#its so dehumanizing to only be seen as a punch line for how dirty and stupid construction workers are

[greeplurch]

Can college grads go one day without mocking people that don't have a degree thank you very much.

[theanoninyouraskblog]

Ok. Ok. I have so many thoughts I dont think they're going to fit into the tags so I'm just going to try and write them plaintext and hope that makes them a little more coherent.

Just from the beginning we have the frame tinted green. It's the color of the city, the color that accompanies Jerry, nominally Poppy's color, the color of hostility. But I think this is the first time we haven't seen it exhibeted from the higher powers- Jerry- the city- the fear of the people- it's coming from Teflon as he's cold- exacting. He doesn't want Poppy to get any ideas. Meanwhile Muskat and Tink are in the same room but they're set outside of the frame- tinted in the colors of saftey- of love- pinks and oranges and they look so tender, Kat brushing out Tink's hair, undoing Tink's braid so she doesn't have to resemble Poppy anymore. You've just beautifully divided these caracters- drawn the lines of this scene so subtly we can feel the distance between these two interactions happening in the same room- AUGH Every time it gets me.

And the way both Tef and Kat are showing their love- Kat reaching out with gentle direct affection- and Tef going straight for the heart of the problem. And HELL Tink's hairdoo!!!! Sheooks adorable with that wilde mane- but also I was looking at her trying to figure out what she reminds me of and then it hit me. KAT! She looks like the younger versions of Kat we see and oooohhhh that hit me right in the heart, on the warpath and everything. Gosh tink's face- resolute- furious- wild and kat's little smile off to the side. And the absolute devistation on Poppy's face- immediately she's fallen back on the dehumanizing language- the language Jerry uses to adress Tink- but the look on her face, it's not a matter of disrespect, not a lack of care, Poppy means it when she says creature.

"She's my blood" What a gut punch of a line. The duality of self deprication- of self awarness- Poppy knows exactly what she is. She knows exactly what she's done. She knows she's been a monster- I can only imagine she's wondering what she would have become if she had half the motive Tink does. Her vision of the future- of Tink in glorious tactical gear- with a flame thrower and Poppy beaten and disarrayed as everything around her goes up inflames. And suddenly you have to be in the mind of the last child Poppy technically had claim over. Jerry isn't Poppy's kid- not by blood no- but Jerry was a test tube baby in Poppy's lab- at the heart of Poppy's experiments. The last "daughter" Poppy had ruined her- took her revenge and Poppy's eye stripped her of her science and her class and her power- continues to taunt her. How can se expect anything else from Tink? It's aweful, its wretched, I will never stop thinking about it.

It's so interesting to see Kat and Tef's conflicting opinions on Poppy. Kat's endlessly gracious, endlessly forgiving, even though by all rights it was him who was personally dealt the greatest harm, but its Tef who remembers the horror of it, Tef who bore witness to the way Poppy betrayed them, the way she hurt them both, the way she hurt the man he loves. Muskat no idealist, he understands that the world they live in isn't kind, he knows it could be better, but compared to Tef he's the picture of an optimist. And you can feel Tef's coldness, the harsh way he adresses Poppy, the way he talks about her, it's the way he defends them, by being as brutally realist as he can. I'm reminded of the comic where he's trying not to soften towards Tink because he knows she'll be used against them, the way that Muskat presses him to set that aside and allow himself the joy tink would bring to them regaurdless of the reason she was given to him. It's just- you have such a strong grasp of your characters and I feel endlessly for them. I love them, I am gripped by them.

Gosh Poppy looks wrecked. But she's looked wrecked since the beginning of this comic. Her suit was a mess, but now she's not just rumpled, she's dirty, she's drunk, she's collapsed. And again we return to the shades of green! A subtle thing this time- the city and its hostility is a much more blue green than tef's hostility earlier which perhaps speaks to the fact that even though he rightly hates Poppy, resents her, he understands she's not in a great position either, he's a measure gentler than he might be if he didn't understand. And now! Jerry! Ephegenia!

The way she towers over this scene both because Poppy is literally on the ground and also because sheholds all the powerbetween them- and she's got her makeup on too- she's got her mask on. She's impervious. Atop the world. Gloating- until suddenly she isn't. It's interesting that when Poppy lashes out verbally, cuts the shit and just tells her to fuck off the green tint across her drops for a moment- the inherent hostility the power she holds- disrupted- momentarily broken in shock before it settles back into place.

You used a phrase to describe Poppy once that I think is really fitting- endlessly chipper. She's been beaten, broken- lost an eye, lost her status, lost her science, her friends, but she never lets the facade fall, its obvious it bothers her, otherwise she wouldn't pursue that stuff so doggedly, but she never lets anyone see it bothers her. The closest we've ever gotten is the scene with her protesting the council's unfair treatment, she was furious then, and I think these are the only times we've really see the mask fall… completely at least, and we can certainly infer it happened after the pregancy- but hell, even when Jerry sprung on her that Tink is her kid she didn't let the devistation sit with her, she denies it. Gosh Poppy is so compelling, the things that have stakes to her, her personal moral compass, her own feelings towards her atrocities, she comes across as ruthlessly pragmatic. She'll do Anything it takes. But you get the sense that she doesn't sleep easily for it, though she'd like you to beleive it.

To some extent, she doesn't seem to regret a great deal of what she did, but it still weighs on her, and in this moment you really feel that she's truly letting herself face the weight of what she's done, and wallow in it. She wants Jerry to leave her alone, not because she blames Jerry, but because she blames herself, and doesn't want Jerry rubbing her face in it.

I am endlessly curious to know what Ephegenia expected, Poppy to lash out, placing blame on everyone else, perhaps physically, as Ephegenia clearly expects and wants the proof that the convicts are violent, she wanted rage, but I don't think she expected misery.

This is utterly spectacular. I am absolutely captivated by your ability to convey mood and tone, and your beautiful expression work, and as always I am obsessed with you characters. Their story is deeply compelling to me and I am ever excited to see the turns it will take next.

this is not the personality development ephegenia had had in mind with her last move.

more about these characters here^^

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Not Quite: Killan

CW: Dehumanization, imprisonment, restraints, wing whump implied, blindfolding, muzzling

Timeline: Takes place after Killan is no longer with Calon Nie, but early on in his time being sold from person to person. 

“I want to see it.”

The voice was young, and female, and the boy - who was not yet only a creature or monster in his own mind, but was already nameless except for whatever words they chose to call him - looked up from where he had curled up in the corner, scratching his talons idly along the floor.

One scratch for every day. He had three weeks of scratches on the floor behind the pallet stuffed with hen feathers and straw that he slept on. Not that it mattered how long he had been here, but he tried to keep track. It gave him something to do, and he had nothing else to look forward to but meals and the times the man who owned him visited. 

The room was large, although he could only move around about a third of it. He had a pallet, a bucket, a shirt and a pair of pants, a bowl and cup. That was all he had here. They told him animals need nothing else.

