Chief Cook & Bottle Washer

( Sketches! )

Just for fun, here's a list of names I've come up with for Rooftop Nights:

-Amp
-Johnny Hurricane
-StormMaster
-Dr. Thunder
-Firefight (I've wanted to use this name for a character since I was thirteen. Originally, he was a character I wanted to use in a Generation X pitch that I was 6,946,145,976,001 percent certain Marvel would buy. I'm way too excited to get to his story.)
-Wildfire
-Knightstick (Nightstick)
-White Light (White Lamplight)
-Hound
-Requiem (For some reason, I want to say this was/is a team name.)
-Black Angel
-Beacon
-Shadow of Death
-Lucky Seven (This is a name for a team, based on the idea that the number seven is a magical number. It's also a reference to the Magnificent Seven, which was based on Seven Samurai. The Magnificent Seven also refers to the "big guns" line-up of the JLA.)
-Mr. Jinx
-Trigger-Happy Jack
-Angry Johnny
-Rebel Yell
-X.E.R.O.
-Triton
-Public Enemy (A criminal who splits into duplicates, i.e. Public Enemy #1, #2, etc.)

As for the others... There's a ton of references, can you pick them out?

She offers me a cigarette. I take it, sitting up in her bed as I light it. She looks at me and smiles, slowly blowing smoke. I stare intently at the smoldering end of the cigarette. The night breeze from the open window dries the sweat on our skin.

With a laugh, she tells me I'm a bastard.

I don't disagree.

"I was kidding," she says. "You're a good guy."

Right.

"Look, there must be something wrong with your relationship if you're here with me."

No, I say. You were right the first time.

The first draft of the beginning of my screenplay.

Originally titled Lonely City, but then I realized that's the title of the fifth volume of Transmet and kind of a lame title for what I want to convey, so...

( Tentatively titled Butterfly. )

A script for an idea ayannah had and gave me to flesh out and script. That's why there's notes at the beginning and scattered throughout. Enjoy.

( Scripty Goodness! )

You'll love this place. Best sushi in the oh hey, it's Amy!

"Wow. That sentence made less than zero sense."

Shut up. I see someone I know. I'm going to go say 'hi.'

Sweet.

Zombie.

Jesus.

"What?"

Just someone I didn't want to see.

"Who?"

Ex.

"Ah. Bad break-up?"

Fuck. I really don't want to have miso soup dumped on me because this girl can't not make a big deal over this.

Wait. Idea.

"What're you doing? You're calling her?! That's mildly insane."

No, calling Amy. Find out if they're coming or going.

Christ. Not answering. Looks like they're leaving. And coming this way. Hell.

Notlookingnotlookingnotlookingnotlookingnotlookingnotlookingnotlooking

What? Why did he call?

I don't know, I'll call him back when we get outside.

God, he's such an


"They're gone. Also-- Adam Ant is singing in your pants."

I hear it. Hello? What? No, nothing. Just... Well, I saw you and I was going to say hello but then I saw who you were with and decided discretion was the better part of valor. No, it's fine. Look, I'll just give you a call later, alright? Bye.

Ugh. That was pretty much the last thing I needed today.

"Uhh... someone's honking at you."

What? Oh wow, that's mature.

"...Is she giving you the finger?"

Looks like. I'm sure she'll be putting this all over her LiveJournal the minute she gets home.

"You look like you need some booze."

Yes. Sake bombs. Many sake bombs. The Hiroshima-level sake bombs.

...Why are you looking at me like that?

"You're smiling."

And I'm not allowed to smile?

"You never smile. Why are you smiling? Oh, Christ. You killed somebody, didn't you? Who did you kill?"

I didn't kill anybody. I had a good night. Is that okay?

"So you got laid. What's her name?"

Did I say I got laid?

"But there was a girl. Did you touch her no-no bits?"

'No-no bits'? What are you, twelve?

"Answer the question."

No. Clothing stayed on.

"So why so smiley?"

I had a really great night with an amazing girl. I'd say that's reason to smile.

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Everything you know is wrong. Okay, it's cliche, but it's true. In this case, at any rate. Whatever you think you know about me? You're wrong. Dead wrong.

I'm not the nice, sensitive guy you see. Fuck. Odds are I hate you. I lie. I cheat. I put on this facade to keep up appearances. You've never seen the real me. You've never seen the side of me that comes out when I think about the way you screwed me over. Or the part of me that doesn't see a future for us.

Hurts, doesn't it? Another cliche: the truth hurts. Always does.

The coffee is hot and strong. Black as the devil and sweet as a stolen kiss. I can see her over the rim of the mug as I sip. I set it back on the table between us.
"Why can't relationships be simple?" I ask her. "I like you, you like me. Why does it need to be so complicated?"

"Because," she answers. "Then it would be easy. Then it wouldn't be worth it."

------

Thanks to dramamonkey.

I met her at Morrison's. I was at the bar. Celebrating. See, I'd sold my second book. Proved I wasn't a one-hit wonder, I figured. We'll see when it hits bookstores, I guess. Back to her. I was nursing my third drink. Vodka rocks. She said hi. We started chatting. Turns out she was a fan. First I'd met like this. She told me her name. We hit it off immediately. There was something there. This wasn't a one-night stand.

