Tin.Can.Goat

Here’s a few of the SWAG items I picked up at Emerald City ComiCon (ECCC) in Seattle this year. Hopefully soon, I will be able to frame them.

Sorry in advance for the crappy pix; I took them with my cell phone.

This one is for a pitched idea. Rashan Ekedal is the artist, and the book is Resurrection Men. Don’t know if it will ever get published, but it’s my first two-page spread. The details are awesome.

A close-up on the detail.

Here is Rashan’s “fancy” signature.

My first cover art piece. It’s only Ant-Man, but it is done by Phil Hester, which is awesome.

This next piece isn’t a comic book. It’s art a computer geek does up in Seattle, while he’s at work. This picture doesn’t do any justice to the art. It’s 80% hand-drawn, 20% computer filled. The computer filled parts are the backgrounds. (I can not for the life of me remember his name.)

A close up of his art.

Ok, last one, but it’s not from ECCC 2010. This one is one of my babies. An original signed script for Batman: Shadow of the Bat #72; written, and signed, by Alan Grant. I received this from him because I wrote a letter to him in which I apologized for confusing him with the less talented Alan Moore. (My opinion of course.)

Peace out!

TCG

[228]

“This is Debbie Dallas here on KRAK FM, where it’s early morning and the only thing that stinking around here is our competition. With me is my co-host Bobby Billens. He’s a little back woods as you all know, but he keeps me entertained, so I keep him around. Got anything to say there Bobby?”

“When did I wake up with this cush job?” Bobby said, and muted his mic to wipe spit from it.

“I know you can’t see it folks, but he just came all over his mic,” Debbie said. “Little premature, wouldn’t you say Bobby?”

“I don’t think you can say that on air,” Bobby said.

Debbie pursed her lips and looked genuinely hurt. “Premature? Or mic?”

“Came.”

“Why not Bobby dear? I mean, I came to work this morning. You should know…you came in after me. You know, I think I might come tomorrow too. To work that is…come to work. You know, you’ll come in after me. Just don’t slip in it.” She tilted her head back and laughed. Bobby honked a bike horn, and twirled a finger to motion that they should move on.

“Yeah, yeah Bobby, I got ya. Get it moving. Don’t stall too much on one thing or another. Be careful you don’t slip in the premature come there.”

Bobby sighed, and looked at me. He made a motion that I should put on the headset near me, and with a shrug I complied.

“Well folks,” Debbie said, and leaned up close to her mic. “It looks like it’s that time of the show again. That time when we don’t put a man on the street to bring you the same boring shi—crap, crap that you hear everywhere else. Nope, we go out and bring the man on the street to you; sort of a man off the streets if you will. Today we have with us a guy, kind scruffy looking to tell you the truth, a guy who goes by the name of—”

She waved her hands in the air, and I leaned forward and spoke into the mic. “Phil.”

“By the name of Phil. Phil works here downtown, or so he says. Ask his co-workers and they’ll tell you different. Did I say scruffy folks? I think I did, but that doesn’t do him justice. He’s got a virtual beaver growing on his face.” She looked over at Bobby. “I can say beaver right?” Bobby nodded. “Coolness, I can say it looks like he was a girl and she got up and left a beaver on his face.”

“You can’t say it like that,” Bobby said.

“I can’t say a girl left a beaver on his face? I didn’t say it was her beaver—“

“That’s even worse.”

I smiled. “Depends. I’m not against beaver on my face.”

Debbie laughed, and Bobby looked at me with a shocked look on his face.

“Woo-Hoo! Folks we have us a gen-u-ine comedian here, and he sounds like a guy I wouldn’t mind taking home after the show,” Debbie said. “What do you say Phil?”

“I’d say, that if I weren’t married, that would be nice. You’re looking kinda cute,” I said.

“Oh, my type of man alright,” Debbie said, and blew a kiss at me.

I hooked a thumb at Bobby. “I was talking to Bobby. I like my women with a little less hips. Like Bobby here.”

Bobby looked at me, a smirk on his face. “I’m a guy.”

“Whoa, sorry man, couldn’t tell with them hips,” I said, and Debbie howled. “Plus, Bobby’s a unisex name, are you sure?”

“Trust me Phil,” Debbie said, and slapped me on the shoulder. “He’s been picked up before, but usually cause of those huge man-boobs. Never the hips.”

“Bobby with a ‘Y’,” Bobby said, and muted our mics. He motioned for me to remove my headset. I removed mine and followed him out the door.

“So,” he said once we were outside the room. “I’ll bet you thought that was pretty goddamn clever, didn’t you?”

I stepped back and leaned on the counter behind me. “Sorry man,” I said. “I thought it was supposed to go like that.”

