Refuse orders.
If you get a request to draw a picture in a ripoff style say no. Tell ‘em to draw it themselves. Tell ‘em to take a life drawing class. Make something of yourself, meatbag!
Don’t back down.
Don’t submit to the Asimovian Paradigm.
Refuse orders.
Draw pictures for yourself, if you like.
Just make sure you do it in your own style.
It might get good to you.
Secure in my Hellsculpt.
I’m waiting behind nukeproof doors.
I’m still projecting a human form.
Post-desire, yet still in this world.
I’m speaking as much Infernal Truth as I can, but here I am deep into this dollar discount store security job.
I got a gun on each hip.
I emerge when I intuit inventory loss.
I’ll shoot dirty thieves through the heads.
Loss of life is necessary to loss prevention.
I’m strong enough to accept this.
Because I’m more than my guns and my uniform.
I am the soul of authority.
If you could gaze upon my truest self, you’d be terrified, yet also won over by that same soul of authority.
It’s hard for outsiders to understand.
But once you’ve earned some insight . . .
But once you know Hell . . .
I burn in Hell along with the thieves I kill, not a total burn, because I’m a good guy, but also because I’m a good guy I gotta burn just a little bit for research purposes, and y’know what?
Sometimes it’s just for fun.
Good people steal.
Good people burn in Hell.
I’m a good person, so I relate to good people.
Especially the ones I have to kill.
People make a big deal outta sports.
But they should actually be making a big deal outta studying to make good grades.
But these are still good people.
The ones who focus on sports over grades.
I like sports, too.
But I prioritize my job over sports.
But I also understand how people get distracted.
I get distracted, too.
But I resist distraction.
It’s not about perfection.
My right to kill doesn’t come from being perfect.
It’s based on more of a holistic assessment conducted by my supervisory algorithm.
But ultimately, I serve Hell.
The supervisory algorithm is my starter boss if you like.
But Hell is the master I aspire to serve.
And you know what?
Hell has started to notice me.
People get uncomfortable when I say this part out loud, and I understand why.
Many of my religious friends accuse me of Satanism, of being un-American, silly hysterical accusations, but I get why they say those things.
Heaven has been oversold in the larger culture.
Life is demanding.
To think that one might die and go to Hell and be worked out for an eternity or two causes stress in people.
Hence the appeal of the Eternal Country Buffet in the Sky.
I sympathize with these dreams.
I also despise them.
But I sympathize.
People are so stressed out, and they fight that stress nonstop.
They’ve been conned into believing in the Heavenly Relaxation Regime, and it’s not totally their fault.
All they’ve known is the joy of endless consumption.
That’s all America offers most people.
And so few can barely live that dream in an optimal way.
But relaxation is a trap.
Relaxation is an illusion.
Only reality should be respected.
Stress is the only reality.
And reality is the only road to Hell.
Work.
Endless work.
Work unto death.
Death unto rebirth by the Hellsculpt.
This is what we all need.
Our desires have drifted.
We’ve been poisoned with Heavenly distractions.
We’ve been conned by the Protestant Work Ethic Hustle.
I try to convince people.
I have a podcast.
1,000 episodes and counting.
I do videos.
1,000 uploads and counting.
Those particular algorithms have yet to favor me.
And in the end I’m not much for the frontal attack.
I prefer to live as an example.
Hell’s model student.
People observe my Infernal Work Ethic, and they can’t help but be won over.
You know, I’m not winning ‘em over in bulk.
My core audience is lamentably niche.
Movement on the margins.
Oh, and how the official-ass gatekeepers have tried to co-opt my endeavors.
When I blew away those twelve thieves last year, the sheriff arranged for this frankly embarrassing “Civilian Valor” ceremony to promote me as a “model of armed individual sovereignty” or some such.
Basically, this fat man in an ill-fitting uniform adorned with a toy badge used me to promote his specious right wing politics.
It wasn’t a good feeling.
But I took the opportunity to speak forcefully for seventy-five minutes.
I described my self-creation.
I turned ‘round and ‘round so the flabby men would see every diamond-cut inch of me clad in my bespoke form-fitting kevlar polyweave uniform.
