I love Halloween.
But it’s been years since I’ve been out trick-or-treating. Part of this has to do with the fact that I’m not that big on candy-I’m more into savory flavors than sweet-later for the Blow-Pops and Tootsie Rolls, just give me some fried chicken, macaroni’n’cheese, and maybe a dripping bag of five roast beef’n’cheddars for $5.99 from Arby’s-shit, I’d settle for a baked potato with broccoli’n’cheese from Wendy’s-how about a soda made out of carbonated nacho cheese product-
-but I love playing dress-up, and I especially love the idea of stepping out as a monstrous or powerful being: the Devil, the Grim Reaper, Dick Tracy, Emperor Palpatine, Ultraman, figures of supreme evil, entities embodying elemental forces of death and rebirth, creation and destruction, cruelty and vengeance, justice and triumph, heroes and villains of comic books, TV, and cinema-those are my favorites.
Those are the kinds of creatures I aspire to be, but here’s the thing: I suck at making my own costumes. So, the last few times I hit the streets in costume-and this was a minute ago-I basically settled on humorous, slacker-y, non-costumes:
a chad-bro with a popped collar, sideways ballcap, a red plastic cup in my fist, and a dumbfuck expression on my face;
full body camouflage make-up with a bright pink, sparkling Speedo, because what more do you need in this life of sorrow and luxury;
I once invented a character called “The Belligerent Bathrobist” who is a guy in a ski mask, bathrobe, and combat boots with a machete in one hand and a copy of Dianetics in the other-I even wrote an elaborate backstory about him that involved him sallying forth into the arena of an underground gladiator ring overseen by a cabal of LSD-addicted beavers who do “weapons design performance art” for a secret sub-department of DARPA-I almost got that one off the ground as an independent film project;
and, of course, I’ve kitted myself out in full Catholic priest regalia and lurked at goth fetish balls, an aghast expression on my face, clutching my rosary beads, and busting out the rites of exorcism all over the sexy anime-style French maids and Rule 34 Jack Skellingtons.
But, honestly, I got wore out playing the clown. I get drawn into the silly shit, but, ultimately, it’s just a manifestation of my own lack of self-belief. And so I resolved, in 2019, that in the year 2020 I would actually embody the persona of a character I respected-that on some deep level I aspired to be . . .
. . . and then along came COVID-19, and fucked everything up.
I might be premature in saying this, but I firmly believe when the ultimate history of COVID-19 is drafted by learned and august historians some time in the hazy mists of futurity, that many pages will be devoted to the intolerable injustice done to me-William D. Tucker-and my big shit Halloween costume plans. Of this, I have no doubt.
Now, back in the pre-COVID-19 times, I hadn’t really settled on what powerful fictional character I would embody this time around-I’ve written elsewhere on this blog about my desire to cosplay as Setzer from Final Fantasy VI, and, indeed, I considered the gambling airship captain this time around . . . but here’s the thing. For me, a proper Halloween persona must be potent, and rather more or less than human-and, well, if you’ve played Final Fantasy VI, if you recall that scene where Celes finds him again in the World of Ruin, and he’s confronted with both his desire and the counterfeit image of that desire-then you know that Setzer is all too human.
So Setzer was out.
One of my dream cosplays would, of course, be Robocop, but, as I’ve already said, my costume manufacturing skills wouldn’t be up to the challenge. I experimented for a number of days with various combinations of aluminum foil, gunmetal gray electrical tape, and some DIY body modification to install a hydraulic gun holster in my right thigh-but nothing came of that misbegotten project save ouchies and several rolls worth of blood-soaked paper towels in the trash. I weep for shame at the trees sacrificed to my fancies.
I found myself thinking of all the ways I could fuck about with refrigerator boxes, paint, and permanent markers, and see if I could bootstrap myself into a suitably formidable mechamorphic shape: a Zeta Gundam, a VOTOMS, the Big O, even a lowly Zaku-but I lost heart, and convinced myself that I would come across more like one of the pitiable, satirical Box Men from Kobo Abe’s titular novel.
I’ve always wanted to be an Eva Unit for Halloween, but to pull that off you really gotta be a lanky-ass motherfucker, and I just don’t got that kinda length on me. At my lowest point, I was tempted to go as Jet Alone, but everybody hates Jet Alone. They say Jet Alone’s a nuclear meltdown danger to themselves and others. But that wasn’t Jet Alone’s fault, goddamnit! That shit was sabotage! Jesus H. Christ, the Evangelion fan-dumb is so toxic.
In my wisdom, I realized I needed to strip it all down. Get back to basics. Don’t flog myself with my weaknesses. Aikido them into unexpected strenghts.
