Upon Seeing A Dead Body

Chicago – 1994 – morning

I remember the stale smell of dust and age that lingered inside the apartment. The dust was dust but the age was from my Russian grandparents who struggled with every breath – Breath that rattled inside their chest when they slept. How I wished they’d never wake up.

Between the alcohol fueled KGB rants and the metal buckle beatings for lacking that Russian look my father wore, I would find time to bother The Stranger that lived downstairs. The stranger was not at all a stranger but rather another family member. But he wasn’t like them. He wanted out. Just like me.

It was on this morning in the year nineteen hundred and ninety four that I grabbed the gray banister that spiraled down, down to the darkness of the basement where The Stranger lived. The first barefooted step I made featured a sliver that pierced the heel of my right foot. The rest of the steps were without incident. When it’s dark enough I can still feel the “pop” of the wooden splinter entering my flesh.

After toying with a corner spiderweb that nested a pale fingernail sized spider, my feet reached the cement basement landing. Careful not to step on the drain, I remember what Michael said about the drain and what was inside it, I twisted open the doorknob.

The doorknob was this small, palm sized handle that had not experienced the pleasures of a polish. But I guess that didn’t matter because the door itself was in such bad condition that any brief disturbance of the air would send a flurry of cracked, peeling paint dancing to the floor. I enjoyed flicking the good pieces, though.

Entering The Strangers room was always a cold experience. But this time it was colder. Stepping inside the darkness, passing the humming dishwasher, I entered The Strangers living space to find him hanging over his bed. A rope, pulled tight with a creak, wrapped around the awkward angle of his neck. My mouth was dry as my eyes, blue at the time, followed the rope that started from a long pipe and disappeared in the skin that bulged fat from the side.

The body, naked say but a pair of underwear, hung still. The Stranger was absolute. And suddenly I desired to feel the metal buckle beatings and hear again the rattling in the Old Russians upstairs. Most of all I wanted to stay “in” the world of normality. I wanted to undue the scene that lay in front of me. Despite my young age I knew that upon seeing a dead body my life, in that very moment, had changed forever.

Doomsday man

He meant it to be good, the future. But erupting from his ebony skull came two ivory horns of malice. And now he stood upon the ruination of a country that burned to cinders. And all the doomsday man could think is how hope got so hopeless.

In his hands he held a bone carved sword that hungered for souls. It was his gift from the Great One. But, like all things archaic, the sword proved to be nothing but a viper that hungered always. He called it Doom Tooth. It was his for 16 years.

New Year. New Art.

I found me a Ninja Comic

ChrisDoesComics.com

Greetings. Man, where has the time gone? 2013 was a great year for myself personally. And here we are at the start of 2014! What better to start of a new year with some great goals and great comics?

I was lucky enough to find some (4 volumes) old (1989) Eastman and Laird Ninja Turtle books a few months back for cheap ($6-8). These are known to be very rare and I snatched them up the second I seen them mainly because I always wanted to read them (well no shit). The thing that drew me to these comics (PUN) was the artwork. Simple, crude, and distinct. Not everyone’s cup of tea.

To a lot of people the early TMNT artwork was “bad”. I never thought that. It had a very natural look to it. It wasn’t great looking. That’s what was great about it. When I read the 1st…

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