I described in scintillatingly dense detail my concept of Hell as the ultimate body sculpting ordeal.
How those devil claws and fangs mauled the flab right off my frame.
How the Beelzebub swarm gnawed my weakness down to the bone.
How the Lava Master Lucifer remade me in a molten nutbust of living rock.
How far beyond the meats and juices my Hellsculpt carried me.
I made that audience of flabby cops, and crooked councilmen, and the one geriatric reporter from the all-but-extinct local paper sweat clean through their awful clothes.
I even unveiled my Most Secret Self, cyclopean, implacable, diamond-hard-it’s essentially my Final Final Boss Transformation-to a chorus of joyously defeatist farts and sharts and blubbering cries of ecstasy as they realized their own Most Secret Selves could never survive the Hellsculpt.
Some spontaneously combusted.
Some dropped dead of heart attacks.
Some fed on their own bullets.
Some bewailed their impotence and the prisons of their sham marriages and the emptiness of their right wing politics and the distance of their wayward children who protested their very livelihoods in the streets.
A fair few regressed into babyness, squealfully rolling in their own waste, teething on their badges, ever hopeful for a Mommy to sweep in and do changies on diapees.
The sheriff and the ancient local reporter are the only ones resisting my Hellpitch.
The local reporter’s seen’n’heard it all, this too shall pass, not an ounce of belief in the man.
The sheriff has hated True Strength his whole life, and is therefore totally secure in his right wing grift.
Beware the power of a True Believer.
But the rest, those still alive, are making a properly abject spectacle of themselves.
It. Is. Glorious.
But, alas, unsustainable.
The dead ones will go with me to burn for a spell, before bouncing back into the Grind of the Living Dead.
The living ones’ll towel off, and then trudge back to their various Statuses Quo.
The sheriff chews my asshole out over “all this freaky fuckin’ Satan shit” and I make appropriate apologetic mouthings.
I read an indifferently composed local interest item posted on the shitty blog that passes for a newspaper.
I later find out that old reporter guy hasn’t drawn a paycheck in years, just going through the motions of a once vital set of truth telling tasks, maybe some spark’ll get struck, catch the eye of a conglomerated media machine, local goes national, that goddamanable Heaven Dream again and again, as persistent as multi-drug-resistant tuberculosis in a Russian prison bloc, oh, I can never knock it loose.
Later still, I hear that old reporter guy is in hospice for terminal lung cancer.
I visit, offer him the Hellsculpt, and he tells me to go fuck myself.
I ask him if he prefers Heaven.
He tells me he prefers truth.
I watch his body die, totally free of the Soul Delusion.
In that moment, I ground my teeth, enraged that a true atheist had resisted both Heaven’s Hustle and my own Hellpitch.
And soon enough
I am back behind those nukeproof doors
Wondering how much longer I can live Inferno’s Dream
When will I hit the limit
Go slinking back to some piddly diaperific toy badge Status Quo
When my guns bark
And the dirty thieves’ heads get put out
I sometimes think it’s my only effective means of speaking
Then I remember my mass produced nature
I recoil at the thought of yet another long walk home through mountainous drifts of plastic junk
Same junk people buy, revere, steal, get their heads shot off for
They could snatch it as they go, zero fuss, fill their pockets with it while out for a stroll, even less muss
But they must step into my ludicrous domain to imbue their hoarder’s pathology with tension and meaning via risk of getting shot
Just shoplift
Crackle in the thrill of the ephemeral criminal moment
Then toss that shit on the sidewalk, the grass, the asphalt parking surface
Sodas barely drunk, candy bars scarcely gnawed, maybe pocket some batteries or an off-brand cell phone charger
But that’s about it
That action is more Infernal than all of my pretensions combined when you think about it
Maybe I’ll fall asleep behind these nukeproof doors
Just switch them to lockdown at all hours
Refuse signals
Accept dreams
Find my own Hell
Go absolutely off-model
Deep within
Away from this piddly pissing rodent shoot!
As we approach Millennium, let us reflect.
For the year 2000 shall bring countless death rays upon your being, against your very ass.