A book might have been nice, though. Or a game. Or… something. Even Beron and Ren had given him stories to think over while he worked, time out in the light. Even Calon Nie had spoken to him, told him tales of his own life, given the boy’s mind anything, anything at all, anything to remind him that he had a mind at all.

The boy was kept in a large stone room in a large stone house in a large stone city he only saw in glimpses, tied down in a wagon, trussed up like so much cargo jostling around in the back. The buildings seemed so tall that the sky could barely make itself seen between them, but in the stone room in the stone house, he could see blue sky through the window that he could not reach.

He couldn’t reach the window because of the chains hooked into the rings pierced into the joins of his wings, chains that ran down to hooks in the floor next to his pallet. 

Iron didn’t hurt him but they still used it just in case. Iron chains bound between stone floor and brass rings punched through feathers and skin, keeping the boy just a few feet away from a window where he saw pink skies in the morning, blue at noon, and the barest hint of stars deep in the night.

He could hear the stars, faint as a whispered word three rooms away. He could hear them, but nothing could hear him in here.

If anything out there had ever heard his prayers, it had only ever been to answer them with laughter and to give him more tears instead of saving, anyway. The boy thought he’d cried tears enough, now, that he had none left.

But the day the girl came the first time, he learned otherwise.

After she spoke, he heard another voice, older. “Now, miss, your father wouldn’t find it appropriate-”

“I don’t much care what Father finds appropriate. He brought it here and I should get to see it.” The girl’s voice was petulant, ringing clear and high on the other side of the locked door. 

The boy looked over that direction from his corner, wrinkling his nose under the muzzle buckled tightly to his head, listening to the clink of the iron chains as his wings pulled a little closer in against his body.

“I absolutely should not let you be in there alone,” The older voice warned. “It has claws, you know.”

“It’s a fae thing, right? I think they’re called talons. Fae are like birds, aren’t they? I’m pretty sure they’re like birds.”

“It doesn’t matter. It could hurt you dearly, young lady.”

“I don’t care, and I’ll bet it doesn’t! I should get to see what my father keeps showing his friends, shouldn’t I?”

The boy cocked his head, unaware of the ways he’d picked up Calon Nie’s mannerisms and kept them. The more he was treated as something other than human, the easier it was to hold only to those things that seemed to reinforce the assumption. 

“You are too delicate to bear such a sight alone-”

“Then come in with me.”

A hesitation. Then a resigned sigh. “... fine. But if your father comes home unexpectedly-”

“I’ll swear up and down I threatened to have you dismissed if you wouldn’t do what I wanted. I promise. I’ll put on such a show of snobbish spoiled nonsense, they’d pay me in the theaters to come act for them. Come on, let me in there! Let me see it, please?” Her voice turned wheedling. “Please, Governess?”

There was a sigh, exasperated and affectionate, and the boy tensed as he listened to the clink of the key in the lock, the tumblers shifting and clicking, and then the door to the stone room swung open and a girl his own age stepped inside.

She turned to look at him, and for a moment the boy forgot the misery and endless pain of living, and saw only her face.

She was brilliant as a star, shimmering light-colored hair in an elaborate tumble of braids and shine down her back, wearing an off-the-shoulder dress, a flash of warm tanned skin. Her eyes sparkled blue in a beautifully rounded face, reflecting the sun the boy had never directly seen since he’d been brought here in the first place. 

He kept his gaze sidelong.

She was beautiful. 

He was hideous, and a monster, and she was beautiful.

“Is this it?” She asked, eyes widening as she looked at him in what he thought must be horror, only to realize it was… delight. “Why, it’s a boy! With wings!”

“Not quite,” the older woman, dressed more severely in a high-necked gray-blue dress and with her own brown hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, said dryly. “It’s not a boy. It’s… damnation itself. Why your father wanted it-”

“I know why he wanted it.” The girl was still standing by the door, but the boy heard a shift, a scrape, and he turned to see her slippered feet, clad in pale satin to match her dress, moving towards him with a slow determination. “Because there’s nothing else like it in the world. That’s what he’s always looking for.” She stopped, just shy of how far the chains on his wings would let him go. “Isn’t that true, creature? Or… hm. Is there anyone else like you?”

He was already numb to the name.

Creature. Monster. Abomination. Should Not Be.

He shook his head in answer, feeling the shift of his hair, shaggy and badly in need of a cut, moving around the leather straps of the muzzle clamped over nose, mouth, and jaw. 

“So there you go, that’s why,” The girl said matter-of factly. “It’s unique.” She still stood with her feet just outside the marked circle around him, drawn in chalk across the floor, a warning line of how far he could reach.

Then, deliberately, she stepped over the line.

The governess by the door gave a start. “Leanisa, he’s dangerous-”

“No, he’s not. Will you hurt me, creature?”

He shook his head again, watching her come closer to him. His own breathing sped up, rapid and shallow, audible through the muzzle as she came within a foot of him and dropped down, her dress spreading out along the floor. The sight of the pale blue silk lying along cold, dirty stone made the boy want to push her back up, tell her not to stay here, near him, near what he was and is and would always be.

“What would you hurt me with, if you wanted to?” Her eyes were alight with interest, avid and curious, and when he slowly lifted his right hand she gasped out loud at the sight of his talons, wickedly curved keratin, thick and slightly heavier than his human fingers. She took the hand in hers, and he caught his breath.

“Leanisa, I must insist-”

“Hush. Let me touch him.” She pressed her finger against the blunt side of one talon, ran it along the curve, and the boy wished desperately that he could sense the touch as more than a simple pressure. “These are lovely, aren’t they?”

Were they? He stared blankly at her, then gave a one-shouldered shrug.

Her fingers ran up the dark, rough skin behind the talons, feeling over it, murmuring to herself, until she reached the scarring where they had been sewn on a human palm just at the knuckles. Shivers ran up his arm, electric and never felt before, and he had to swallow against a sense of tightness in his throat that made no sense. 

She clasped his hand, briefly, and he watched a bit of her braid fall over one shoulder. He would have done anything, in that moment, for her to move closer, or to be able to touch back. But he didn’t dare.

“You’re not dangerous for me, are you?” She asked, teasing, and he shivered as she let go of his hand and moved to lay her palm along the wrought-leather of the muzzle that covered the bottom half of his face, rubbing a thumb over the little holes edged in brass for him to breathe through. He let her raise his head until his eyes met hers.

She gave a little start, but her smile faded only a little. “Your eyes are blue… and bleeding,” She said, softly. He felt the trickle of reddish-pale saltwater, stinging when it reached the spaces where the muzzle fit tightly, rubbed and irritated until he bled. 

They do that. All he could do was shrug in response. 

She seemed to take the statement he meant with the gesture, because she laughed a little, pushing back some of his shaggy hair from his head. “That’s all right. Hold on.” She stood up and walked back away fromhim, and the boy found himself wanting to lean after her, whining in his throat when the chains in his wings kept him on the other side of the white chalk line in the floor. She stopped before her governess and held out her hand. “Natalia, your scarf.”

