This is a lot of grass to cut

Dakota lay in a patch of idyllic green pasture and showed her appreciation of it by throwing up on it. She would have certainly enjoyed the pollution-free air, bright sky, and rural hush but right now she would have settled for normal. Normal being free of vertigo and not losing her cafeteria lunch in front of the Smelly Cowboy Jerk. Except that he wasn’t a smelly cowboy nor a secret service agent anymore. Standing in front of her was the same man who threw her over his shoulder but dressed like he belonged on the label of a bottle of Sam Adams beer.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“No, really?,” coughed Dakota. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and looked up at him. Instead of angry or annoyed, Agent Cowboy Brewer looked puzzled. She could almost see the clockwork on the other side of his furrowed brow until it slowly and gradually began to come to a realization.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said again.

“Yes. I got that. Thank you,” said Dakota. Then very slowly and very carefully realized that she was no longer inside the White House. “Where am I?” she asked.

“About 3 miles outside of the city of Boston”

“And how did I get here?”

“You followed me through a time portal to 1774 while I was attempting to apprehend a suspect.”

“A time portal.”

“Right.”

“Can I freak now now?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Ok,” said Dakota and took another moment to let her mind stop begging to be submerged in large amounts of anti-psychotics. “So who the hell are you?”

“Special Agent Travis, U.S. Temporal Enforcement Agency,” said Travis. “And I’m afraid I’m going to have to place you under arrest,” he continued with a mirthless expression.

“What?!” yelled Dakota.

Agent Travis reached down and clamped Dakota’s arm in a claw-like grip only mastered by police and mothers of four. She protested this treatment with a rational argument that consisted mostly of biting. Travis’s counter-point was to draw a flintlock pistol and point it at her.

“Unauthorized time-travel is a serious crime, miss. You can’t just joy ride through the fabric of space-time,” said Travis.

“You kidnapped me!”

“I did nothing of the sort. I was in pursuit of suspects and-”

“And something got in your way…”

“-and I threw it over my shoulder and continued… to…”, slurred Travis as his brain caught up with his mouth. Mental breaks engaged leaving a trail of skidmarks and the faint smell of burning and panic in the air.

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh,” she said.

The resulting silence lingered in the air like the moment on a first date when you find out that the other person used to be in prison. Travis lowered his pistol. Dakota reclaimed her arm despite it being somewhat more bruised than she usually liked it.

“So now what?” asked Dakota.

Travis squared his shoulders, holstered his pistol, and brought his very small worldview into something approaching a soft focus.

“Now we find a whore house and then save America,” he said.

Copyright 2007, JJ Kahrs

Dakota choked on the stench of horse, whiskey, and man-sweat that her face was buried in. For a moment her eyes twitched as the vaguely cowboy-ish form standing bravely in front of her became a vaguely secret service-ish form standing bravely in front of her. Dressed in a black suit and regulation uninteresting tie, he stood in front of the portal with a pistol in one hand and a vintage sword in the other. The agent lifted the cutlass in his hand and parried the blow of the homicidal norseman. Dakota was speechless.

Whatever mood of romantic adventure that might have sprung from this was murdered in its crib. The square jawed man in the suit, apparently ill-informed of the women’s movement, grabbed Dakota and hefted her over his shoulder. Like a very angry sack of potatoes, she pounded her fists into the slab of testosterone holding her. She cussed. She swore. She tried to figure out what was going on.

“Erik the Red…”

“Die Yankee dog!”

“…you are under arrest…”

“I will feast on the capitalist whore that whelped you!”

“…for crimes against history”

The conversation continued with the sounds of metal clashing acting as punctuation. Dakota couldn’t see a thing thanks to the smelly cowboy pirate agent’s vice-like hold of her midsection. She could however watch as the glowing portal that she’d try to flee through blinked out of existence with a “FWIP” sound. Seconds later another “FWIP” came from somewhere behind her. She craned her neck around trying to see what was going on but all she could make out was more weird lights and sense that she was running. Or rather, that the brute carrying her was running.

“Make for the exit, Comrades!” yelled a Viking.

“You won’t get away,” said Agent Chauvinist Cowboy Pirate.

“No, let them get away!” yelled Dakota, “Vikings bad! Let them get far far awa-”

There was another “FWIP” sound, a flash of light, and suddenly Dakota’s world got very, very green.

