#(I say as I am drawing cursed images of Eddie)

[dohydrate]

gurl i simply LOVE the silly way you draw Eddie and Frank together...never forgetting the "pound town" one...

MUCH LESS WHATEVER THE FUCK THIS IS,I SIMPLY LOVED IT

Yes, yes… it appears I have quite the digital footprint. You didn’t need to SPREAD IT TO TUMBLR though 😔

No, because I actually decided to lock in and learn how to draw Eddie canonically. 👀

IM SO GLAD TO HAVE YOU AS A MUTUAL 🫶

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

The trouble with cones

Written for the @steddiemicrofic challenge, December 2023 edition

Prompt: pine, 508 words

Rated: M

CW: Explicit language

Tags: Coffee shop owner Steve; Tattoo studio owner Eddie; Flirting; Teasing; Sexual Tension

(Everything goes under the cut bc Eddie jumps right to the important question.)

“Is that a butt plug?”

Steve pinches his nose and heaves a long-suffering sigh. Tries to steel himself for the sight awaiting him. Turns and realizes he failed.

Eddie is leaning in the door of his tattoo studio, mouth curled into a cocky grin. Sleeves rolled up, like the cold doesn't bother him at all, revealing lean forearms covered in ink. Snowflakes gathering in his hair, stark white against the dark curls.

“Fucking hilarious,” Steve rolls his eyes, just barely remembers to cap his window marker before he tugs his freezing hands into his armpits. “Don't you have better things to do?”

“Well…” Eddie's eyes crinkle. “I'm not the one drawing a butt plug on my window.”

“It's a pine cone!” Steve sputters, face lighting up like a furnace. It stings in the frosty air. “Jesus fuck- it's supposed to look festive, why would I draw a butt plug?”

Eddie watches him gesture at the cursed creation he has spent the last thirty minutes slaving over with an expression full of fond indulgence. When Steve signed the contract for his quaint little coffee shop, he wondered why there were no other bidders for the place …

“See, I wondered, but who am I to kink shame you?”

He is beginning to suspect the reason now.

“It is a pine cone,” he insists lamely. “It even has the- what d'you call them? The little nub thingies!”

Eddie quirks a brow. Steve turns and looks at his work.

“Oh fuck,” he groans.

Eddie pulls some hair in front of his mouth, but his shoulders are shaking treacherously. Steve thinks he dies, just a little.

“Here, lemme help.”

Eddie's hands are warm as he steals the marker from his stiff fingers. He whips his bandana from his back pocket to wipe the embarrassing evidence of Steve's total lack of artistic talent off the window, and then-

Then he works his magic. Steve watches him bounce to and fro before the glass like a manic blur of creative energy, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out from between plush lips.

When he steps away, Steve doesn't say anything for a second. Too mesmerized by the image Eddie has thrown together with those quick, efficient strokes of his wrist. A steaming mug of coffee, surrounded by a cluster of artfully scattered pine cones, baubles and twinkling lights dangling above.

“Thanks,” he finally manages to croak. “It's… That really wasn't-”

And then Eddie grabs his arm and pushes back the sleeve of his sweater and he forgets what words are.

“Did you…” he squawks when he finally remembers. “Did you just write on my arm with window marker?”

“Yup,” Eddie says proudly, tugging the marker into Steve’s back pocket. “So that you know where to find me. In case you ever need my assistance with any conical objects again.”

He winks, and then he's skipping into his studio. Steve stays outside and stares at the numbers on his arm for a long time. The snow falls around him, but suddenly he isn't cold anymore.

Part 2

[thoughtfullyyoungduck]

Shadows in the dark

A/N: this was requested by anon, I hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think! If anyone has any requests, please let me know! 

Summary: can you do a reddie x teen daughter where she thinks she sees a shadow figure but it’s just bc she watched a horror movie, n she screams so richie n eddie come n automatically assume it’s IT n go into fight mode but she reassures them she was just seeing things, but then she’s suspicious af bc of their reactions so they try to like explain the whole pennywise thing but rlly vague and like half bs so tht they don’t scare her n they acc get away w it.  

The thunderstorm pours heavily outside of Raina’s bedroom window, drenching everything in sight. It was the first night of the year that this happened, and she had forgotten just how scary it is, to be faced with this kind of . The horror movie she watched a few hours prior doesn’t help her case either, the images of dark figures stalking girls outside in their backyards flashing through her mind every time a bolt goes off.

The window is located on the left side of her bed, above a cozy seating arrangement Rania uses to read and indicate that she requires alone time. Though it usually symbolizes her calm, it now appears ominously, something she should be scared off.  

She fumbles with her phone, trembling impatiently until the screen lights up, illuminating the room so she can see. She groans in frustration when she looks at the time, barely three am, falling back into the bed and burying her head in her pillow.

The storm croaks outside, loud and un-bothered in it’s intensity, making Rania wonder if anyone else is awaken by the weather phenomenon.  ‘Shut up’, she mumbles stupidly, as if it’s going to listen to her, but it reminds her of the times when her pops used to stay up with her when she was little and afraid of the storm, and that causes her to chuckle.