“I’m… I’m sorry?”

“I’d like your scarf, please. It needs something for its eyes.”

“You are not giving my scarf to that thing-”

“Yes, I am. Are you or aren’t you my governess? I’m doing it. Just try and stop me. Give me your scarf.” The girl paused, and in a beguiling, lovely, lilting voice, she added, “Please?”

After a pause, the older woman’s mouth pursed into a thin little curve of displeasure, but she unwound the scarf from her neck and the girl smiled brilliantly.

“Thank you, Natalia, you’re a love.” She leaned up to kiss the woman on the cheek before she turned and came back to him, stepping with casual carelessness over the line this time, dropping back into her crouch.

He looked at her, and she smiled kindly at him. “Hold on,” She said, softly, tenderly. “Be still.” She lifted the cloth up and for a moment he leaned forward, wondering if she would wipe away his tears.

Instead, she slid the cloth around and over his eyes, wrapping it over twice until the world was plunged into a pure and perfect darkness for the boy. Then she double-knotted it at the back of his head.

Her fingertips grazed against the skin just above where the muzzle cut in, curiously tapping nails along the side of the muzzle before he felt another touch, fingers deftly undoing the buckle of the muzzle itself. His head jerked up, and she shushed him playfully. For the first time when it wasn’t simply to eat a meal, the leather was pulled away from his face, and he heard it drop with a clatter to the ground beside him.

“There,” She said softly. “Isn’t that better?”

For a moment, he was so wracked with his gratitude that he forgot how to speak. “I… m-... much, yes,” He managed, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Yes, m… miss. Who are… who are you?”

“I am your master’s daughter, Leanisa.” Her fingers settled onto his jaw on either side of his face, lifting his chin, and he could feel the weight of her eyes along the scar on his throat. “I’ve heard you can thrall people. Will you enthrall me?”

Her voice darkened slightly, in something less like anger or suspicion and more like flirtation. 

“No, miss,” He said, fervently, feeling a flush he couldn’t explain heating his cheeks near her fingertips. He could feel her hands like fire, the best kind of fire, warming him from the inside out. A shivery nervous heat in his stomach seemed to be telling him to touch her, too, but he kept his hands carefully to himself. He heard the chains clink together as his wings rustled behind him. “I don’t-... I don’t want to. It’s a dirty trick and it’s only, when I’m scared, I can’t… stop it.”

“Then I suppose I shouldn’t scare you, should I?” She had laughter in her words, and her fingertips danced over clammy skin and dry alike, moved over him, feeling at the structure and form of his face, his jaw, his throat, down to his collarbone visible through the low neck of the shirt he wore. “Do I scare you, creature?”

“C… can you call me something else?” His voice was low. He hardly dared speak the words. “Please? Can you give… give me a name?”

She hesitated, and then he could hear the smile when she said, “What would you rather be called?”

“Del,” he said, low. His own name meant pain, he didn’t want to hear the syllables out loud ever again. But… “Can you call me Del?”

Boy, in the fae tongue. Still better than creature or monster.

“Fair enough, Del. I can do that. It’s nice to meet you, Del.”

“It’s… good to meet you as well, Miss. You’re the first who has… who has been so kind to me. The first since… I became what I am.”

“I can see why, it’s hard when you see something you’ve never seen before. But I’m more used to seeing new things than most people, with my father being all a-twitter over every rumor of a new animal’s discovery. Do you sing like the fae do?”

His cheeks colored, humiliated at the idea of performing on cue, but he cleared his throat, and then chirped a few times, gave a quiet little trill.

She laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls, shining and lovely. It felt like he was listening to the laughter of starlight or moonlight or the sun itself. He could see her, almost - picture her hands clapped over her mouth in surprised happiness. “Oh, you can! How lovely! How lovely, Del! I adore it. What beautiful sounds you make.”

He dared a slight smile, and felt her hands on him again. He leaned into the palm on the side of his face, closed his eyes behind the blindfold and felt tears prickling, hot and grateful. Someone who did not hurt him. Someone who was kind. 

Her thumb stroked over his cheekbone, her fingertips were just touching his jaw. He chirped, low in his throat, a fae sound of comfort and something like contentment.

“I’m glad you make those sounds to remind me, and have those wings,” Leanisa said softly. “Otherwise I might make a terrible mistake and not put this back on.”

There had been a curl of warmth inside him, slowly unfurling, remembering a life that had once held kindness. At her words, that warmth died, and the core of him went cold. “... Miss?”

He heard the movement of leather and brass scraping along the floor, and then felt the muzzle pressing back over his mouth. He made a soft sound of despair with both voices, and she laughed again, not unkindly. “Oh, hush. I won’t take chances, Del. You’re different, that’s for sure, but you’re still... what you are. I’ve never seen anything like you before.” 

She buckled the muzzle on, catching it in his hair so he flinched at the sudden pinch and pull. 

There was a pause, and she patted him on the head. Then he heard the nearly-silent sound of her silk slippers as she walked away. 

He heard her pause, just at the door. Her voice, high and sweet, rang through the room. “With that blindfold on, you look almost human.”

The door closed as she and her governess left. He listened to the click of the lock turning, and then he tore the blindfold off his head, shredded the scarf into nothing but broken threads, and curled up behind his wings next to his pallet, in the corner of the room.

He looked through the curtain of feathers at the bare rectangle of pale blue sky he could see through the window they’d ensured he could not reach, wondering if he’d ever see the great expanse of sky he knew was out there, ever again.

Almost human.

But not enough.

He found he had more tears to cry, after all.

----

Tagging Killan’s crew:  @astrobly​​​​ @burtlederp​​​​ ​, @finder-of-rings​​​​ ​, @slaintetowhump​​​ ​, @quirkykayleetam​​​ ​, @whumpallday​​​ , @whumppsychology​​​, @doveotions​​​, @broken-horn​​, @moose-teeth​​, @whumpfigure​​, @spiffythespook​​, @oceanthesarcasamfox​​,  @whump-only​(if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

NOTE: Killan's universe and the details of fae, fae biology, etc all belong to @wildfaewhump!