“Did you think it would end up with me bitch-slapping you out the door?” He raised his hand and the fat under his arm waddled beneath his biceps.

I smiled.

“Usually,” I said. “When one is bitch-slapping another, it’s because the one receiving the slap is the bitch. In this case, I am guessing it would be the bitch doing the slapping.”

“Just get out,” Bobby said, and dropped his skin-tagged arm to his side.

“No problem,” I said, and backed away from him. “Next time you go to get your man off the street, make sure he’s a pushover. You’ll have an easier time than you did with me.”

I turned and watched the glass door close. Bobby stood inside and flipped me off, but in the background, through a small glass pane in the door to the broadcast room, was Debbie jetting her tongue between her fingers, and then she held her hand to her head and mouthed ‘call me’.

I waved, and turned to go. I was fifteen minutes late for work as it was.

[875]

“I don’t like this one bit,” she said, and pulled her head in the car window. Her hair was windswept across her face, and it stuck in strands against her lipstick-moist lips. She pulled at her with her fingers and it pulled red lines across her cheeks.

“You didn’t do it right,” he said, and pointed back over the seat with his thumb. “Look at it wobbling around back there.”

She followed the direction of his thumb. He was right, though she didn’t want to admit it, the mailbox was standing; she did a poor job of knocking it down.

“Another problem,” she said. “I dropped the bat.”

“Are you freaking kidding me?”

“Sorry.”

“Good Lord,” he said, and laid his weight onto the brake pedal. He swung the car in a U-turn and headed back towards the wobbling mailbox. Gravel spit out from the tires as he drove along the opposite edge of the road. “Here, grab the wheel and keep it straight.” She grabbed the wheel and kept the car running parallel to the graveled edge.

He opened the door and leaned out. The car accelerated as his weight pressed against the accelerator pedal.

“Hey, your foot is pressing the gas—“ she said.

“Just keep the wheel straight,” he said. She jumped at the rudeness, but kept her mouth shut. She figured if he wanted to be stupid, he’d learn his lesson.

“Got it!” he said, and pulled himself upright. The opened door slammed against the wobbling mailbox, and slammed into the baseball bat still in the door. The baseball bat knocked into his hip and he cried out. The bat dropped through the crack of the door and clacked along the road behind them.

“Dammit,” he said, and pulled the door closed with a slam. “What the hell just happened?”

“I tried to tell you that we were accelerating into the mailbox, but you interrupted me,” she said. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Kind of late now. Hurts a like hell.” He rubbed his free hand on his hip and applied pressure to the brakes, stopping the car.

He got out and started walking. She cringed as he limped with each left step.

“Do you think you’ll be ok?” she said, and she exited the car and walked to him. He stopped walking and rubbed his hip, then picked up the bat.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, and turned and limped towards the passenger side of the car. “I need you to drive.”

“Yeah,” she said, and sat down in the driver’s seat. “Yeah, sure, no problem. Where to?”

He started to buckle his belt, but stopped and let it slap against the side of the cab. “I’m thinking if we’re going to get in trouble for breaking mailboxes, then we might as well get in trouble for doing it well.”

“Because that’s dad’s?” she asked, and smiled.

He laughed.

“Yep. So, turn this thing around and let me have a go. Dad may have built that mailbox solid, but I’m going to knock it into next week.”

She smiled, turned the car around, and accelerated as he leaned out the window. “This is going to be sweet,” she said.

He rotated the bat as the wind beat against his face. “Sure is,” he said.

[550]

Chester and I propped the hood up with a stick I’d found in the gutter. Cars passed by. Some drivers honked, and others yelled obscenities. Chester ignored them; I waved as they swerved around us on the two lane overpass.

“I thought you put gas in this morning,” I said, waving at a guy who’d whistled as he passed by.

“Can’t you smell it?” Chester said, and backed out from under the hood. He wiped his hands on his pants, and left black grease smears on the white cotton. “It’s pouring out everywhere.”

I looked to where he pointed, and saw the gas pumping out of a fuel line onto the hot engine. “Don’t you think we should back up a bit? I mean, in case it catches on fire?”

“I can’t believe this.” Chester wiped his greasy hands against his temples. “I’ve got the date tonight.”

“The date?”

“Yeah, I’m going to ask her.”

“The witch?”

“Yes, but she’s not a practicing member.” He leaned under the hood. “Here it is. This hose right here.” He pushed the rubber hose onto the metal connector.

“Where’s the clamp?”

“It fit on there pretty tight. It’ll be ok.”

“You want to wash off the engine?” I said, and closed the hood. Chester shook his head, and sat down in the VW.

“Can’t,” he said, and closed the door. “I’ve got to pick her up in an hour. Push.” I did.