She’s older now, and not so easily spooked, except when she watches a scary movie. This particular movie was called hush, and even in the light of day it frightened her. The idea of not being able to hear whether or not someone was breathing down your neck, or calling out for you seemed manifested straight out of one of her nightmares.

The storm rings loud enough to drown out any other sound that might emit, but that’s only her brain talking, tricking her into being queasy of nothing. There’s not a thing that’s going to happen, and logically she knows that, so she tries to shut her eyes and will herself to sleep.

It’s not going to happen, the three am hour sign burned on the back of her eyelids. She taps her fingers against the edge of the bed restlessly, shifting and twisting in her blankets until sweat starts to build above her eyebrows and she frustratingly kicks the comforter off of her.

Glancing at the window, firmly shut and the curtains drawn over it, Rania debates if it worth opening her window to let some cool air in. The hot summer sun is unforgiving these days, so scorning hot that it feels like your skin will burn right off the flesh if you stay outside for too long.

A bit of relief of the heat would be welcome, yet she almost falters, then curses herself with how foolish she’s being. Her pops is famous, and they’re living in an expensive neighborhood with a security guard, no one can harm her. She opens the window up an inch, and before heading back to bed, Rania shuffles towards the living room to grab a glace of water.

It isn’t uncommon for her to wake up, usually around the same time too, so she learns to deal with it, eating or drinking something or trying things like yoga. Though rarely helpful, Rania does discover new things and interests, so she takes it as a win.

An explosion of lightning brightens up the room, so she leaves the lights off as she shambles towards the fridge. It’s dead quiet, everyone having gone to bed, which makes her feel like she’s alone in the house. Another thunder crack causes her head to whip up from where she was ducked down to grab the water, eyeing the room twice, but coming up empty handed.

Rania hurries to pluck a water bottle and run up the stairs back to the safety of her room, peeking over her shoulder multiple times to ensure that there’s no one watching her. When she reaches her door, she throws it open, duks into the room, and then promptly shoves it closed with a loud bang.

She winces, the noise way too loud, though thankfully neither her dad, nor her pops stir. The rain ticks away on her window, some of it slipping through the opening and spattering in her room, resulting in a wet puddle being formed.

‘Fucking great’, Rania mutters when she notices, the pool extending right before her eyes. She turns halfway to her closet on the right side of the room, a wooden terra cotta colored one that uncle Bill got for her when they moved in, searching for an item that is allowed to get wet.

Towels aren’t at her disposal right now, and she’s not jumping at the idea of leaving her room again to go get one, so she improvises, by using a cloth that will be washed in the morning.

She takes hold of an old sweater that’s non usable right now anyway, and then circles in the direction of the window. A scream tears from her lips as she does, a shadow looming by the window leering at her as he sits on the window seat.

Screeching, Rania trips over her feet and falls on the ground, the sweater dropping from her hands, then scrambles back towards the door in an effort to get away from the silhouette. Her hands cover her face, like she wants to protect herself even if there were no visible weapons or the person preparing to attack her.

With burning eyes, tears that threaten to push themselves over the edge, she squints one eyelid open at the lack of movement. The room is empty.

Rania’s heart beats a mile a minute, her breathing fast and erratic, yet she manages to laugh manically. It was only a catch of the light, induced by her own imagination, petrifying her within an inch of her life.

She inhales and holds, then exhales slowly, controlling her breathing so she calms down. Several footsteps thunder on the laminate flooring in the hallway. Not fast enough to dodge the unlatching door, she receives a blow to the head, knocking her down once again.

��Auw’, she complains, cupping the back of head in one hand and rubbing over the bump.

‘Rania, are you okay?’ Her dads pile into the room, switching the light on, searching frantic until they see her, and scurry beside her.

‘Rania talk to us, are you hurt? What happened?’ Eddie, her dad, clutches her body, half hanging over her, and pulling her as close as possible.

Richie, her pops, is standing on her other side, holding a lamp tightly in his one hand, while the other one latches on to her shoulder.

‘Nothing dad, I thought I saw something, but it’s not real.’

Up close, she can detect the tremors originating from her dad, and the hand of her pops shakes too.

‘You need to tell us alright, even if you think we won’t believe you, we will,’ Eddie promises, Richie nodding along vigorously.

The strangeness of their responses causes an alarm bell to go off in the back of Rania’s brain. She tilts her head sideways, peering up at her dad’s with a quizzical look in her eyes.

‘Okayy..’, she draws up, her voice taking on a questionable tone. She makes an attempt to inquire why they’re acting the way they do, but Richie and Eddie engage in their own conversation now.

‘She won’t tell us, we never told anyone either.’ Eddie says, still keeping Rania close at bay.

‘Well Eds, all the adults in our town fucking sucked, especially your mom.’