[kn1ghthawk]

Good Dogs and Bad people

He couldn't go home, not back to sanctuary hills, not yet. He was already under the powerlines of the raiders camp and from up on the hill he could see some sort of building surrounding a power line. It was a sign of something being built after the bombs, a sign of life, not death. Picking down the hill assent hard and he soon found himself in a familiar army shuffle for only a few second before he felt something horrible grab him by the chest and made him go down in a tumble into the dirt. He fumbled and punched himself with a stim right in the chest, but it didn't help, it wasn't a wound. It hadn't burned like this since anchorage, hypothermia, the cryotanks. Fuck. Not counting the fucking roaches chewing down to the bone, a skeleton takes about ten years. And however long it took them to grow that big he was on ice for at least a year without people watching for problems after the others left, he only popped out from malfunction. He could have died on ice so some frostbite in the lungs is better than dead. No running until a real doctor gets a look, if there even is one. Finally crawling back to his feet, he walked to the building on the horizon. Just before the farm itself he saw something wonderful, a melon, he hadn't realized how hungry he was until he was already on his knees and bashing it open on the vine. A hand scooped up the pink pulp and crammed it into his face just as he heard the cocking of a gun. “I know they're good, but we don't take kindly to thieves. You damn well better have some caps for helping yourself without asking.” With a hard gulp, he pointed to the bag with his sopping wet hand and stayed looking at the wall of what was becoming obvious to be a ramshackle farmhouse. There was a rustle of fabric and a zipping sound followed by a retching cough. “Goddamn you, you killed... raiders? Wait, those raiders up north a spell? You, did us a favor taking them out. Oh hell, have the melon, on me! Just tell my dad you bought it. Actually, go talk to my dad anyways, he might have another job for you if you don’t mind killing these bastards.” The sound of a metal clicking, but no gunshot, hopefully meant the hammer went down smoothly as a young woman circled around into view. Vic took the peace for the chance to dig back in, making a proper slopping mess of his face as he ate a few good pounds of warm watery mash before sitting back and coming up for air. By then a man named Abernathy came around the corner and a few words were exchanged and Vic was lead through the house to the roof where he could make out an all too familiar satellite dish to the east. He knew Olivia, it was where he was stationed for six months when he came back from overseas, a cushier position as he was being discharged with honnors. He could sit and listen for Chinese broadcasts while they sent the nested boy to the front on rotation. The straight path from here to there had him passing across the red rocket, a place he had just gotten a mechanic job from leaving the army completely. They were happy to get a vet like him on the board for the sweet government bonus. It seemed like a good place to get himself situated on the way to do something dirty. It was one thing to stop the torture of the animal and fighting in self defense, but this wasn't his daughter, this wasn't Nora, this was being a killer for cash. Could he bring himself to do it? Stopping off at the rocket ended up being one of the best decisions he ever made, not only did he find a wonderful dog in need of someone, he managed to clear out the ugliest fucking things he had ever seen. Well ugly cause they looked like crawling tubes of that same blistered blubbery flesh the cow and the guy looked like. They were like some kind of giant rat with two full sets of teeth he did NOT want to let them get too close and clearing out the cave underneath rewarded him in some good but disturbing ways. He took the better part of a whole day clearing out everything from everywhere he had the strength to do so. There was enough of the machine shop and tools left for him to to what he needed to tidy up and tear apart any of the raiders gear and keep what he needed. He had two of the 10 mm pistols, 2 batons, a shotgun, and three homemade guns out of pipe and boards. He took the best parts of the three to make one and the bits he used with the other full ten to improve just one of them. He now had a pitiful rifle and his better ten in a holster on his right leg armor sewn directly into the leather plate.

It reminded him of the lead-lined leather training armor the army used, to get soldiers used to uncomfortable heavy weight and constraints of movement. Real combat armor wasn't as bad as the leathers, but the idea was to make it overly difficult so the real thing seemed so much lighter and maneuverable that the solider benefited more in the field. But as the pip boys Geiger started clicking, he might want some lead lining sooner than later. He didn't even remember when he passed out at the office desk, but the fact he woke up still here helped cement the insanity of the situation. He was going to go kill the bastards who killed a little girl who stood up to them, yes, bastards, children of unmarried mothers, sons of bitches and whores, dehumanize them. They aren't real people, its easier to kill if they aren't real people. * Keeping northeast was easy, passing across concord on the right from the hill, something to sweep back around to later. The closer they got to the dish, he took a moment to stop and pull out the rifle to start with seeing if he could get a better assessment with the scope and maybe drop a few with pot-shots. It ended up not being needed as those same ugly rats were already attacking the few scouts outside. The bad news is they were already alert and fighting, the good news is that it wasn't a human enemy so they were not looking for someone in blue suit taking them out. The one up high was the only one he had to concern himself with as the other apparently threw a grenade too close and took himself out with the ugly beast. He hit her in the leg which managed to make her loose her balance and fell down the stairs, gravity broke her neck for him. He waited a few minutes to see if backup would be coming, but nothing new emerged. Either they didn't hear in the bunker, or explosions were so common that it wasn't warranted. He seriously hoped the former for the sake of people, otherwise, what was the point of living without humanity? Slipping inside it was just like how he remembered it, except for the obvious disarray that seemed to ruin everything without maintenance. The check-in desk was still operational, on a hunch, he tried his old access but was denied, he had to hope for an easy win but that didn't seem to be the plan. He heard voices to the left so he started there, Spotting one through the window with a dog on the walkway. If his dog's prowess proved anything, the dogs were more dangerous than the people who could get a good shot off if the dogs had them busy. So he took a breath to apologize to the canine and took them out with the first shot. While the owner was still sweeping, he shot them in the shoulder and send them back into some rusted railing that gave way to let them fall below. Now they were on full alert which was going to make this a lot more painful. He moved for the bathroom quickly after switching to pistol, knowing only one entrance would limit their choices but rounding the corner put him face-to face with another shotgun. The distance was too far away for effect as they blasted buckshot harmlessly, he returned fire with the more accurate weapon and put three in the chest. Apparently he wasn't the only one with the same idea as someone came running out of the bathroom with a tire iron. Since they were running, he shot them in the leg to make them stagger and let the momentum do his job for him as they crumpled against the wall with a sickening pop against the pipes.