Copyright 2006, JJ Kahrs

Dakota realized being at the White House was like visiting a rich relative’s house; everything looks perfect and you’re not allowed to play with any of it. She was now on hour two of the tour and swiftly running out of tricks to keep her from a newsworthy suicide attempt at the hands of the secret service. The guide with the expensive dental work smiled and motioned everyone to follow her. Dakota shuffled along after her idiot classmates and their state appointed babysitter.

The handful of historical brochures and pamphlets slipped out of her grasp and puddled at her feet like a swarm of dead butterflies. She sighed and stopped to pick them up when a flash of light burst from out of the corner of her eye. Now upon such an event one might expect several things: someone one the tour ignoring the “no flash photography” policy, the glare off something expensive and shiny, or a light at the end of the tunnel heralding an end to pain and suffering. What Dakota did not expect to look up and see, was a horde of Vikings rampaging through the White House dining room.

The Norse marauders poured out of a portal of light that had seen fit to materialize out of thin air. Everyone in the room froze as they performed a form of mental origami in order to force it all into making some type of sense. The Vikings didn’t seem to suffering from this shaken faith in a rational universe, and were busy laying waste to some very expensive furniture. Once everyone not pillaging got over the shock, the screaming and panic set everything into motion again. Brave secret service agents leapt into action against an axe-wielding berserker wearing nothing but a beard and the splattered blood of his enemies. Faced with this literally naked aggression, the agents found that their years of government training had skipped over the chapter on subduing Norse invaders. The berserker cut them down where they stood and then urinated on the carpet.

Dakota was doing her best to go unnoticed in the mayhem. She had almost crawled to safety when a pair of animal hide boots stepped in front of her. She looked up. Looming over her was a grizzled man with bright red hair and a beard that framed his grinning maw.

“Death to the Bourgeoisie,” he growled in Russian. Normally, Dakota would have found this mismatch in linguistic expectations to be curious but she was too busy putting her size 8 chuck tailor into the groin of her would be assailant. The Viking howled in pain. Dakota scrambled to get away but rather than disabling her attacker, she had only provoked angry curses upon her bloodline and an oath about several forms of post-mortem rape.

Desperate for escape, Dakota found her path blocked again by the glowing portal of light. Its edges were rimmed with a prism effect that danced across her face as she gazed into it. Behind her she could feel the Viking bearing down on her and the hairs on the back of her neck anticipated a messy demise at the end of a moderately sharp axe. She closed her eyes, leapt forward towards the portal, and plowed face first into the barrel-chested man that had just emerged from it.

Copyright 2006, JJ Kahrs

Hellcar is throwing a one day convention for creative types this saturday. I’m going and not just because it’s being held in a bar. The Hellcar crew will be there (if you were at SPX they were the group that took up an entire wall of the the con) as well as my friends from Lulu. There will also be artist type persons that I’m going to awkwardly network with in the hopes of finding new folks to make comics with.

It’s going to be totally Airwolf.

As I have mentioned ad nauseam, I’m writing a graphic novel called ROSE-COLORED CRASH. It’s a fun sci-fi concept that I’m trying desperately not to botch during execution. To that end, I have added editor Jason Rodriguez to the team because he knows what he is doing and I do not.

I got my first pages back with edits. When I opened the document, the glow from the monitor cast the entire room in a red glow of editorial displeasure. Jason not only has the technical skills of an editor but the social finese as well. A good editor has the ability to make a writer cry while silmultaneously coddling them. So after a good sob and half hearted attempt to end it all in I-40 traffic, I set about fixing things. Some of this involves going back and reading comics. Poor me.

Most of my hair pulling and alcoholism revolves around the first page of the book. In a single page I have to give the casual and uninterested reader a reason to flip the page and get involved. There are all sorts of tricks to doing this. I’ve yet to settle on one that fits well for the scene without feeling cheap or forced. This is easy in prose. I’m having to adapt to doing it with described visuals. It’s been most annoying and only made worse when my brain has an idea it refuses to give up on. It becomes an old dog sitting on a porch with the idea in it’s mouth and neither hell nor high water will make it let go.

I need to shoot the dog.

After talking to the milk carton, Hector was certain he had to kill the convenience store clerk. The carton, which insisted on being called Mr. Whiskers, had made a compelling argument. The clerk’s continued oppression of Marxism and trans-human ideology could only be stopped through application of armed insurrection. Hector thought that this might be some effect of the tetrathylamide he freebased earlier while doing his taxes but Mr. Whiskers insisted that this was not the case.

The milk carton purred as Hector held it close against his chest and took cover behind a display of gluttony sized snack cakes packaged to survive the next several apocalypses. A particularly well read chocolate cupcake suggested that Hector replace his arm with something more advanced.