‘Fuck off Richie. Do you honestly want to joke about this right now? What if it’s IT asshole? What if the clown returned?’ They’re rushing through the sentences like they are hunted on by the devil himself, complete with wild gestures and raising voices as panic and hysteria seem to control them more and more.

‘I didn’t intend for it be a joke Eddie, I mean it. She was a fucking bitch so yeah, you obviously weren’t going to tell her shit,’ Richie responds irritated.

This wasn’t the usual bickering her parents did on a day to day bases, this time both were annoyed with the other, and Richie being vexed was a rare thing.

The storm rages on outside, three crying out thanks to the wind that blows strongly, but entirely the last thing on Rania’s mind right now.

‘Dad, pops it’s fine, leave it.’

‘It’s not fine, stop saying it’s fine.’ Eddie snapped, staring at Rania with poorly concealed terror. Her dad never snaps at her, ever, furthering suspicion in Rania that something was really, really wrong.

‘Sorry, sorry’, he relented, ‘that was rude.’ It is, but Rania is more concerned than angry anyway. She’s anxious that her dad might have a panic attack, even if he hadn’t had one in years. His face is red, and his hand digs in his pockets, aiming to find his inhaler.

‘We have to call Stan’, Richie distracts, seizing both Eddie’s, and Rania’s hand.

‘Wait what? why?’ Rania asks, pulling her hand out of his grip. Uncle Stan lives in Atlanta, which is a plain ride away, he’s not easily accessible.

‘And Bill. Maybe Mike too.’

‘Guys’, Rania yells out, frustration getting the upper hand. Why won’t anyone listen to what she has to say?

‘I watched a horror movie, I just got spooked. Nothing happened. I opened the window and the curtains moved in a way that looked like there was someone sitting there. But there wasn’t.’ She pointedly fixes her gaze on both Eddie and Richie, to get her point across.

‘Is someone going to tell me what this is all about? Why would we need anyone to come here?’ The tension dibs out of Richie and Eddie, albeit slowly, and they nervously communicate in silence.

‘Hello, is anyone gonna fill me in?’ Rania repeated, as she is not used to being kept in the dark. She thought Eddie and Richie told her everything, so it comes as a shock now she reckons that there’s something hidden.

‘There was a clown.’ Eddie starts, despite the shaking of Richie’s head. ‘And every year at the carnival, he scared us half to death by mean pranks.’

Rania blinks once, then twice. ‘That’s it? That’s what terrified you guys enough to want to call your friends?’

‘I guess we’re just traumatized’, Eddie chuckled uneasy, flatting a curl on the top of her head to keep his hands busy.

‘Psst,’ Richie draws her attention, ‘your dad is spooked because we’re the clowns in high school too. He’s just afraid to admit it.’

Rania giggles, always counting on her pops to make light of a situation, making her instantly more calm.

She misses the thumb Eddie gestures at Richie, gratitude flowing through him that the topic has been avoided, mostly.

They’re both still on high alert, the trouble Pennywise cost then a long way from forgotten, but outwardly they come across as composed.  

A tree branch slaps against the window, starling all three people of the family, although they all pretend that it didn’t.

‘Is anyone up for watching a movie?’ Richie suggests, shoulder shimmying to draw the attention his way.

Rania wisps her head towards her dad, applying the puppy dog eyes her pops had taught her to convince Eddie to do something he most likely won’t approve of.

This time, he relents without any type of resistance.

‘Yeah, come on, I’ll get the hot chocolate milk.’  With a last, lingering hug, Eddie releases his hold on Rania, getting up from where he’s sitting on the floor.

Richie hugs Rania as well, smiling brightly at her with the giant smile. ‘Come on,’ he says, then ushers Rania out of the room.

The suspicion still lingers, the story her dad made up not making much sense, but Rania allows herself to follow them downstairs anyway. It’s late, and though she’s aware that no one hung around her room, she’s apprehensive all the same.

She’ll find out what all of this is about, for example by exploring and question one of her uncles or her aunts, but that can wait. Right now, all she’ll watch a movie, and slip off to sleep under the watchful eye of her parents, who outside of her knowledge, don’t dare the blink away from her once.  

[aalt-ctrl-del]

i fucking hate this, but I don’t care

_

The Not Good Ending

Everything in and around his tentative consciousness oscillated, his physical form floating somewhere in the ether; hacked from corporal tethers. A ship cast to the mercy of convulsing waves.

 “So this is what it felt to die.” he thought, he might’ve wondered. This was what it felt like to cease being. Existence expunged. So much unresolved. So much left to say. So much wasted time. So much to Lose...

 So much...

 He didn’t get a chance to say, how much. Or to appreciate the time, the better moments, with Him. He saved him, didn’t he? Yes, he did. He absolutely, fucking did. Like a badass. 

So much left inside of him. So much given up, so many goodbyes left, unsaid. So much left undone. But it was worth it. If it had happened any other way, he knew deep in him, he didn’t have the kind of strength to let go, and watch the fading light in his best friends eyes.