With the sounds of  gunfire now obvious from up high, he would have to fall back and try from around and below, perhaps even taking on any few people sent to circle behind his position. His suspicion proved fruitful as his crouched position on the stairs put him right at head level for another raider, the belts holding the cloth hood help keep it a monstrosity as the pistol pops and he moves on, now finally hearing voices of alert. He moved down to the hallways to the locker room and just barely managed to get to cover from the counter top as he saw a barrel of a mini gun bobbing through the doorway. He took a breath and changed his magazine as his pet started to snarl with hackles raised. “Just a fucking dog?” He heard a woman's voice and popped up to empty his fresh set before she could spin up the heavy weapon in defense. As soon as it was spent, he dropped the empty clip and slammed the half spent back in to take on anyone left which happened to be a screaming raider with a rifle he was more focused on using like a spear with the fixed bayonet. The dog leapt, biting into the rifle which added too much weight for him to keep the attack and exposed him to two shots that made him fall next. Fire flashed up Vics side as he took a hit to the hip, spinning him around to see a raider who had come behind him, most likely circling around the generator while he was busy with the other two. He only got one more shot before the gun ran dry. The dog gave him the precious second for Vic to pull out the rifle and fire off a wild shot into the belly, then a second and a third before they fell. He was hit and the dog was hit, but they were both alive. NO more noises, no more shouting or gunfire. Six against one and he felt he was finally finished. He fell back against the counter and took out another stimpack, putting it in near the wound to aid in pushing the round back out and one more for the dog as well, even if it was a bad graze, he didn't want to risk infection. While he tried to catch his breath to let the shock come an go, the dog licking his hand idly before it found a teddy bear to play with. When the bear was flung about, an army helmet came off its chin that banged against the locker that made Vic roll off the counter to hit the deck, only to look up at a panting companion who seemed to wonder what the human found down there. “Bad dog.” Was all he said before getting to his knees and rubbing the dogs ears. He started to do as he had done before, stripping down all the weapons and armor of the raiders while reloading his guns, coming up and down the walkways and remembering how it used to look. The odd thing was not finding the locket on anyone, an easily pocketed keepsake. That lead to going through every drawer in the the desk and cupboard with growing frustration. Had he been sent on a suicide mission or just sent out to kill some random people? It was then that he realized he hadn't checked the fuel storage, which brought him to a door in mid attempt of being picked. This brought him back before it all went to hell, a locked door is how him and nora had met. His dad had been a locksmith that fixed clocks on the side, they often fought about taking up the family business but he still knew how to twist a tumbler. It is what let him open the door for a lovely brunet stuck out in the rain and got his foot in the door for a date. The problem was the screwdriver being used to hold down the barrel was a Phillips and not a flat-head. Opening the toolbox revealed the hidden locket. Mission accomplished, but curiosity had the better of him as he tried his luck to see what was left in the locked room. There was oil on the floor and in the air, not to mention the squelching hiss of not just one of those damn roaches but it was glowing all on its own in the dark. He fired off a pot shot that hit it but sparked the vapor in the air into an intense firestorm for a few seconds as various things hiss, popped and exploded. But from out of the flames came a roach as big as a card table, seeming unfazed by the fire. Panic set in as he fired three, then three more, then the rest and it still closed the distance to bite his ankle. He could feel the cut and the blood filling his boot as he went to the bayoneted rifle leveled at him earlier and stabbed down hard, again and again as it screeched and fluttered, managing to get the blade between the wings with its shell out of the way and split it down the back. Nauseating muck exploded out the back like a boot the size of a Buick had been dropped on it as it lost the ability to move and bled out. Idle twitching was all that was left as he fell back on his ass and took to treating the wound, the boot would work as a shoe for the walk home, but it needed a patch badly, same for the armor that saved him from loosing the foot entirely. He could limp, but he couldn't run, not that he could before coming down here anyways. He used the tire iron to make an L-brace and tied it off with a harness of belts to keep his ankle straight while searching the rest of the room, he found one last solider had locked himself in to wait it all out, but he didn't seem to count on the fumes doing him in. At least they had the whole keyring for opening upstairs. 

He looked around and took what he needed before deciding it was time to reunite the family. As a cruel joke, he put the mini-gun on one of the locker doors with all the other weapons and used it as a sled to drag the weapon over hill and dale to the farm. If he was in full health he could have shouldered it, but he really didn't want to put that strain on his ankle until he had time to patch it up proper. He made it back to the rocket and stopped there for the night, unloading the weapons and breaking them down when he noticed something, The rifle he killed the big bug with had a series of scratches carved into its side with what he guessed were names:

Rad: III III III Blood: III Bloat: III III III Sting: I Mire: III On the other side of it carved into the wood was the words “dies bugs die”. Not a motto he could fault really, after his experiences so far with just one kind of ugly-bugly. Still, there was something in the quality of the wood and the way it was kept until now made it noticeably more sturdy so he spent part of the night taking apart all of the previous rifle bits to set up this newest rifle with the greatest pieces so far and a few simple adjustments he was capable of at the moment. It reminded him of his time recovering from his first flash wounds, he had been with his fellows on the front lines when someone from the treeline hurled a core into the encampment and someone shot it in midair. He only had time to assume the fetal position behind a steel shipping crate. The fission fire gave him third degrees across the side of his face and all of his right arm that had the nylon fibers melted onto his skin like napalm met a candle wax. While he was in recovery, he had optioned to use his recovery time to get schooled and make himself a better mechanic before being redeployed. He ended up in something of a M.A.S.H. Meets motor pool. As a first degree mechanic, it was his job to run 10 feet behind the real commandos in armored infantry and fix them if they fell, swapping out one limb set for another if it got damaged or destroyed. He even rigged a few high powered magnets to his own chassis to magnetize the frame so his tools stuck on the surface in easy reach. Any parts broken or bent he would ship back behind the front lines and request a new one. Now he is where all those parts went to, the limbs and bits would arrive in a truckload, they would spend hours knocking the pieces back into serviceable repair and ship them back out again to whoever made the requisition for new pieces. Not every part made it back to its first owner or battalion. But if the stars aligned, he would take any custom paint or tucked in photos and put it in the order going back out that way to try and get any sort of lucky charm where it needed to be. If there were no power armor bits to work on, laughable as that was, he would lend a hand to the gun nuts. Mostly the work was to strip broken modules down to base bits and fill crates with small mods like stocks or scopes for the soldiers to fit for themselves. It was good work that let him learn more practical applications and effective recycling that he got to use now of all places to pick apart old broken boards with bars belted to it into something far more effective. * He got some good rest and in the night the Shepard even brought him a second tire iron to make a splint on both sides of the repaired boot. He still needed a doc for the limp, but he would walk for the day. On the way back to the farm, he found out what blood and bloat stood for on the rifle. Clearly the mosquitoes the size of motorcycles and the fat flies that squirted wiggling thorny maggots were not going to be the other bugs he would meet. He made it to the farm just before sunset with the good news that the day ended with justice done. Now he had, maybe not friends yet, but people who knew him for a good deed. He gave over the raider leaders heavy weapon to the father so he could defend their farm more easily, just leveling that cannon would make the next raider think twice. The mother was willing to trade some things and explained to him the caps system this new world used. Since they all had a set number of crimps and were no longer being made, it gave the idea of a limited number of hard to reproduce items. If the paint was too damaged or a hole shot through one or cut in half, they were made worthless by anyone else. Everyone was mostly back to the barter system more than carrying bags of lightweight caps or coins. “Well what do you do with any of the old paper money in registers or on dead people?” “Same thing you would do with a good piece of cotton: Save it for the outhouse and wash it off for next time.”

[woohooligancomics]

Free Stuff!

You like free stuff, right? Of course you do, and I'll give you some in a minute after we chat. You like free comic book day and free donuts and coffee while you wait for an oil-change. You like free samples at Costco, or a free ebook full of useful life-hacks like, "wake yourself up in the morning by soaking your contact lenses in coffee." If it's hot enough, the coffee will melt the contacts to your eyes, and that's a lot cheaper than Lasik surgery!

