LL DIRECT YOU.
Flip to an overhead downshot as the car pulls out into traffic.
Cut to a through the windshield view, Stack is driving.
Henry: WHAT ARE WE LISTENING TO?
Stack: THELONIUS MONK.
Henry: YOU EVER LISTEN TO ANY REAL MUSIC?
Stack, smiling.
Stack: I TAKE MY MUSIC SERIOUSLY, HENRY.
Page 17:
Cut to behind the car, a black Lincoln, following them, an indistinct figure behind the wheel and a license plate that reads WH1TE.
Cut to Stack, looking in the rear view mirror, having clocked the Lincoln.
Stack: HMM
Henry, looking over his shoulder.
Henry: WE BEING FOLLOWED?
Stack (no tail): SOME NEW FRIENDS OF MINE, I THINK.
Pull back and drop to a slight downward angle as Stack turns the car right.
The Lincoln, following.
Page 18:
Cut to the rear door of the Lincoln, swinging open as it drives on, use speed lines to indicate the motion.
Stack, still checking the rear view as his hands grip the wheel.
Stack: OH SHIT…
Henry, looking ahead through the windshield, he’s seen something ahead.
Henry: STACK!
Big panel, in the headlights is a scarred, thuggish dwarf, wearing a black hooded top with a skull and cross bones across it, board shorts over steel toe capped boots. His eyes glitter coldly in the headlights and any visible flesh is striated with scars, a thin scrub of beard lies across his chin and cheeks. This is BRUTAL, one of the Seven, the agents of the antagonist who we will detail as time goes on. His arms are folded across his chest and he smiles coldly.
Page 19:
Cut to a side-view as the car stops inches from where Brutal stands, unperturbed.
Henry, stunned as Stack is moving to open the door.
Henry: WHAT IS THAT?
Stack: STAY HERE, HENRY. I GOT THIS..
Henry: I GUESS YOU WOULD HAVE.
Cut to an angled upshot, Stack looking over Brutal.
Stack: I THOUGHT THIS WAS DONE, B.
Brutal: SHE HOPED YOU WOULD RECONSIDER
Brutal, looking past Stack to Henry. Take this slightly from the side, in terms of body language, Stack is diplomatic, almost deferential.
Brutal: WHO’S THIS, YOUR SIDEKICK?
Stack: JUST A FRIEND, B. TELL HER THAT I CAN’T TAKE ANYTHING ELSE ON, RIGHT NOW, IT’S PERSONAL STUFF.
Brutal: WHAT’S HIS NAME?
Cut to Henry, looking out his passenger side window.
Snow: IT’S HENRY, ISN’T IT?
Page 20:
SNOW, if you’ve seen Angeline Jolie in Gone In 60 Seconds, it’s a shit film but she looks utterly incandescent in it, with the white-blond dreads set against her complexion. Use that as a reference, but shake it up a little. She is a Los Angeles fairy tale, there is something of the 40’s about her set against a gothic aesthetic, but she is a study in white and purity, a white gold nose ring, pearl lip gloss and eye shadow, emerald eyes that almost cut you to look at you. She wears a sheer white dress, under which we can see the outlines of tribal tattoos. You have to take the breath away, here.
Snow: I KNOW YOUR WORK.
Stack, turning on his heel, slightly perturbed as Snow has slid around to the front of the car, she has a beautiful back, all tone and definition.
Stack: SNOW, I THOUGHT WE DISCUSSED THIS.
Snow: WE DID, BUT I THOUGHT WE SHOULD TRY AGAIN.
Henry, looking concerned.
Henry: STACK?
A blur of motion, past Stack, blowing his hair up.
Brutal, squatting on the hood of the car, pointing a scarred finger and snarling at Henry.
Brutal: SHUT YOUR FUCKING FACE!
Page 21:
Stack, looking over at Brutal as his back is to us, dancing a tattoo on the hood of Stack’s ride.
Stack: STEP OFF OF THE HOOD, LITTLE MAN.
Close up as Henry reaches for the glove compartment, whilst staring straight ahead at Brutal.
Text: I DIDN’T THINK, I JUST REACTED
3. The compartment door, flipping open as Henry’s hand darts inside. 4. Brutal, looking over his shoulder as he gives Stack the finger.
Brutal: GO FUCK YOURSELF STACK BEFORE I –
Page 22:
Drop back to a medium distance shot as Brutal is thrown off of the hood, three exit wounds punching through his back, his arms pinwheeling.
Henry, the revolver extended and smoke drifting from the barrel as he looks on, shocked.
Stack, removing his glasses, surprised.
Snow, face crumpled in rage and dismay.
Brutal’s surprised face, pale from blood loss
Henry, in close up.
Henry: OH MAN.a well-travelled path by Morrison and Ellis). One script was written, some art completed but the artist jumped ship.
The original concept was that Stack, descended from the legendary afro-american archetype of Stack-o-lee, had returned to the 21st century L.A., summoned by increasing despair and racial tension, herald of race riots and violence. The whole piece came from the p.o.v of a black journalist, who bore witness to the whole thing.