 At least it was dark. Not so much silent as it was hushed; somewhere in his head, a ringing sensation heaved forth. The chatter akin to a boiling hum. The same sort of groaning roar that filled his brain when all the oxygen was siphoned out. After a plunge into the quarry - that’s the first thought that came to mind - it rattled away between his ears, seeking a way out. The tenure impossibly low, nearly inaudible if not for the priming sensation that something must erupt inside his arteries, and behind his eyes.

 Fresh oxygen. Pure oxygen. He wasn’t sure if that was medically accurate, but it felt right. The C02 would ignite inside his brain if he didn’t replenish his lungs. Though he wanted to drink in the air, invigorate his withering cells, for the life of him he couldn’t remember how.

 This is what robbed him of his life. Not the Clown. Not Henry Bowers. Not falling thirty meters into a bottomless pit.

 He couldn’t breathe. Plain, fucking, simple.

 The whirr rose in pitch, until the vibrations punched into his skin. His mouth moaned something, and he realized dully, Oh. I am breathing.

 Someone was screaming at him. No. The tone was commanding and firm, but they hadn’t raised their voice. Questions darted at him. They sounded close in enunciation to questions, but horribly mangled through the blunt vibration prodding his brain matter. Some of the language range clear and concise

 “- a sign -” “ - blood pressure - “ “type” “ transfusion ” “ insurance provider “

 “Sir? Can you hear me?”

 The light plunged into his eye was so bright, some primal instinct reared forth a violent reaction and he snapped. His arm connected with someone, and another voice hissed a curse. A wave of agony invaded his tissue and bones. Holy shit, that hurt. That hurt a fuck lot. He was fucked.

 His head lolled back on the soft fabric of something like a pillow, and a sopping string of syllables dragged across his sticky lips. Copper flooded his nostrils, his throat. All of it his.

 The bleak walls stretched on by, the monotonous cadence of wheels beat his thoughts to a fine foam. He blinked against the intensity of light rebounding off those stunning walls - he hated hospitals - and nearly plunged back into the comforting veil of null. His hand twitched at his sides, and then, he realized someone was beside him. Someone was keeping pace with the gurney, which caged his battered frame, and they were holding his hand tightly.

 “We need that blood type. “

 One of the nurses forced a plastic mask over his face and manually pumped the life back into him. A cough leapt from his throat, try and try, he fought to twist his gaze under the tending agents. They bickered and prodded, shoving things into his skin, touching his body, probing his pockets. He Hated hospitals.

 Something of the Fight wheedled its way back into his plundered psyche. Panic and terror boiled through his veins, though this sensation wasn’t for his own frail mortality. Immediately, his thoughts darted to the others. Where were they? What happened?

 Where was Richie?

 “..wheh- ere,” he gurgled.

 “Don’t speak,” a nurse cautioned.

 He rolled his head into the direction of his arm, and his clasped hand, struggling to press focus beyond five inches. The tinges of his peripheral vibrated, the sizzling pressure warning him even the slight motion of blinking might kill him yet. But there was the arm, and a familiar sleeve attached to it.

 “Is surgery prepped?”

 Eddie frowned. He was surprised and a little disappointed, but a greater deal more concerned than what he could manage to convey. Too much absorbed the functions of his mind and body, as the pieces of viscera struggled to cling and hold the fading spark that made a person who they were.

 If Bill was here, and they were in this hellish place (exaggeration), this was a feat that couldn’t be managed alone. Not the climb, not alone, not escaping. None of it possible, not without them all united, and together.

 IT wouldn’t have let them.

 Bill tightened the hold on his hand.

 Eddie scrambled with a coherent question, but only managed a listless, “Bill…”

 Images and colors began blurring, becoming more abstract than one of Van Gophs surreal pieces.

 “Stay with us.

 He creaked an eye more open towards the silent Bill, his vision bleary and the outlines of his very dear friend odd. Bill was smiling, but that was off too. Everything was off. Was he dreaming? 

You can’t dream if you’re dead, Edds.

 “No.” he breathed, beneath the shy of a whisper. And repeated it in his head. No-no-no-no. He wasn’t in a nightmare, he was in hell. He was in his own private hell. This is where the Deadlights dragged him. Stole him from the comfort of death, to tease and torment him for all eternity.

 “Can you still hear me?”

 He made some sound, but couldn’t catch the exact shape of it. Only that it scorched his chest. Maybe another no.

 The hand around his own squeezed, drawing his eyes reflexively to the hideous caricature of poor Bill. It was smiling in that deviously, cartoony way. Did anyone else see It? Would any of them care?

 Then the grip did something shocking. It released him, and the figure zipped beyond his view. Eddie scuffled with the last traces of energy to search the sides, but unable, and restrained by the hospital staff, from moving too much. He actually tried to rip the respirator off his face.

 “Please, sir!”

 “Prep sedation. We’re here.”