How about a free punch in the face? No? Boxers pay piles of money for that. They buy gloves, gym memberships, trainers, agents, steroids, and towels exclusively for sweat. They've paid a small fortune by the time they get a really good punch from a guy like Mike Tyson or Rocky Balboa. (Additional life hack: save on ear piercings by fighting Mike Tyson.) If they pay so much to get punched, why are you upset when someone punches you for free?

Still no? Because you don't like free stuff; you like certain things, and it's a nice bonus when they're free. Free beer is only nice if you like beer. You might think I need the Large Hadron Collider to split a hair that thin, but your relationship to "free stuff" changes when you start a business. If you want to meet your high-school biology teacher's standard of living (eating and breathing), you need marketing. That includes you, freelance artists, welcome to the glitz and glamour of owning a business and buying your own ramen noodles.

Marketing sucks. I'm just as annoyed as you when "social media marketing experts" follow me on Twitter with their inspirational quotes and their slick YouTube presentations, reminding you to be authentically authentic. "Thanks, I know it takes more muscles to frown than smile, but I'm not a lazy bastard!" Marketing makes me feel like Elizabeth Bathory, bathing in the blood of virgins. I don't want to be associated with creeps like the guy at the used car lot who only has a mustache so he can offer you a ride. "Ladies? Wink, wink!"

Even the jargon of marketing is dehumanizing and gross: target audience, market segment, and the holy grail, double-income no kids (DINK). Key performance indicators (KPI) help you analyze the ratio of Cost to Acquire Customers (CAC) and Customer Lifetime Value (CLTV) and reduce "churn" (customers leaving because they're sick of you talking about them like a fucking toaster).

It's unavoidable though, because you are that sleazy sales guy at the car lot... sort of. I'll assume you've had at least one job in your life. Did you feel dirty after selling yourself in the interview? Sure you embellished, because who doesn't want to hire a certified coffee grader? And how would they know? You can tell the difference between quality coffee and Starbucks. The gourmet coffee is named like a Senate bill, like HR61, not to be confused with the Securing the Assistance of Victims of Exploitation (SAVE) act; fitting in a discussion about coffee. Regardless, you sold yourself and your boss purchased your service. I assume you didn't resort to any awful sales tactics, like telling the interviewer, "and if you hire in the next thirty minutes, I'll throw in a free mustache ride!" Like it or not, sales is a necessity of modern life, like traffic, spam folders, or wondering how your uncle is still so racist in 2017. "No, uncle Steve, Jews did not invent jazz dancing, and stop offering my friends mustache rides."

But marketing isn't sales. Oh, look, the Large Hadron Collider! Bear with me. We don't watch Star Trek because it has robots and lasers. We watch because it tells us a story about who we are and the better selves we aspire to be. But we also wouldn't watch Star Trek if it didn't have any robots or lasers. Now that I'm a glitzy, ramen-eating business owner, sales is like that. I don't make comedy to sell books; I sell books, so I can make you laugh. It's an important distinction because I get caught up in my survival needs and forget they aren't in the driver's seat. You're the boss here, and I'm interviewing with you for the job of comedian. It's fair for you to decide I'm not right for you and I have to look elsewhere. But if we click, I hope you'll consider being my boss and also my friend.

You'll see on my resume that I quit a twenty-year software engineering career in late 2015. Most employers think I'm "overqualified", but I'm hoping you'll look past that. If my goal were to eat or to buy toys like Fitbits and vacuum shoes, then leaving tech was suicide. "Alexa, ruin my career." For me, comedy isn't about the money. I enjoyed software, but that didn't matter once I realized I was just asking my boss, "you want fries with that?" Maybe I was more skilled than the next man-shaped-cog, but when I left nobody stopped selling their cars, high-rise condos, or Bluetooth hairbrushes (fad hair day). The world didn't notice me leave any more than you notice turnover at your local Arby's. I left to make the things that burn in my soul, that keep me up at night, and that wouldn't exist if I didn't make them.

Seth Godin is right that artists need to create a purple cow (something that wouldn't exist without us). You'll never beat the industrial machine at their game. There's always a Mr Burns with a giant, faceless corporation that exploits third-world toddlers because their tiny hands and boundless energy will sew those shirts faster and cheaper (just like Santa's elves). WalMart runs real sweat shops right here in America.

After family and friends, your work should be the most meaningful thing in your life, but meaningful work has to sustain you and the purple cow won't keep you in ramen on its own. You have to market it. I've seen lots of purple cows that languish in obscurity. My friend Chris makes a webcomic called Puck, but he's said on numerous occasions that you can't earn a living with one. I think I can prove him wrong, and I think Brad Guigar, Russell Nohelty, and Tyler James already have. They earn their living making books and comics and helping others do the same (including me). Not to mention the many other creators I see earning decent livings with just the support of patrons.

So to maintain my family's ramen supply, I need to learn marketing, and then shower to get the stink off. Every time I see a blog from someone who's obviously successful, they're using tactics that make my skin crawl! "Here watch my twenty-minute prerecorded marketing tutorial and when it's over buy a subscription to my exclusive marketing club that's ONLY three-hundred dollars! But only for the next TWENTY MINUTES! HURRY! CLOCK'S TICKING, ASSHOLE! GIVE ME YOUR $300! NOW!! NOW!!!! NOW!!!!!! After twenty minutes, it goes back up to $400!" I want you to know before I say this, that I am incredibly grateful for Tyler James, who's given me a ton of great information about reaching my goals FOR FREE. Having said that, Tyler James is a dillhole. I love him and I'm super-grateful for everything that dillhole's done.

== Frustrated Rant Mode Engaged ==

Tyler: I realize somebody ponied up a bazillion dollars for your Harvard Masters, but my wife and I are below poverty (a family of 5 on $24k/yr) for the last two years now while I work this shit out. We literally paid every penny we had in the world to buy our house, and that was less than a quarter of that paper for your wall. It has nothing to do with me not wanting to support you that I can't whip-out $300 in twenty minutes. You've helped me, I think you deserve recognition, respect, gratitude and even testimonials and help from me. But even one-hundred dollars might mean not having power or Internet this month, and it'd be nice if you didn't rub it in my fucking face.

I feel guilty buying a sandwich at Arby's because the money could go toward advertising, despite knowing most of it has to be spent on food (I know Arby's isn't technically food). The silver lining is that we own our house, but after four years and two repair jobs, we still have a small leak in our basement. I personally dug a pit on the side of the house for weeks to save some money on it. (It's a real no-money pit.) And that's not even mentioning walking twenty-miles uphill both ways in the snow. Christmas is in a few days and I anguished this year over buying each of my kids ten dollars worth of used comics at Half Price Books. (They're still my kids at 16 to 22.) At least Tiny Tim hasn't lost his spirit!

So no, twenty minutes for a 25% discount on a $400 membership isn't "a great deal!" It's a slap in the face. And most of us who are trying to earn our living with comics (your "target market") are in my situation, not yours. If you'd offered me a payment plan, like I could layaway it for $50/mo, I likely would have bought it without the high-pressure tactics and told my Patrons I was spending their pledges on that instead of advertising for 6-8 months.