Last call. Closing time. We're in her apartment. Talking. I'm nervous. It's not a bad nervous. We kiss. That's it. It's dawn. I make it home just in time for my alarm to go off. Despite all this, I'm smiling. She really got to me, I guess. We're going out tomorrow night.

That night. Back at my house. My room. Our hands are all over each other. Her shirt is off. My hand moves over her stomach. Cold. What the hell? What little light there is catches something metallic below her sternum. "I was in an accident," she says. "I was fourteen. This keeps me alive."

I've never... Not in person. I did some research for an article once, though. The records of patients are sealed. No one had gone public. This was a fairly extensive surgery. This wasn't replacing a limb. That's mostly mechanics. This. Jesus. This was a Jocasta-class. Maybe even Gort.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

My fingertips are tracing the edge of the implant as I stare into her eyes. My other hand cups her cheek. I kiss her. The rest of the night is perfect.

I found the first two drafts and sketches of Slavedriving For Fun & Profit, along with the final draft of the script. Now as soon as Michelle gets me the finished product, I want to do a compare and contrast. A sort of evolution of the project.

Plus, it kills time until I make my announcement.

It's funny the thoughts you have after something like this happens. Let me explain. See, I walk pretty much everywhere. There's really no point in driving in this city. I laugh at my coworkers who gasp in amazement. "You walk how far?" Two miles is nothing.

But I'm getting off-topic.

The thing is, the walks are almost therapeutic. I just put on my headphones and block out everything and think. Except at least once a day, my eyes move to the traffic speeding by and I say to myself: "It'd be so easy."

Now, let me explain something else.

You have to understand, I'm not suicidal. I'm truly not. Even after the week I've had. It's simply that I've always been curious. What's next?

I look at the cars and sometimes...

Sometimes.

I've been cleaning up the basement over the last few days and I found a notebook I thought I'd lost. I found a handful of stories (outlined, half-finished and completed) and a script to a comic I was hired to do several years ago. Commentary follows.

( Under The Rug )

( First six pages of a story I'm working on. )

Should have Slavedriving For Fun & Profit up this evening. Just so you know.

Free Comic Book Day is Saturday, May 7th. My plan is to have a mini-comic ready by then. Title? Sea Monkey Productions Presents. Contents to include Slavedriving For Fun & Profit and at least one more new piece. Possibly some prose. More updates as I work out the details.

Green tea? What the hell was I thinking?

Green tea. I was told it'd help me relax. Keep me from getting so damned stressed out. Maybe somebody could explain why I black out and wake up covered in blood every single time I have a cup?

I'd gone to the doctor last year. I'd been feeling generally ill and finally broke down and got his advice. "Too much stress." "You need to relax." "Drink green tea." Some advice. I walked out of his office, a little pissed at having paid him for that. Whatever. Too late now. On my way home, I went into this small shop down the street from my apartment. An odd little place. Sold a lot of "magic" supplies to some local Wiccans and organic foods for the growing group of people who just HAD to have alfalfa sprouts that had been grown without coming into contact with even the slightest hint of fertilizer. They had amazing coffee beans, though. I stopped in every Tuesday to pick up a fresh pound or two of beans. Figured I'd try the tea a shot.

I chose the first box I saw. There was a panda on it. Yeah, I felt more relaxed already. I paid, told Harv I'd see him on Tuesday, and went up to my apartment. Damn neighbor was blaring 'The Wall' again. I dug around the cabinets in the kitchen for a few minutes. I had a kettle in here somewhere. Found it. I gave it a rinse in the sink and boiled a few cups of water. I sat down and sipped my tea.

Then, nothing. I came to in the exact same place, but with blood spattered all over my body. 'The Wall' had stopped. I had no idea what happened. I freaked out, running to the bathroom to check my body for cuts. Not a one. I showered and changed. I wasn't going to bother washing my clothes. I tossed them in a paper grocery sack and walked into the hall. Police tape across the next apartment's door. I didn't even think. I just went to the basement and threw the bag into the incinerator. That was the first time.

Soon after, that annoying bartender at O'Shay's was found in the alley behind the building. A few door-to-door salesmen. And two Mormons who knocked on my door at six a.m. I tried to stop drinking the tea. Really, I did. Then I'd come home from a bad day at work, fix a cup, and everything got a little better. I know I shouldn't. I know it's a horrible thing. I want to stop.

But my boss has been getting on my nerves lately...

The hallucinations don't surprise me anymore. It's been seven weeks since I last slept. Not even downing half of the bottle of sleeping pills that's in the medicine cabinet helped. So, when the grey-haired man appeared and said, "Hi," I wasn't shocked.

No, he wasn't an illusion. That's what scared me.

"Sorry, kid. Didn't mean to scare you."

Right. Showing up in my apartment without opening a door is the perfect way to do that.

"Smartass."

Why the Hell are you here?, I ask him. For some reason, I'm starting to trust him.

"Your insomnia's getting worse, isn't it? You're jumpy, irritable. Tired of seeing things that can't be real."

The Grey Man pauses.

"Your hallucinations? They're real."

What?

"You're seeing, for lack of a better term, the Dream World, the plane where your consciousness goes when you sleep."

I remind him I don't sleep anymore.

A smile crosses his face.

"Because you're beyond it now. You can walk between the realms at will."

Why are you telling me all this? What am I supposed to do?

"Simple. Save us."