 The gurney eased around a bend in the hall, and aloft in the crease of the ceiling hung a reflective disk. The shimmering gloss snagged Eddies attention immediately, due to the washed-out colors captivated in its glossy plain, colors gutted and displaced from natural scenery. Streaks of red and orange ran like globs of molten metal, and glittering in the center of a pale face, the mocking sheen of eyes and teeth. Too many teeth in a too wide grin.

[demonwriterx]

Jadeite and Calaca (Villainous Villain-Luchador)

Day 6 - May 30th (2 Days Till Release) You’re now a Villain/Hero - Ever wanted to be a villain or a hero? Draw yourself as one, write a story about you interacting with the crew as either a Villain or Hero, or tell us about what you think you’d be if you were a Villain or a Hero.

BACKSTORY:

Born in Mexico, Maria “Jade” Gonzalez was a young aspiring archeologist looking for a lost and ancient Aztec temple. Legends say that the temple was made entirely out of Jade. She became obsessed in finding it, studying every map, scouting out trails and analyzing clues. But before she could make her discovery, she was betrayed by her best friend, Jose Sancho Jimenez. He cut off her funding, and resources. 

Betrayed by him, she sought the temple on her own, with minimal gear and equipment. Only her determination and hatred pushed her through the thick jungle. Exhausted and nearly dead, she stumbled upon a path, made out of Jade! She followed the trail and discovered the temple! At last she had found it! But she collapsed right at its steps. Her body worn and slowly giving up. She pushed through, reaching the top of the temple and what awaited her was a statue. On top of the temple was the god of death “Mictlantecuhtli”. She reached out towards the stone statue and found, imbedded in its abdomen was an skull amulet made out of jade and gold. Her eyes glisted at the sight out it. As she stated she heard a voice, whisper to her.

“I am the son of Michti. Remove me from the stone and my power shall become yours.”

She reached out, compelled by the voice.Without a moment of hisitation, her hand reached out and yanked the amulet out of the stone. The moment she did, the amulet flowed brightly. She turned away, unable to look at it but it shook violently in her hand. She lost her grip and the amulet attached itself onto her own abdomen! She screeched in pain and felt herself transform. Her hands changed into jade. She stared at them in shock. She swiftly slammed her hands down, in a desperate attempt to remove them. Broken stone and jade flew out, the force created a crater. Yet her hands remained unscathed. She opened her hands and was amazed from the overwhelming feeling of strength. This power. It was enough. Enough to exact her revenge on those who betrayed her. Those who looked down on her. Those who didn’t believe she could succeed. Men like…Jose.

She uses her powers to attack and steal ancient artifacts for her to either keep or sell to the highest bidder. One of her most famous buyers is...Black Hat. Who had once ask for a cursed Jase vase. 

POWERS:

With the amulet permently attached to her, she has the power to change her hands (or any part of her body) into hardened jade.

It can morph into anything she desires, if she thinks of jade spikes, spikes will appear on her knuckles. She can even shoot out jade knifes out of her hands. She can even break through anything, they are virtually indestructible. 

Cast out by the scientific community and archeologist association, she sought work in an underground wrestling ring. She would fight her opponents and throw them out of the ring, while concealing her true powers. Which is hard to do when you have a talking skull attached to your abdomen. 

CALACA:

Son of The Aztec God of death. A trickster god, causing mayhem in ancient times, and turning sacrifices into Jade Statues. Until he was banished and cursed to live as an amulet. Never to escape by his father. Those who wield it, will have his power. He is Jade’s second conscious and uses her to plant ideas and also cause chaos. (Think of eddie brock and Venom, type of relationship)

He’s a bit of a talker. Well...he hardly ever stops talking. Almost causing Jade’s villain identity to be revealed. Jade hides her powers and Calaca by wearing a longer shirt, a different luchador outfit but still using the amulets power to throw her opponents out of the ring.

WEAKNESS:

Every villain has a weakness, and hers? is stamina. When her stamina becomes low, so does her powers. Keep the fight going and she is bound to get tired. When? Well no one ever gotten that far.

NOTE FROM OP:

I did a sketch of this character that looked like this originally. But it wasn’t that good. 

SO I asked my good friend, @evansnana to help me! She is the one who makes the Fluttercord Comics about Discord and Fluttershy going on vacation. She made my character look so much cooler, cleaner and made it look like it can be a part in the show, Villainous!

Thank you so much for helping me! 

I highly recommend checking her out! Here is the link to her Tumblr page and the comic! HER ART IS AMAZING!

https://evansnana.tumblr.com

https://evansnana.tumblr.com/image/184357379715.  (COMIC)

[ganzeer-reviews]

THE BEST OF MILLIGAN & MCCARTHY By Peter Milligan and Brendan McCarthy o-o-o-c

Madness. Sheer and utter madness.

I must admit that before MAD MAX: FURY ROAD, I hadn't even heard of Brendan McCarthy, which is a damn inexcusable shame. But to be fair, the work of Milligan & McCarthy hasn’t really been part of the dialogue in comix culture. Not even when it comes to talking about the impactful indie work that fell outside of the mainstream; you never hear their work cited alongside that of Frank Miller's SIN CITY (which, before the 2005 film release was only really known in pretty small circles throughout the 1990's) or Eddie Campbell's ALEC or Dave Sim's CEREBUS. But that silence is in no way reflective of the duo's influence.