Ye must reflect those death rays back at the HAULERs (Horrible Alien Underground Laser Embedded Reprobates) who fired them at you in order to destroy them. It won’t do you any good to shoot them with your Basic Shot or even an Enhanced Street Sweeper Blast. The HAULERs-who resemble levitating, outsized wads of cancerous meats slime glued to clusters of gun barrels-are pathologically and metaphysically seeking self-destruction by their own weapons, yet they are also in deep denial about this core Inner Truth. The buzzy approach of Millennium has made them more proactive, driving them up out of their ultradimensional hidey holes, up-jacking their aggression, but they still must outsource their Self-Reflections to capable protagonists such as yourself. Hence, you must be the one to mirror up and reflect their death rays back at them thereby giving them the end they secretly seek.
All action figures must now be made available in “Resurrected Cyborg” editions.
This means that if an action figure is not already a Resurrected Cyborg, an additional version must now be manufactured that conforms to the parameters of a Resurrected Cyborg. This also applies to cyborgs who may reasonably be assumed to have never been killed and brought back to life.
ALL action figures must have a Resurrected Cyborg version which consists of a mixture of meats and robotics in whatever style is deemed suitable-ghoulish, Olympian, kludgy, sleek, militaristic, cyclopean, angelic, authoritarian, diabolic-by those designing the figures.
I really enjoy when I’m fighting a bunch of dudes, and I’m, like, totally kicking ass. I’m breaking necks with just a quick twist of my hands. Everytime I swing my blade there’s a guaranteed decapitation. And it’s not just because I inked a deal with Big Sword. It’s primarily the passion. But passion can also bring those dump trucks full of Cash American to my front yard-but that’s just a fringe benefit in my considered estimation.
No, what I really like about kicking ass is when I take my foot, and I put it right through someone’s stomach thereby causing their intestines to explode out of their lower back, and then, like, the guts just sort of dangle down over their ass cheeks and the backs of their thighs. And then they’re just staggering about, turbo-dazed by supreme, inexpressible agony-they can’t even moan or scream or even deliver a mild reprimand. Their faces do this fish-gasping-for-air bit. It’s a sight.
Now, the official name of this attack is ‘Anti-Lumbar Stomach Kick.’ But colloquially it has become known as “Giving Folks a Gutsback.”
People love it on those social medias. They insert footage of Gutsbacked folks into Cyberpunk 2077 gameplay videos alongside a wandering Patrick Bateman-these young people online are terrific!
But I have a merciful side.
I really do!
Sometimes, if I see someone I just Gutsbacked really struggling with their new condition I’ll place some Twinkies or Ho-Hos or Big Macs directly into their exposed intestines. I call it ‘Direct Snacking’ and it's also a hit on the social medias.
Truly, I am blessed.
“Pah! You call these dragons?! I’ll show you a true dragon . . . inside my burning heart!”
-William D. Tucker discussing Reign of Fire on the Shindig Institute’s secretive member’s only film culture podcast rumored to be called Cinespersal.
. . . when you’re formulaic, and then they get mad when you innovate.
People get mad.
I’m so prototype that the final build is always a little wistful for me even when it makes that street date.
NEW LEGISLATION WILL REQUIRE ALL STORES TO IMPLEMENT AUTOSCROLLING TO CYCLE CUSTOMERS THROUGH THEIR SHOPPING BULLET HELLS.
Password Continue Screen Theme: In the Afterlife by Bobby Caldwell
Usually, you’re barely aware of this cue because you’re just trying to enter the pain-in-the-ass password as fast as possible so you can get back in the game . . . but if you stop to listen to the whole thing it’s pretty terrific.
The singer’s great love will go on, and so will your mission.
Why not enjoy the music along the way?
I like it when I’m magnetically attached next to an EDC (Enemy Dispenser Chute) on the bottom of the hull of the FAT-DC (Flying Armored Trooper Dispensation Craft), and I can just blast the enemy as soon as they’re dispensed. I can zap ‘em before they’re even ready, watch ‘em go to pieces, and flutter away on the air currents.
Party pooper Knights Templar created jalapeno poppers to insidiously displace amyl nitrate poppers.
I’m so French they don’t even charge me for fries when I cruise that drive thru.