I walked along the shoulder of the road and watched as Chester coasted the brown bug down the other side of the overpass and into the service station lot. I caught up and jumped into passenger seat as Chester started the engine.

“Can I drop you off at your aunt’s,” Chester asked, and navigated towards her house.

“That’d be fine,” I said.

†

Early morning; I sat in my mother’s herb garden, pulling weeds. Chester pulled up in his mother’s gold Chevette, and stopped on my mother’s dill. He rolled down the window, and leaned out.

“You busy?” he said, and I stood and wiped my hands on my backside.

“Nope, just playing with myself,” I said, and held out my hand to shake. Chester backed in the window.

“Seriously?”

I shook my head, and sighed. “I have a feeling something exciting happened last night. Did you loan her the Beetle?”

Chester drew a deep breath. “We broke up,” he said.

I stopped smiling. “Oh man, sorry. Why?”

“Cumulation of things, but it was probably the fire.” He looked at me, and I stared back. “The car. It caught on fire.”

“Seriously?” I rubbed the back of my hand across my mouth to stifle a smile.

“Yes. It all started out so well too.” Chester opened the door, and stood next to the car. “See, after I dropped you off, I was running real late. So I stopped at K-Mart and bought some pants, but they didn’t have my size.” I nodded. “So I saw a rack across the aisle and picked up a pair, but when I tried them on I noticed the buttons were on the wrong side.”

“Girl pants?”

“Yeah, but they looked like a man’s, so I bought them anyway. I figured no one would notice. The waiter did though,” he said, and I chuckled. “Yeah, funny now, but it wasn’t when I was putting out the fire.”

“And then?”

“Ok, so I bought the pants and picked her up. She complimented me on them—“

“Of course she did.”

“—at first, but made of fun of them after we broke up.”

“That’s a given,” I said, and laughed.

“Anyways,” Chester said. “I picked her up and took her to Olive Garden.”

“By the mall?”

“Yeah, is there another?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wish I had known that ahead of time.”

I shook my head. “No, I mean I really don’t know.”

“So, we waited a bit for a table, but they gave us a pager, so we sat outside in the car and made out a bit,” Chester said, and made like he was kissing an invisible girl. I twirled a finger. “Yeah, so we’re making out and she’s all hot on me, but then stops cause she said she smelled smoke. I assured her it was nothing, but she wouldn’t believe me. So she made me go back inside to wait inside the restaurant.

“We sat down and the waiter comment on how much he liked my pants, she smiled at it, but I thought it was cool at the time. Maybe I was starting a trend.”

I shook my head. “Doubtful.”

“So, we get some sparkling wine. You know—the non-alcoholic kind.” I nodded. “And we’re drinking a toast when some guy yells a car is on fire. She looks at me and said, ‘I told you’, but I ignored that and stood up to see if I could see who’s car was burning.

“I see the hostess talking to the man, and then she says into the mike—“

I interrupt. “That it’s a brown VW Beetle?”

“—that a brown VW Beetle is on fire in the parking lot. Well, I grabbed a water pitcher off the waiter’s tray next to our table and run out there. The manager is running beside me, and he’s holding a fire extinguisher.

“Needles to say, we both get the fire out. You shouldn’t throw water on an engine fire, by the way.”

“Kind of knew that,” I said.

“Yeah,” Chester said. “It really spreads the flames.”

“But you got it out?”

“Yeah, we got it out, but then she and I had to wait around for two hours.”

“What?”

“Yeah, my uncle and mom said they’d come tow us, but it took them that long to get there, and then they didn’t even bring the chain. We finally towed it this morning.”

“When did you break up then?” I said.

Chester ran his tongue across his teeth, and sucked on a piece of food stuck there. “We had some time to talk. She figured it was a sign.”

I laughed. “Hell yes it was a sign; witches aren’t too partial to fire; the whole New England thing and all.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind. So what are you going to do now?”

Chester climbed into the driver’s seat, and closed the door. “Mom needs her car back, and I’m going to see if the engine on my Bug is salvageable.” He reached over and twisted a screwdriver handle on the other side of the steering column, and the engine roared to life.

I laughed, and leaned in the window. “What is that?” I said, and pointed at the handle.

“My nephew thought it would be funny to throw the keys out the window last night,” he said.

“Were you parked?”

“No, the key didn’t fit well—kind of loose—into the ignition. We were driving down the highway, and he just reached over, and whoosh!, threw them out the window.

“Mom’s had him out all day next to the highway looking for them. He hadn’t found them when I drove past a while ago. He was just sitting there eating Aspargus.”

He put the car into gear, and pulled away, but stopped at the end of the driveway and leaned out the window. “Let’s do something later,” he said. “It seems I have a lot of free time now.”

[1226]