About a year ago, I listened to an interview with Neil Gaiman for the British Library podcast focused primarily on the RAMAYANA and Gaiman's involvement in adapting it for DreamWorks. When asked if he had a particular style in mind when working on the various [never-produced] treatments, Gaiman was quick to point out Brendan McCarthy's work on ROGAN GOSH, which Gaiman describes as being birthed from Brendan's "Road to Damascus moment, where he ran into a pile of comics in India, and just went 'I love this, there's art stuff here that I've never seen in the West,' and started doing stuff and playing with it." He also goes on to describe ROGAN GOSH as "one of the most interesting moments of fusion between Indian and British and American comix culture."

Naturally, I immediately looked into getting my hands on some ROGAN GOSH and discovered that it was reprinted in the pages of an over-sized hardcover titled THE BEST OF MILLIGAN & MCCARTHY published by Dark Horse Books in 2013 and retailing for only $24.99 (down to $7.19 as I type this). Although a horrendously produced edition (pages are actually falling out in less than a year since purchasing it), I'm still happy to have gotten my hands on it because it has been blowing my mind ever since. Not least because of the work itself, but because it simultaneously exposes a very vital almost secret history of comix lost to... I dunno,an obsession with the founding of Image Comics and the less than negligible work its founders produced? If there was ever a demented, revolutionary punk rock duo in comix, Milligan & McCarthy definitely fit the bill.

ROGAN GOSH first appeared in REVOLVER, a short-lived anthology magazine for mature readers published in the UK between 1990-1991. GOSH was finally collected by DC Comics/Vertigo into a 48-page one shot in 1994. It is perhaps because of the book's modest page-count that it is never mentioned in the same breath as say THE SANDMAN or PREACHER, or THE INVISIBLES or other long-running titles central to the Vertigo imprint's identity. But hey, Aristotle's POETICS is no more than a sodding 44 pages, which is sometimes all you need to jump-start a revolution.

In Milligan and McCarthy's own words, surrounded by "long and bloated 'concept album' comics", they were more interested in "the short, sharp, throwaway pop single. The type you danced to. The type you had sex to."

While the above statement can most be applied to their series PARADAX (also featured in the book), it pretty much hits the nail on the head with the majority of their collaborations, including ROGAN GOSH.

By the duo's own admission, it is not only difficult to describe what ROGAN GOSH is about, it is even pointless to ask. What may have been originally conceived as a “sci-fi Bollywood BLADE RUNNER” rapidly evolved into something far more demented. It starts off with Rudyard Kipling in Lahore en route to a place "where men of all castes come to sleep the sleep of dreams." Essentially, an opium den where "karmanauts can relieve a man of the curses of his sins.” If you think that opening scene will give you any idea of what follows, you are sorely mistaken. Kupling is entered into a "jasmine-scented dream of the future" where we are transported to psychadelic trip after psychadelic trip involving completely different characters:

- A man named Raju Dhawan waiting on another named Dean Cripps at a Tandoori joint called "Star of the East" - The blue-skinned Rogan Gosh on the run from the "bloody-tongued, dark destroyer" Kali together with a small idol of Kipling. - Raju Ghawan as Rogan Gosh together with Dean Cripps on the run from robotic hindu "Karma Kops". - Rogan Gosh as a bull-riding ancient Egyptian cowboy of the future, roaming through the mythic land of Wild Bill Osiris and Horus Thuh Kid.

If none of this makes the slightest bit of coherence, well that's because there is nothing coherent about it. Rather than there being any kind of train of thought, it's more like a train blown to bits upon the detonation of atomic dynamite. Shards of ideas floating around a nebula, jabbing into each other with every turn of the page. It's bizarre stuff, heavy on logic-defying captions almost as much as the explosive visuals. If you, the reader, let yourself go, you'll find that the synergy of text and image in ROGAN GOSH will drag you around a strong relentless current of spicy thought soup. Washing ashore an island of utter confusion is inevitable, but not without a sense of thrill retained from the memories of the surrealist storm that was.

Imagine a comicbook operating along the logic of say, PROMETHEA, 8 years prior to PROMETHEA's publication and without any of the rigorous explanation of the world's mechanics the way PROMETHEA delves into. Instead you're just thrown into it and left to make connections entirely on your own. That's what ROGAN GOSH feels like; a weird transcendental spell cast in comicbook form.

It isn't a coincidence that Milligan & McCarthy share something with Alan Moore other than British citizenship. All three after all did get their start making comix in the indie music paper SOUNDS. Moore with ROSCOE MOSCOW in 1979, and McCarthy et Milligan with THE ELECTRIC HOAX in 1978. This discovery, although new to me, was not at all surprising, as I find that I am typically drawn to creators who cut their teeth in avenues that fall outside of "the mainstream". Where the ones "in charge" understand little about what they’re doing, where anything goes and opportunities for mad experimentalism aren't stifled.