The script, too hastily written became a future thing, and I am looking to revise it into the original concept, make it more urbane and horrific.

Funny how

Time flies, but I am in a bit of a funk at the moment, usual money worries compounded by a big funk that means I haven't really written anything substantial and I am still waiting on something to come out, but it is a slow process and to occupy myself - I have been working out, eating right and getting rest, have really started making changes to my body, almost an act of transgression as such - but will blog more

Money

Some people have a nice relationship with finance, currency whatever.

I don't, money is the psychotic girlfriend, that when you have her, she gives you an ephmeral moment of ecstacy and then when you don't, you feel a constant low-grade dread that permeates every moment of your life. I get paid monthly, we go food shopping, pay the mortgage and then maybe I get to go buy comics but that is it. I draw out the odd tenner for cigarettes but really that is it, and bang, it's all gone.

I so need to sort my life out, either that or figure out a way to make lots of money doing something I enjoy.

Stasis

Busy. Circuit training, transformation, living off of tuna and baked potatoes, eating to the point of monotony but I feel so much more alive, a real physical connection to myself that never really had before.

Comics - more of Seven Soldiers, the stories so far are all wonderful, I love Morrison because he makes me want to be a writer, not that I want to be the next Morrison but he inspires and creates in a way that few can, he is to a higher standard than most, if not all other comic writers in my opinion. I cannot wait to see his screenplay realized and the acts of global tomfoolery that it is supposed to fund.

Books - Bushwhacked by MOLLY IVINS, new John Connolly, old Chuck Palahniuk, dummies guide to meditation and to chess, Bill Bryson and Don Winslow. My book habit is grandiose and frightening, but I cannot stop it.

Three stories

12 pages each, so will be working on those to get those out as soon as possible. Going to go for three genres, which I will look upon as I drink coffee and eat eggs!

More George Galloway

There is a transcript up on Common Dreams

Ice Cream Man Loses It

and beats up a teenager.

Let's face it, if someone mouths off at you, go with that instinct to crack their fucking face open, that voice inside your head, which sounds like a testosterone-fuelled actor you like(mine is Vin Diesel with his Riddick voice) is GOOD and should be listened to. Because it's a process that helps you grow, do you keep wising off and risk a beating or consider that maybe respect and manners is altogether healthier.

George Galloway

Is currently laying the smack down on the senate commitee with regards to allegations regarding Iraqi oil. I feel that he is doing something right if he is attracting all of this heat, and I was pleased that he won his seat, and I am pleased that he will be in Parliament, hopefully fighting for the people in a way that Blair would never do.

DREAD

This is the next generation of machine designed to put big holes in people

A point worth making

by Alan Moore, who has led the way in showing that the mainstream superhero comic can be interesting and challenging, if you apply a little intelligence and get past your own perconceived notions of how a character should be..

one of the things that prevents superhero stories from ever attaining the status of true modern myths or legends is that they are open ended. An essential quality of a legend is that the events in it are clearly defined in time; Robin Hood is driven to become an outlaw by the injustices of King John and his minions. That is his origin. He meets Little John, Friar Tuck and all the rest and forms the merry men. He wins the tournament in disguise, he falls in love with Maid Marian and thwarts the Sheriff of Nottingham. That is his career, including love interest, Major Villains and the formation of a superhero group that he is part of. He lives to see the return of Good King Richard and is finally killed by a woman, firing a last arrow to mark the place where he shall be buried. That is his resolution--you can apply the same paradigm to King Arthur, Davy Crockett or Sherlock Holmes with equal success. You cannot apply it to most comic book characters because, in order to meet the commercial demands of a continuing series, they can never have a resolution. Indeed, they find it difficult to embrace any of the changes in life that the passage of time brings about for these very same reasons, making them finally less than fully human as well as falling far short of true myth.

Why Comics?

Why comics?

I like the fact that there exists near total freedom to go for the themes and ideas that interest you, that it can be as utterly low-fidelity as you might wish or as slick and crafted as you like, that you are relatively free of the comic equivalent of test screenings or creation by commitee that plagues cinema. I like building my own toybox of tricks and narrative conceits as well, mostly by raiding my own comics collection and really sucking the marrow out of it, but still coming up with something that is uniquely me. That I have waited this long for people to put my words into images is testament as to how much I love comics.

the last knight

Found this on the hard-drive, this was an earnest attempt to create something that straddled the 40's saturday morning serials and the merchandise driven child-orientated entertainment of today, would like some comments on it as to whether it has legs or not.