“You need to continue your trans-human journey and strive to reach a post-human state,” said the cupcake.

“But I like my arm,” said Hector.

“Meat is murder,” said the cupcake.

The other snacks began chanting “Lose the meat! Lose the meat!” Hector panicked and begged Mr. Whiskers for help. The milk carton was busy playing with a bit of string and mewed its indifference. Hector had been forsaken from his mentor and howled in despair. He drew a sword off the shelf and brandished it in the air. The words “Jumbo Beef Jerkey” on the side of his blade were illuminated in the harsh fluorescent light.

Hector charged the clerk while the magazine rack cheered him on. He took a swing, missed, and fumbled Mr. Whiskers. Space and time rebelled and the milk carton suspended itself in mid-air. Mr. Whiskers meowed defiance before exploding on the cheap linoleum floor and covering everything in a coat of 1% blood. Hector was on his knees and sobbing when the clerk opened fire.

Copyright 2006, JJ Kahrs

Just a short update on some stuff before I plunge back into my cave. The day star burns us.

The OGN has an editor now in the form of Jason Rodriguez. He’s done editorial duty on ELK’S RUN and WESTERN TALES OF TERROR, as well as being a very entertaining writer in his own right. I’m very excited about working with him and he’s been a big help already in the early stages of things.

HEAD MASS has gotten it’s second round of corrections and a proof copy is on the way from the printers. My thanks to Leah Riley for working her magic on it. She pulled lettering duty on the book and fixed the layouts so it would print correctly. If the proof comes out ok then I’ll announce when Sohma and JJ’s little creation will be available on Lulu.com.

Back to work I go. Send me tokens of your affection. Women. Booze. Asian action films.

Maximov made a career at out ruining other people’s day. This did not make him a bad person; On the contrary, it is just the occupational reality of being a pirate. Nobody is every happy to see you. What made him a bad person is the delight he took in his job. The moment where people realize just how screwed they were, was priceless to him. He liked to savor it and to be up close and personal when it happened. It was an indulgence that came with risks but it was just another gamble in the growth industry that was space-based piracy.

Administrator Jensen was about to have a bad day. As Maximov and his cohort entered the thin man’s office, Jensen rose from his seat with a plastic smile. A handful of boney fingers jutted forward to anticipate a handshake. Maximov ignored the guesture. The normal joy he took in his job was absent today and he waited silently for Jensen to get the hint. Maximov was not in a pleasant mood.

“Captain Maximov, it is a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to…” said Jensen. Maximov tuned out the rest of his pleasantries. With a short grunt he flopped down into the leather seat opposite the Administrator’s desk and propped his boots up on the fake wooden top. Jensen went silent and the first inklings of worry began to seep into his mind.

“Lieutenant?” said Maximov. The woman behind him in coveralls and a bomber’s jacket pulled out a manila folder and handed it to Jensen. Upon opening the folder, the ePaper document inside sprung to life. It cast a sickly white glow of photos and crew manifests. Images of a destroyed transport and bodies frozen in open space reflected off the eyes of Jensen who tried to absorb what was going on.

“I am thinking several things. I am thinking that the people who did this were desperate for certain items. I am thinking that they did not know who the ship belonged to. I am also thinking that these people need to provide compensation,” said Maximov. He pulled out a cigar, cut the end, and lit it with a battered and tarnished Zippo. Jensen listened and turned a clammy shade of panic.

“This could be the work of pirates,” said Jensen.

“They know better,” said Maximov.

“Or UN police,” said Jensen.

“No, it is not,” said Maximov.

“You have evidence?” asked Jensen.

“I have never been burdened with such necessities,” said Maximov. Jensen nodded. He closed the manila folder and set it gently and precisely in the center of his desk; a small attempt at creating order and control that failed utterly to make him relax.

“So hypothetically, how can I help you?” asked Jensen.

“Hypothetically?” Maximov leaned back in his seat and mulled this over. Jensen ran an independent colony that prided itself for being off the UN’s radar. This made him privy to a lot of contraband. It also made him bold and arrogant with the belief that he did not have to respect the boundaries of others. Maximov thought of a very high number and then tripled it.

“I would ask you to pass word on to these people. Tell them they have 48 hours to make amends or they will find that every ship coming to their colony will receive a similar reception as mine did,” said Maximov. He ground his cigar into the leather chair to smother it, slid his boots off the table, and left the office with his first officer right behind him. Jensen would pay. He couldn’t afford not to. What he didn’t know was that he’d continue to pay for as long as he drew breath. Maximov smiled and found himself in a better mood.