The greatest discovery in THE BEST OF MILLIGAN & MCCARTHY for me has been the duo's work on FREAKWAVE, a comic that, by Brendan's own admission, was directly inspired by MAD MAX 2: THE ROAD WARRIOR which Brendan became obsessed with during his surfing getaway in Australia in 1981. After which Brendan coerced Milligan to co-write a "Mad Max goes surfing" treatment Brendan could pitch to Hollywood. Hollywood didn't bite, but the duo did get to produce it as a backup strip in the pages of VANGUARD ILLUSTRATED published by Pacific Comics in 1983. Pretty straight adventure story initially (well, as straight as Milligan & McCarthy can muster anyway), with the most striking aspect of the strip being character designs and world building.

FREAKWAVE is a post-apocalyptic punk-rock drifter who windsurfs a flooded Earth in search of floating trash he can live off. He battles it out with disease-ridden humanoid "Water-rats" and psychopaths in gasmasks wrapped in old tin cans and the random cultural ephemera of old. FREAKWAVE would later resurface as a punk-absurdist Tibetan Book-of-the-Dead story in 1984's STRANGE DAYS, an anthology showcasing the work of Milligan, McCarthy, and Brett Ewans published by Eclipse Comics. It only ran for 3 issues, but Warren Ellis says it "landed like a hand grenade from another world", which is still exactly what it feels like going through its contents 34 years later today. It is especially in the pages of STRANGE DAYS' feature comic FREAKWAVE that you see Brendan McCarthy and Peter Milligan really rocking out like some kind of alternative comicbook band, the pages crackling with the energetic buzz of an electric guitar. Brendan especially reaches peak McCarthiasm, with 90% of his visionary work on FURY ROAD appearing here first on the page a good 31 years before blowing people's minds on  screen.

Which, by the way, how fucking cool is that? To be asked to work on the sequel to a film that inspired your scarcely read comicbook. And to be asked specifically because of your work on said comicbook?

Not to mention that FREAKWAVE, although given a pass by executives in Hollywood, very likely influenced the movie WATERWORLD in 1995, at the very least in terms of look and production design, which let's face it was the only really good thing about the film.

Nothing will give you that good kick in the balls to go off and make comix (or any ill-advised pursuit) more than looking at the work of Milligan and McCarthy. If a big part of the draw of comix for you is that it is medium void of filters between creator and reader, well then that cannot be more true of Milligan and McCarthy's collaborations. Because there are always editors keeping creators in check, or heck, even self-inflicted inhibition on the creator’s part. Not for Milligan and McCarthy.

Never for Milligan and McCarthy.

[Available on Amazon]

Ganzeer November 23, 2018

[fangedmagick]

He eyed the rings like some bird that was drawn to the shine of them before they were put away and his attention went back to digging. And honestly he had hoped that Eddie wouldn't have said anything... it would've been a nice mystery that neither knew how they died and returned as what they are now.

And not even a sentence in and he could guess that Eddie's was far better. And as he spoke, Aurelius' felt more and more like some weak coward. Even though his was important, it wasn't like Eddie's. Protecting others, drawing off the bat creatures... images in his head of someone fighting to the death filled his head.

But the tearing... he wanted to chuckle bitterly. But he held his tongue. Eddie had scars because he fought back... Aurelius had his because his existence had been seen as unnatural and evil, something that some vile and mad women believed could literally beat and starve out of him.

"I am sorry for what happened to you. It sounds painful, but you died fighting.. you drew them away." He looked down, angry and grieved at himself. "I didn't when I should have."

He moves away from Eddie and began to move his fingers around, and shadows seem to come to him and around him. Eyes going all white for a moment as he swirls the shadows around like smoke before forming small silhouettes that held a similarity to Aurelius if it was purely a shadow.

"I somehow found my way back home... my time. I think the truth was that I was in the belief that I would die fighting the darkest wizard of the age. Give my uncle and father a chance.. if my death gave them an opening than so be it." He paused. "And I was okay with it, dying. I had lived longer than I should have... but I digress, that is another story. I would say to get some popcorn and maybe tissue but..."

"Luckily I was helped by a kind wizard and my family and my life was going to be lived long. My uncle, Albus, was the one that had to take down Grindelwald. But we were all with him. It was me that nearly killed the bastard.. Grindelwald used me for years. Molded me to be his weapon, his loyal attack dog. Albus suddenly had to fight me and stop me from slaughtering Grindelwald... but alas he gave the man mercy... the man that, if he'd won.. we wouldn't be talking now. No-maj would've been seen as slaves, lower beasts, lower than dirt. I am ashamed still to have believed the same once... but anger is twisted like that, it twists someone that once was a kind and curious kid into something that took pleasure in killing, hurting." He digressed again.

"Albus had to basically knock me out and honestly, my father was agreeing to. Giving Grindelwald mercy was not wise. We were right in the end." He rubs his neck.