What do I have in my closet-once I’ve cleared out all the skeletons-that I could wear that, with but a change of demeanor or a choice tone of voice, would allow me to embody some fictional being of power?
Black suit jacket. Black slacks. White dress shirt. Black tie. Black dress shoes. I look at myself in the full length mirror, and I behold a vision of handsome beauty, yet with a sinister, poetic inflection shading into an irresitable giga-sexual magnetism-indeed, it can be dangerously seductive to look long into the mirror if you’re me!
And then it hit me: a character of great power and mystery that I hadn’t thought about in years:
Agent Graves.
You know, Agent Graves?
From the comic book 100 Bullets?
The only worth-a-damn thing Brian Azzarello ever wrote?
100 issues of brilliant, transgressive writing so vulgar and so poetic that it would make Quentin Tarantino blush, from 1999 to 2009, more-or-less monthly serialization-I don’t even have the words to describe the genius art by Eduardo Risso and the eye-poppingly sleazy, neon colors of Grant Goleash and Patricia Mulvihill-holy shit, you haven’t read 100 Bullets?
Fuck, dude . . . I don’t have time to go into it here. I’ve long wanted to write a review of it, but I’ve been sorely disappointed by Azzarello’s output post-100 Bullets as a writer over the years-
-but I don’t want to get into that, right now.
There’ll be time enough.
Assuming that the pandemic and the vicious and stupid failure of fascist Republican politicians, financial backers, and voters doesn’t destroy whatever’s left of the American population in the coming days, weeks, and months. I’ll say what I have to say about 100 Bullets in the fullness of time.
But Agent fucking Graves . . . he’s gotta black suit, black tie, black socks, black shoes, white dress shirt-
-the attache case! He’s always got an attache case . . . do I have one of those?
Nope, but I can get one.
But, like, Agent Graves is an old fuck. Doesn’t look a day over a hard 66. I’m a little young for this casting call.
Ah, but in the comic book, there are flashbacks to the 1960s featuring a young, hunky Graves . . . I could do young, hunky Agent Graves. I’d have to buzz my hair, bleach what’s left, back up that hairline-I can do this.
I can fucking do this.
Oh, but you still don’t know who Agent Graves is . . . well, I don’t want to spoil 100 Bullets if you haven’t read it. And I know, I know-100 issues of a comic book is a lot to read. But, you know, it’s out there, if you’re curious. In our age of Internet and online purchases you have options. You can spend a lot of money or just try hard enough-everything’s out there in the electronic ether, if you really want it . . .
But the non-spoiler version is this: Graves is a kind of MIB: a Man in Black. A sinister guy, who always shows up at the perfect moment, and seems to be ten steps ahead of God Himself. But he doesn’t fuck around with extraterrestrials. He offers . . . I’ll say “hope and opportunity” to a number of all-too-human beings in a world-the USofA-corrupted by systematic racism, systematic sexism, economic inequality, force, and fraud. Agent Graves has a gun, 100 bullets, a promise of legal immunity as soon as crime scene technicians retrieve whatever bullets you’ve fired, and a thick file that tells you exactly who ruined your life and all the evidence to prove that fact in his attache case.
Whatever you do with that gift . . . is up to you.
Agent Graves doesn’t actually tell the people he encounters what to do, for the most part, he’s just a guy who likes spreading the knowledge and the means around . . . the means to what, exactly?
Vengeance, seemingly.
You’ll just have to read the comics for yourself. Needless to say, there’s way more to Agent Graves’s routine than is immediately apparent.
But the basic persona-a man of mystery-maybe God, maybe Satan, maybe Both-who offers a terrible deal that has just got to be too perfect to be anything other than a ride on the road to ruin-is right up my alley.
The Devil. The Grim Reaper. Dick Tracy. Emperor Palpatine. Ultraman . . . Agent Graves.
Welcome to my own personal pantheon.
You don’t need regular church attendance if you’re widely read and are willing to exercise your imagination to have deep spiritual experiences in this life.
A key moment in the 100 Bullets comic comes when a character asks Agent Graves if he believes in God. Graves says, “No.”
There’s an amusing implication, in this moment, that Graves is a kind of deity-a harsh, twisted, All-American Deity of Retribution . . . but then someone enters the scene that Graves does believe in . . . well, maybe I’ll have more to say about that down the road.
But there I have him, most of him, anyway, in my closet:
Agent Graves, the Bringer of Hope and Opportunity.
It would’ve been a beautiful thing.
But this fucking COVID-19 . . .mmm, well, I can play dress-up in isolation.
Keep the hotness all to myself.
Just me and my full-length mirror.
The nuts pretty much bust themselves.
-October 2020