== Frustrated Rant Mode Terminated ==

EDIT: I want everyone to know Tyler James is a super stand-up guy! I had a brief discussion with him recently, he read this blog, and was super-chill about the roast and being called a dillhole for comedic effect. He also informed me of a related note, and I want you to know I had no influence on this, this was his plan before we talked. Tyler said:

"It's funny though... this year I am switching my courses payment structure to a monthly membership model in order to open all of my premium programs up to creators at all income levels. Price should not be a reason not to join."

He also informed me rather matter-of-factly, that I didn't have all the facts regarding his Harvard Degree. He got a special scholarship to attend Harvard in recognition of two years teaching in one of the country's most underfunded school districts. Thanks for filling me in on that, Tyler, I appreciate it!

So if you haven't met Tyler, I definitely recommend you do.

I'll be transparent here and share how my budget works, so you understand why I stay in the sleazy motel room that is marketing, (it smells of smoke and piss and god knows what happened to the toilet, but you're stuck there because of a mustache-riding convention in town). Webcomics used to support themselves with ads like network TV. That ended in 2013 when marketing peeps said "WE WANT MOAR POPUPS!" and the Internet responded with a Grumpy Cat meme in the form of a massive spike in ad-blocking technology. Woohooligan has one ad, which nets me about $1.50 per month, (twelve minutes at minimum wage). I'd earn more in an hour busking in the street like Amanda Palmer, doing stand-up comedy for tips. (See my one man show on the corner of 5th and Main titled, "No Really, I'm a Homeowner!") Most webcomics moved to Patreon for the bulk of their support, which is really online busking. Remember, before this I billed $80/hr, so I'm not doing this for money.

Why busk? Why not sell books? I currently have one print book and three ebooks in the Woohooligan store, and comic ebooks only really sell for a dollar. I love the sixty-five cents I see from that dollar after credit-card fees. You can read every page of my site and see a boat-load of ads, and the ad network (Google, etc.) pays me maybe a penny. So if you pledge just one dollar to my Patreon each month, the $0.65 I see increases your support of my work by more than a hundred-fold what I earn from ads. If we still want ramen, I need about $2,000 each month to replace my current disability income. So with a net $0.65 from each book, I need to sell 3,076 books per month, 103 per day, or one every fifteen minutes. I don't expect that, so those dollar ebooks alone will likely never support us. I've got to find other ways to supplement our income either with patron support, or by selling more expensive items like print books.

Yes, I left $80/hr to have a current monthly take-home (~$65) that's about what I'd earn in a single day at minimum wage. I didn't leave for money. You'd think I could work tech part-time, but no. My disability is thanks to an autism diagnosis in 2007. Because of that, work that I enjoy overtakes me like a Jeckyl and Hyde situation. Doctors call this blurse hyperfocus. I really never stopped working except for meals and sleep. That's not quite true, most days I didn't eat. People standing in the same room often call my name four to six times before rousing me from the fugue state that is me working. I lurch out of it like a trauma victim with a thousand-yard stare, groggy and irritated, unable to answer simple questions like "did you take your insulin?" Go away! Distraction bad! So I can't program part-time to supplement my income. The career I chose has to work, so I have to make marketing part of my comedy... I just threw up in my mouth a little.

I read all the marketing books and blogs I can. Most of the "information" in them is brain-dead stupid, useless to you personally, or both. You search Google and you find "10 Ways to Drive Traffic to Your Website." Great! Just what I need. The article begins, "Step 1: Make good content." Mind = blown! Why? You don't! Before this Einstein, I just had photos of used napkins. Hell, Twitter was nothing but lunch photos the first year. Thirty million tweets so I know you're not racked with guilt like me when you have an Arby's quarter-ton Beefenator. I can't wait to see step 2, "tell people", and step 3, "don't accidentally delete your website."

Getting back to free stuff, it's a truism in modern culture that if you're starting a business, you have to give people something they want for free. Professionals give people free consultations. Facebook and Twitter give us free accounts to share fake news and real cat videos with our friends. PornHub gives us free porn, but did you know they also give us free sex ed and free snow plowing in Boston? (Or they didn't, but it made you laugh, if only because "plow" is a double-entendre.)

I like giving people free things - free comics, free advice, free promotion. I certainly benefit from free things like Tyler James' ComixLaunch podcast or Russell Nohelty's Business of Art and Facebook group. (Russell just launched a new site, The Complete Creative.) They were more helpful than things I paid for. I bought a four-star marketing book on Amazon, it should be good, right? I'll save you twenty bucks; have a mailing list. Nothing else in 288 pages is what experts call "actionable", just shit you can read on any marketing blog like, "don't piss people off because Twitter." What would have been helpful is how to get signups on a mailing list, but that's like Baptist churches who asked PornHub to plow their back lot. The bar for marketing advice is so low, if your grandfather started a marketing blog tomorrow, he'd be Arby's VP of marketing in a week, and his number one tip for online success would be, "get off my lawn!" (There's no wi-fi there.) If you are a creative person and you'd like a book with some useful advice, here's my review of Russell Nohelty's Sell Your Soul.

But all these things we get for free aren't actually free, someone pays for all of them. Facebook and Twitter are funded by advertising. We don't consume their product, we ARE the product (and their execs talk about us like toasters). But that's not the only cost. On broadcast TV, Arby's hoped fans of Mister Ed liked sandwiches. Now that we have Internet, we know about the horse meat, and Arby's knows loads of creepy things about us, like whether we use coupons or carry a balance on our credit cards. Arby's pays more for Beefenator ads on Facebook because we're selling them our privacy. And as Adam Conover points out, you can opt out of Facebook, but good luck avoiding Google.

Shit like this is good reason to hate marketers because it's intrusive, impersonal, and manipulative. It's the reason I personally hate having to learn marketing. It's like an episode of the Twilight Zone where Disney World lets you into the park for free, but requires their guy Steve follow you throughout the park, scribbling notes and recommending giftshop items, Arby's Beefenator, and the Mustache ride. So yay, free Disney! Until you come back from the bathroom and Steve tells your mom the gift-shop has Pepto-Bismol. Thanks, Steve, it's nice to know you've got my back.

Since I don't have a choice but learn this stuff, I try to be decent about it. I choose to think of you as friends instead of a "target audience". I'm a real person on Facebook and Twitter (no bots, autoresponders or apps congratulating people for being my "top engaged followers"). I like chatting with you, without obsessing over your "engagement". (The word engagement should be reserved for situations involving a ring or enemy combatants.) I don't expect you to be in a fugue state waiting for my next tweet; fugue states are my job. I give mailing list subscribers a free copy of my first ebook, (signup below), though I'm not good about telling people that because I'm annoyed by promises of "must have tips for success" only after their mailing list signup. And I treat everyone the same, without stopping to ask, "is this person an influencer?"