Copyright 2006, JJ Kahrs

I’m going to pause storytime today to use a blog for what it was actually built to do: going emo over petty shit. This weekend I tried to write and make forward progress on a number of projects. Forward progress is good. No progress is bad. I managed neither of these and went for option three. Going backwards is worse.

I’m working on the script for a graphic novel and the story is something I’m pleased with. I can’t wait for the right artist to bring it to life. The execution is making me tear my eyes out. If you knew the details of the story, the previous sentence would have made you laugh. It makes me cry though. I’m realizing that I’m going to have to cut and re-tool scenes even as I’m writing them. This hasn’t been limited to one project. I’ve butched three attempts at shorts for this blog. Hopefully tonight I can get something out that doesn’t look like it was run through Babelfish several times before landing on the page.

I’ve become the psychic writer. I can see into the future and in the future this scene sucks.

Tib was sick of breathing dirt. Artillery was the hell of a foot soldier, but there was nothing for her to do but curl up in her hole and pray it didn’t hit close. Calling what she was hiding in cover was being generous. It was a glorified ditch and it barely had enough room for her and Macon. She made a comment about his need to lose some weight when the squelch on her radio chirped.

“Oh God, is anyone there?” said a voice through the scratch and hiss of the radio. Tib stuck a finger in her ear and pushed the ear-mic down to try and listen. The shelling was making it a bitch to make out anything. She shouted for an ID, but the voice on the other side wasn’t a vet. It sounded green and a royal mess. The whine of fresh artillery fire soared overhead and reflex made her press down against what passed for safety these days.

“What’s your 20?” shouted Tib.

“I don’t know!” said the radio.

“What’s your unit? Where are they?”

“They’re all fucking gone!”

How this kid survived was beyond Tib’s immediate grasp. For now she pushed it in the bucket of her mind where she kept things to think about when she was someplace safe; Someplace where she could have a nice nervous breakdown in peace. One thing she did grasp, was that she did not want to listen to this greenie slowly die over the radio. Another barrage of artillery exploded and took a nearby building with it.

“You got a handle?” asked Tib.

“Slack,” said the voice.

“Ok Slack, this is Tib. Did you hear that building go down?”

“Building? Uh.. ya. Ya it was south of me; maybe a hundred meters.”

Tib looked over at Macon. Macon shook his head at her. “Don’t do it,” he said.

“I got to,” said Tib. She scrambled over the top of their hole and hauled ass north until she could duck into a small alley. Calling it an alley was being generous. It was just a pair of walls too stubborn to fall down. It gave her the illusion of cover which was enough for now.

“I’m coming for ya, Slack. How you doing?”

“I’m pretty fucked up. Oh God it hur-” Tib could tell Slack was talking but the stutter-crack of weapons fire rang out. It peppered the walls around her spitting bits of grit out over her face. She collapsed and balled up into as small a ball as she could. After a quick check to make sure she didn’t have any extra holes in her, the sergeant returned fire. When she finally stopped to put a fresh clip in, Slack was freaking out in her ear like a conscience having a bad trip.

“I think there’s some unfriendlies nearby,” said Slack.

“Slack, what makes you happy?” said Tib as she pulled the bolt back on her rifle.

“I can hear their rifle… what?”

“What makes you calm and happy? Sports? Cars?”

“Um, music I guess.”

“Good. I want you to hum your favorite song to me, ok?”

Tib squeezed off a few rounds until she saw a cloud of something that was too red to be dust. Through her earpiece she began to hear the cracked and nervous hum of a lullaby. It was soothing but not folksy or cute; like something a parent sings to their child when they’re already asleep. She took a deep breath and made a break for it across the street.

Baroque melodies laced with fear serenaded Tib as she moved from building to building. She found a happy middle between speed and the need to avoid snipers. This kid was probably wounded and she had no idea he to get him back to friendlies. It was something she decided to worry about later. Behind her, a fresh volley of shelling started. Tib ducked into an empty lot and made for a largish crater that would make some decent cover. When she got to the rim of it, she stopped short and froze.

Staring back at Tib was a wounded soldier wearing a uniform that did not match her own. His eyes widened. He lifted his sidearm and she raised up her rifle. He was quicker. Tib felt something go through her neck and she collapsed forward on to the crippled enemy. As her eyes darkened she could hear the soldier talking.

“Tib are you almost here?”

Copyright 2006, JJ Kahrs