THE LAST KNIGHT
A young boy, living in care breaks into the apartment of an old man, when dared to by his twin brother, David. Instead he finds the occupant waiting for him, and offering him an opportunity to redeem himself. The old man explains that he had been tasked to guard an artifact, and that a boy would come to claim it, one who would pass the wards set to protect it. Intrigued, the boy touches the sword and becomes swathed in light, transforming into an idealized adult version of him.
The old man is delighted, and when the boy relinquishes his contact, he transforms back into his child-self. The old man has found his successor, he tells the boy to come back tomorrow.
At the home, David is curious but the boy says that it was boring and he wouldn’t bother going back there, but David doesn’t believe him.
He goes to return the next day, but his social worker arrives to take him to visit a potential foster family, but when he asks if his brother can come, the social worker tries to explain that David’s behavioral issues mean that the likelihood of them both being taken as a pair is unlikely. The boy refuses to see the family, choosing his brother over the possibility of a life outside of the care system.
He returns to the house, and the old man tells him about the sword, and what it is capable of. It is intelligent, and has it’s own desires, for which it needs a wielder, in return it will grant the wielder skill in battle and health, as well as strength and durability. The boy is dubious, but when the old man hands him the sword and draws his own, the boy transforms and parries the blow smoothly, only to see that the old man has a second dagger ready to strike, at this the boy-knight feels a cold liquid flow over him, solidifying into armor.
David, meanwhile is all over the boy when he comes back, but the boy is not interested in sharing with him, David pushes him but the boy calmly gets up and walks away, David seethes with impotent rage, going to play with his toy robot collection and draw pictures of him as a superhero.
That night, the boy transforms into the knight and activates the armor, going to the roof with the old man. He then looks out over the city, as the old man talks to him, telling him that he can do whatever he wishes. The knight concentrates and then he lifts off into the sky, the sword blazing with power.
End of first act.
David is invited to hang out with some of the older boys at the home, and they hang around, drinking alcohol and smoking, David is encouraged to try them and soon the entire group is intoxicated. A young woman walks by, and one of the boys makes a crude comment, which the woman laughs off, an act that enrages the boys who start following her, David is entirely out of his depth here but is swept into the situation. He chooses to join in, rather than to walk away or question what is going on here. Eventually it becomes a chase, and they herd her into an alley, preparing to physically attack her.
Until the knight comes sailing down from the sky above, sword in hand and armored up. One of the boys laughs, whilst the others throw bottles at the knight. He bats away the bottles, although he does take one to the head as he strides forward. As one of them rushes him, he flips the sword and knocks one out with the pommel, before sliding the blade up the back of the shirt of another to throw him up into the air. David is aghast, and catches the knight’s eye before he too, turns and runs. The knight sees to the woman, and flies off, following David.
David runs, straight into the path of a patrol officer, knocking him flying, to further add to his misfortune, the woman he was involved in attacking, alerts the officer to the situation. Shocked, the knight watches the officer detain David and take him into custody. The woman starts to mention the knight, but soon stops as she realizes how crazy she sounds.
David is thrown into a holding area, whilst the knight hurriedly returns to the home, and swoops into his room, stashing the sword by moving a false panel in the ceiling and hiding it there. As he tries to sleep, he hears the altercation as the staff is alerted to David and the other boy’s situation.
Meanwhile, David is terrified, surrounded by the desperate and the dangerous as he waits for someone to arrive. The social worker arrives and David returns to the home in disgrace, he is crying in his bed and reject’s his brother’s overtures of comfort. During the night, the boy is awoken by the sound and light of the sword in the alcove, he goes to retrieve it and feels it tug in his hand, pulling him. David however is awake and after his brother leaves, he follows him. The boy is led out to the garden behind the home, where the old man waits, dressed strangely.
He tells him that it is time to begin his quest, that the boy must come with him, that he has a higher destiny. Nervous, the boy is reluctant but looking at the sword, and then behind him, he nods, accepting the call to adventure. A rift opens, and he steps through, the man following. David runs, just as the rift closes, but he too, is pulled through.
*David is pulled into the earlier part of the timestream, where he, with his emotional problems, his imagination and the technology of the machine collective, enables him to become the machine-warrior known as the Spite, the nemesis of the Knight who, when the boy arrives has already led the collective to great victories
*The Spite is David’s rage, frustration and his torment rendered into a fighting robotic form, all sharp edges and smooth, metallic cool.