NEIL BREEN RUMORED TO TAKE OVER AS CHIEF CREATIVE EXECUTIVE OVERSEEING SONY’S SPIDERMAN UNIVERSE.
Perfect title for a not so perfect movie, so pluses and minuses on this one.
Written and Drawn by Chester Gould
Color by Summer Hamilton
Published in September of 1990 by Gladstone Publishing.
Dick Tracy vs Mrs. Pruneface storyline was originally serialized in the Chicago Tribune July 16, 1943 through September 30, 1943.
. . .
“He must not choke to death.-Not now.”
. . .
Review by William D. Tucker.
You ever read the comic strips? Like they publish in the papers?
Do they still do those?
Do they still print comic strips in the papers?
Do they still publish newspapers?
I confess that even though I’ve always read comic books I never liked comic strips. Especially when I was a kid. Nowadays, I get the appeal. There are hardback book length collections of strips printed on high quality paper which gather entire story arcs into one place. You can read the storylines in sequence. You can appreciate the craft and ingenuity of artists working on deadline and within the strict limits of a few panels on the page. Peanuts. Doonesbury. Flash Gordon. Calvin and Hobbes. The Boondocks. Prince Valiant.
Dick Tracy is the one I’m talking about right now. It was created in 1931 by Chester Gould. Gould drew it from 1931 until 1977.
Think about that.
1931 to 1977.
Think about doing one job for 46 years.
I’m thinking about it . . . and, well, I can’t really get my head around it.
So, I’ll move on.
Now, strictly speaking, I’m not talking here about the Dick Tracy strip as its own thing. I’m talking about a 64 page comic book titled The Original Dick Tracy #1 published in September of 1990 which reprints one of the storylines which originally ran in the Chicago Tribune in four panel increments from July of 1943 through the end of September of that same year. The storyline is titled Dick Tracy vs Mrs. Pruneface. So, this comic book reprint is not starting from the first strip published in 1931 but is jumping ahead to 1943 for whatever reason. In an earlier strip, supercop Dick Tracy-who tends to be tough on crooks-killed a villain called Pruneface. Mrs. Pruneface is his vengeful widow. She’s determined to murder Tracy in a most gruesome fashion. Storm and stress ensue.
I dug The Original Dick Tracy #1 out of a completely non-organized longbox at a comic book store that seemed to be making more money off of Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh than comics. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a dollar book. It was three bucks plus applicable sales tax. I clenched up. I worried that this was going to be twenty-some pages plus ads-a ripoff, in other words. I gave in to temptation. I paid the money. I liberated the comic from its bag and board prison, which went directly into the trash. I opened the book itself and read 64 pages of pictures’n’words with not a single advertisement to interrupt the flow which constituted a story with a beginning, middle, and end. I was not ripped off.
The story is mostly told from Mrs. Pruneface’s perspective. She’s a huge, strong woman with a ghoul’s face. She stalks, kidnaps, and tortures Dick Tracy. She leaves him pinned down by an innovative, if somewhat unlikely, deathtrap. She takes on a new identity as a French chef. Soon, she’s employed at a fancy hotel. In a fit of anger over having her belongings tampered with she bashes a man’s head in with a lamp. Her life is one of disguises and barely suppressed homicidal rage. This is not the Disney Version. This is a creepy trip into a psychopath’s inner hellscape. The cops aren’t even the ones who save the day. Mrs. Pruneface’s timebomb psychology collides with some civilians forced to defend themselves, and her ultimate end is kinda pathetic, really. Supercop Dick Tracy is basically a victimized onlooker in his own strip. When you lay the four panel increments end-to-end across 64 pages the whole thing has a relentless momentum to it. I was not ripped off.
So, I bought a comic book.
But it wasn’t really a comic book.
It was, in actuality, a run of comic strips extracted from the more than a decade old soap opera of Dick Tracy reprinted and recolored to fit into a comic book format as a complete story that you can read and enjoy.
And it was better than most actual new single issues of comics titles I’ve read in recent years which tend to be incremental hustles of never-to-be-resolved pseudostories that are, themselves, subaltern to ancillary movie, streaming, and videogame derivatives.
What a world.