"I settled down.. damn it's only been like a year here. I think I stayed there at least seven or more. I fell in love with someone... Nagini. She also had a curse. But I loved her. We had three children together, two boys and a girl. I was happy. Even told them of my time here in Hawkins and of the sweet, shy, and funny vampire I met. They all made a promise that if they can't find you than their children would. It was a nice thought. Unsure if that came or will come to be. Or if anyone is still alive."

He lowers his eyes. "I was happy.. Nagini was happy, but eventually her curse would become to much. I think she feared that most.. feared she would change into some monstrous snake and attack me or her own kids... who knew that there was much more to fear."

"We had been right about Grindelwald. It was at my happiest that he decided to rip away from me. It was a nice night, everyone went inside. I stayed out, just thinking. And he came to me, somehow escaping his prison and catching me off guard..

He didn't make it kind either. I humiliated him for the world to see, revealing a plot that would've changed the world for the worst. I nearly killed him in battle when he was down. He repaid my betrayal thousands times over. I don't know where he took me but my screams were not heard, my pleas were on deaf ears. I screamed until my vocal cords tore and bled. He tortured me for days... insanity would've been welcomed... I begged for death, Eddie... begged him to kill me but to spare my family.. just them." He had gripped his arms, not realizing his nails had broken skin and making himself bleed. The shadows disappeared long ago. "And he finally decided my fate."

"I am still sickened by it to this day. The bite.. it was so good, so pleasurable. But he didn't stop.. and I didn't want him to. He drank me dry, but fed me some of his blood. And.. well I was turned. The pleasure replaced with more pain as my body died again. And the hunger.. the voice in my head.. fuck, the hunger."

"He made me commit another crime.. a crime that I know could get me killed without question in that world. I have two powers, magic and shadow to be blunt. The crime is seen as the most evil unless it was okayed by someone in charge or whatever. He didn't give me a human to feed on, he gave me a vampire.." He shook now, trying to hold back the tears of red that were forming, "I couldn't stop myself Eddie.. I tried everything to not do it, locked in a room. His begging... his yells that he would be loyal... I took every single drop of blood from him, I don't know, I just suddenly blacked out and when I came to half of him was drained. I killed a vampire.. but I did worse. I devoured his soul. It was so... so good.. so horrible.. but so delicious. God, Eddie.. I hated myself so much. But once I felt that blood inside of me, once I got my power. I broke out, I ran, and ran. I never went back, and had to learn all alone what I was."

"That bastard screwed me again. And every time I am so hungry I hear his voice in my head, mocking me, telling me to kill." He looks at the bodies. "It shut up thanks to these guys.

Anyway.. yeah. I didn't die protecting my friends, my loved ones. I died because apparently he broke me enough and got bored of me. I didn't know he was a vampire either until, well, fangs and death." He had stopped digging and was shaking. "So here I am again, you saw my worst self and somehow I am sure you heard my worser self. And yes, apparently there is a world of vampires that was under my nose... who knew? And believe me, I will take you over any of them any day. The majority of them really live up to the name Bloodsucker or Assholes." Said the asshole...

frreakfangs​:

He had his fair share of showing his darker side. Mike had been one of those unlucky ones to experience his more animalistic side. He had nearly killed the fellow curlyhead. Not to mention the fact he had actually did kill someone before. That elderly women’s face twisted with fear will always haunt him.

Eddie frowns and gently ran his hand along the side of Aurelius’s back. “..Its okay..you can’t exactly help how you act sometimes, I find its easier to just let yourself forgive yourself..it’ll tear you apart if you dont.” He hoists the other dead body over his shoulder with a grunt. “..Come on, I know a spot we can bury these guys..” The least they could do is give them a good burial. Maybe under the old oak tree by that little pond he had came across earlier..

🦇.・゜゜・ 🦇｡･ﾟﾟ･ 🦇｡･ﾟﾟ･

He loved his darker side, especially when he shows it to people that deserve it. He gives no mercy to those that harm others. Aurelius committed a very dark and forbidden crime in his world… one that maybe now he realizes he could never tell Eddie..

His kind was many clans, but the rules were basically the same. He broke the most absolute rule by no fault of his own. Hell, his turning was forbidden to. Maybe coming here was a good thing. Or maybe he just wanted to see his friend again before the others found him and dragged him to his punishment…

He looked closer at the bodies, and was thankful they didn’t look young as in high-school age. He would’ve been devastated to take life so young. “Yes, you’re right. Thank you Eddie.”

Walking with a body was easy for him. He can’t say this will be the last time he killed.. but there is always hoping its the last time he killed innocents. He nods, unsure about burying, but he assumed it was better than just throwing them in a lake or something rude. 

Walking in silence was also a nightmare, “is it still the 80s here?” He asked finally, trying to break the awkwardness of the quiet. “… is it bad how I wish I went down fighting a bunch of demobats…? Hell if I went down fighting at all.” He was bitter and angry, “but I guess begging for another’s life works to.”