I recently started introducing myself to people on social media. When someone sends me a friend request on Facebook or follows me on Twitter, I send them a brief message like this:

Hi Steve!

Thanks for the follow and for recommending the Mustache ride.

Let me know if I can help with any of your projects.

You may enjoy my new comedy manifesto, Laughter Is a Moral Imperative http://woohooligancomics.tumblr.com/manifesto

It's copied and pasted, but it's not an autoresponder. I tell webcomic creators that I also review webcomics. After I published the manifesto last month, I rifled my recent direct messages and shared it with as many people as I could. It's the pushiest thing I've done, but again, that article is totally free, it doesn't even link directly to anything I sell. I just think it can improve people's lives.

I've always enjoyed helping people. A drawing class at summer camp, unpaid articles for software journals, problem solving on mailing lists, being an Adobe Community Expert, sharing resources for managing depression. And I mentioned I also review webcomics, and write other articles to help creators, like Six Tips to Kickstarter Success, Six Ways to Earn More Commissions, and Six Reasons I Didn't Spell These Titles With Numerals. These are all free, just to help you out.

On a more philosophical note, we say the best things in life are free, but we often take the most important for granted, like privacy (see Facebook) and freedom of speech. Critics of the government in China and Russia are often jailed, beaten, or killed. If you're reading this in China or Russia, first let me congratulate you for getting past the censors (they never like my dick jokes). Second I will always fight for freedom of OMG look out behind you!

When I published a Je Suis Charlie cartoon in 2015, I was shocked how many people seemed confused about the importance of freedom of speech, as I mentioned online and in my first book. How often do you hear about the Freedom of Information Act, that helps protect our freedom of speech and uncovers a lot of great stuff like the FBI's hilariously out-of-touch Twitter slang dictionary?

Free hugs are... not always cool now that I think about it. Not from Steve the mustache guy. It reminds me that my dislike of ShamWow commercials can't be compared to old-world gatekeepers like Weinstein that you had to suck-up to because they controlled the purse-strings. Sorry to get serious on you, it's just an important subject that's on my mind, and I'll talk more about it with the next few pages of my Hellbent story. And speaking of freedom, I think the marketplace of ideas and crowdsourcing services like Kickstarter and Patreon are helping create a more open world with fewer of those sleazy gatekeepers, so it's good to see net neutrality is a freedom we rally around.

Finally there's time. There's no such thing as "free time", which implies what? "Lets hang out! Can't, I've got prison nine-to-five." You sholdn't think of your work that way. Self care is important, and the better part of self-care is creating a life you're not desperate to escape from, into a bubble-bath and a bottle of Chardonnay (or in our circles, Netflix, Jack Daniels, and a gallon of Häagen-Dazs Rocky Road). Nobody on their deathbed ever said, "I wish I had spent more time at the office", but do you think you'll say, "I wish I'd spent more me-time, chugging booze in the tub?"

Losses can be recouped, but there's no getting back the two hours you spent watching the Mario Brothers movie. (A brightly colored, whimsical game as imagined by the creators of Rain Man and the Killing Fields? Was Clive Barker unavailable?!) We have to make the most of our limited time to contribute to the world. I've made comedy for eleven years, but I didn't finally give up tech until I had cancer on my birthday two years ago. That was the second near-death experience on my birthday, following diabetes in 2013. I realized my best self wasn't the man-shaped cog asking people if they wanted fries with their website. Who knows what the next life-threatening birthday illness will inspire. Maybe I'll run for President, I hear the bar is pretty low. :P

I think any creative person will tell you, there are times when you feel frustrated by the cost of striving toward your better self. Times when I remember that none of my work has ever gone viral (not enough salt?) and the thousands of hours of comedy I've made feel unloved. While I know it's not a helpful emotion, I feel a little bitter about the effort it takes to get a handful of people to spend two minutes enjoying a comic strip I spent two days making for them. Because all this free entertainment we enjoy (and I'm not just talking about my work), is paid for with the precious time of the cartoonists and comedians who create it for us, and that's far more important than the money I've spent on advertising. That's why I share other creators' work as often as I can, because I can't afford to buy all their books, but I can tell them I appreciate them, and give them a little signal boost, or a little advice on their Kickstarter.

One day I'm thinking about how I avoid writing clickbait, but that it might get me that viral piece I've never had, if I could just roofie my principles for two damn minutes. And then I'm in a flame war with another artist because I used to post voting incentives on TopWebComics, and he says it's sleazy to put your work behind a pay wall or a voting screen. Well of course! No one pays to see Batman, or the Avengers, or Calvin and Hobbes, right?! It's totally unreasonable to expect two seconds of help from someone who enjoyed sixteen hours of my work for free. And we wonder why people don't value artists when some of us are so eager to devalue ourselves. I know I should have ignored him, but I couldn't let it go.

And then some goat sucker calls my comic work clickbait in the comments on my site while claiming he's trying to help. My first instinct is to release the Kraken, but I remember all the times I've shot myself in the foot that way and I try to calmly diffuse the situation. But he's like the squirrel in Ice Age and WON'T. LET. IT. GO. like it's the a sign of the end times that I don't take advice from an anonymous heckler like he's Spielberg. So I write another piece in frustration that becomes some of my best work and that's frustrating because I don't want an angry-ranter reputation.

When I'm feeling bitter about work and trying to avoid the stink of marketing, I remind myself that as expensive as my work is, it's a bargain compared to my previous career that only paid money. In 2007 I was a man-shaped cog that helped sell x number of cars (with or without fries). It's immeasurably more meaningful to write manifestos and essays like this, knowing that it will make lives better for friends like you. I can only say that because I choose to think of you as friends, not as a "target market" with a "cost to acquire" and a "lifetime value". I remind myself that I have no idea what my best work will be or who it will help. We shouldn't forget the best "free stuff" is ourselves. We're free to choose because we can never know the final destination.

So if you see me hawking books or promoting our Patreon, and you have that "eww, get away from me, pushy salesperson" reaction (like I do), please remember that I'm not out there giving people free comedy every day and helping other creators because I'm trying to sell books or get pledges. I'm trying to get pledges and sell books, so that I can keep laughing it forward, making people's lives better with more "free" comedy. I'm telling people about the free book on our mailing list to get more friends involved in our mission to bring laughter to the world.

I hope you'll consider being my boss and my friend, because there's nothing in the world I'd rather do than work for you. It’s a lot of work. It would be a lot easier for me to just focus on my books. But like I said, selling books chock-full o’ dick jokes is a side-effect.

I work in the service industry.

Now if my free stuff isn't your thing, I hope you do find what you're looking for.

Thank you for sharing yourself with us!

- Sam

P.S. If you believe that laughter is a moral imperative, get my first book for free, and share it with your friends!

Get Woohooligan Vol 1: Into Dorkness, Free!