The boy emerges to a massive reception, where the entire population of the Skin has gathered to welcome the fulfillment of their prophesized victor, wielding the weapon that was sent to the proposed location as decided centuries ago. *The Skin are humans who chose biological advances and evolution to advance them to a level where their abilities are akin to evolution and the use of magic. They are one tribe who live in a massive city grown from organic materials, that has it’s own intelligence and moves on a massive pseudopodia. An earlier generation discovered the multiple universes and sent out exploratory craft, but when one of them brought back a virulent plague, the program was scaled back. As the war with the Collective began, the Skin discovered the prophetic writings of the great leader Darwin, and the discovery that the Skin’s progenitors had sent the sword into a parallel universe where it would await alongside an engineered line of genetic descendants until such time as it was needed, a time that was worked out through massively complex calculations akin to magic – the principle being that coincidence can be manipulated, that the universe is made of information and that information can be accessed and controlled – the Skin used it to improve themselves and their way of life, the Collective want to use it to bring about stability and order to the way of all things.*
The boy has the potential to lead the Skin, to if not, victory, but at least force a cease fire by forcing the Collective to defensive postures rather than offensive ones. But the boy must face the Collective’s champion, a sentient engine of destruction known as the Spite. The boy is overwhelmed, but the sword seems to give him inner strength and he promises he will do his best to help them.
The Skin has no real army as such, relying instead on the natural defenses of their sentient city and their own manipulations of coincidence against the Collective. So, the boy is led to quarters, where he sits with the old man, known here as Duo, he’s confused. Duo tells him that the sword has all the answers, so he leaves the boy who concentrates upon it.
He enters into a trance state, another dimension, one where everything is made up of motile metals, the same material as the sword. He speaks with an avatar, whom shows the story of the current war, that the Collective and the Skin were once one race, until their progenitors grew apart. Fearing war, the Progenitors withdrew to another universe, seeding a parallel universe with the weapon that would have unbalanced the conflict, believing that, once they had left, the two sides would come to a truce of some kind. Unfortunately, the Collective have become increasingly aggressive and so, the Skin spent valuable resources on awakening Duo and ensuring that the Sword would return to this universe. It is a conduit to a number of energy sources, all accessible to the Wielder. He comes out of the trance state, to find Duo looking at him, to tell him that the Collective have launched a skirmish.
First battle here, the Sword covering him in armor and he takes to the skies at this point, the Collective’s war efforts are a cross between the insectoid adversaries of Starship Troopers and the Terminators. The Sword starts drawing upon other-dimensional energies, destroying the robots in massive explosions, before diving into the fray, taking them apart with single blows of the sword, one of them fires a beam that blinds him for a moment but does no apparent damage. He eventually destroys the generator that is deploying the robots and returns to the city. They are both exultant and frightened of him. Duo is the only one to approach him, which unnerves him somewhat.
Meanwhile, we see that a gathering of robots are plugged into an ovoid structure, and above them, plays the footage of the Wielder in combat, with all sorts of biometric data overlaid. The ovoid structure vents gas, and the footage closes in on the armored visage of the Wielder before blinking out entirely. We see a small palm pressed against the glass, before it slips away entirely.
The Wielder is seen by the Skin’s delegates, who grant him the freedom of the City and are willing to discuss tactics with him. He is curious about the Collective, and suggests that they might see if they can find out anything about their numbers and capabilities, they mention that when they might be able to use remote viewing to gauge their strength, which the Wielder agrees to.
The remote viewers, a group of Skin sit in what appears to be the alien equivalent of a sweat lodge, and the smoke coalesces into a screen upon which we see the Collective’s base of operations, a massive machine city, devoted to constant production and movement, cold and alien. At the center, they focus on the ovoid, which is connected to massive umbilical cords and then finally we see a massive mechanical humanoid, bristling with edged weapons and guns, which touches the ovoid tenderly before the screen fades back into smoke.
Meanwhile, the Wielder is hungry and goes around asking what he can get to eat, Duo presents him with a plug of what appears to be moss, as the Skin have a selective trait that has removed the need to eat, instead they have grown this for the Wielder’s benefit, which contains all the nutrients and sustenance a human male needs. Reluctantly, he ingests it and finds that it is surprisingly tasty!
That night, he dreams about David, they are stood in a desert where the sand is black and the sky broods with clouds, he is running towards him but cannot reach him. He wakes up in tears, and tries to get back to sleep but cannot. Instead he meditates upon the sword once again, practicing with it, eventually in his adult form, he manages to fall into a troubled sleep.
The next morning, he begins to test the sword’s capabilities, almost ‘hacking’ it to get the fullest advantage, formulating an effect that allows him to process motion, to move at incredible speeds, although the perceptual effect makes him nauseous.
In the Collective city, inside the Ovoid, we see the perceptual effect that the Wielder suffered on a screen, the same hand reaches to touch the screen, cancelling it.
©Matt Blissett 2004

en theos

It is the latin word for enthusiasm, and means 'god within'. It appeared in an open letter the late comedian Bill Hicks wrote to a clergyman who berated him for his religious material, the idea that the excitement one feels when doing something pleasurable or meaningful is divine encouragement. Better that, a catma rather than a dogma.

No mission statements, just ideas, opinions and random mutterings.