This was just supposed to be a dumb
strip about bad action movies, obscure band t-shirts, and the
peculiar rhythms of male friendship. Then as I wrote it, these two
assholes starting having emotional arcs and longer, interconnected
storylines about loss and PTSD, and *throws up hands* why can’t I
just make stupid things?
Then the Last Vegas shootings happened.
Dave and his wife did a lot of the graphic design for that concert;
they had many friends in the audience. And suddenly a lot of the
casual conversations in bars we’d been having about these
characters and their larger presence in the American cultural
landscape got very real.
Look, I’ll go to my grave swearing
that artists have a duty to be irresponsible. You try for
responsibility in art – giving the audience what they expect –
and you end up with Soviet Realism, or WPA murals. They’re pleasant
enough in their way, but they don’t really make you feel
anything, do they?
The act of
creation is, at heart, wildly irresponsible. So, sure. Be daring.
Tweak noses. Astonish and anger your audience. But remember there is
first a far more fundamental rule, the numero uno, the bedrock
law of existence in civilised society:
Don’t be evil.
And don’t enable the use of your
creations for evil by others.
This is true from your very first
story. It’s even more true when you are the brief caretaker of a
multi-million-dollar corporate character, especially one that
represents disenfranchised white male working-class rage, or a
yellow-haired man wrapped up in red, white and blue who represents
“America”, whatever that is.
Because make no mistake: evil is abroad
in this land. It visits itself daily in violence on innocent bodies
based on the color of their skin or the name they call God. And
nobody does anything. It visited itself on hundreds of innocent music
fans in Las Vegas. And nobody’s doing much of anything to stop it
happening again.
I’m not saying you have to do
anything. You don’t have to be a hero.
Just don’t be evil.
And if you’re lucky enough to write
heroes, don’t do it in a way which allows the hateful to use them
as symbols for evil.
As always we are unable legally to make money off these strips, but please consider chucking a few dollars at the nice folks at Stop Soldier Suicide instead because Lord only knows our government isn’t taking care of our veterans.
Also, I have a prose novel that’s crowdfunding at the moment and you like action and murder and cliffhangers and knights, hello, maybe you might like The Scottish Boy.
A little #hkmc reissue as ‘tis the season. Line art by Dave Acosta; colour art by @deecunniffe. I’m offline until 2019 now, until then, Merry Christmas to all*, and to all a good fight.
*(or as we say in New York City, “Merry Christmas And Happy Chinese Restaurant Dinner”.)
We are multiple generations now with no experience with strikes, and I see a lot of confused, well meaning people who want to help but don’t know strike etiquette.
1. Never cross a picket line of striking workers.
2. Never purchase or take free goods from a company who’s workers are striking
3. Honk to support strikers if you drive by a picket line.
4. Join strikers on the picket line even if it’s not your strike, but follow their directions and defer to them while there.
5. Say “that’s great, the strike is working, the company should negotiate with their workers” whenever someone complains about profits lost, inconveniences or other worker-phobic rhetoric. Always turn it back on the company, who has all the power and money.
The planet Vormir, 2014. A lone figure approaches the foot of the rocky cliffs, roughhewn steps leading upwards. In one hand a case, in the other a hammer. An old soldier, on one last tour of duty. Out of the shadows, a hooded figure, its face a crimson deathmask, appears wreathed in ethereal smoke.
“I see you hold the Infinity Stones and the weapon of a god. Tell me - do you still believe there is nothing special about you? No divine providence that led you, inexorably, here, to me, once more?”
The first figure stops, considers for a moment.
“Hmmmm… Nope. Still just a kid from Brooklyn.”
The hooded figure curls its lipless visage into a sneer. So much time has passed, and yet so little between them has changed.
“So, Captain, what brings you to this desolate place? Surely not nostalgia.”
“I came to return something. The Stones served their purpose. Now they have to go back.”
The soldier indicates the case. The hooded figure cocks its head to one side.
“Curious. That a man with such power at his fingertips would give it away so easily. I expected more vision from you.”
“I’ve seen what men with vision are capable of doing with the Stones. It didn’t end well for them. But then you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Johann?”
The hooded figure lets out a dry, mirthless chuckle.
“Indeed. My time in exile has granted me a great deal of perspective. The chaos that led you here will soon pass into memory. The balance is restored. For now.”
The soldier lays the case on the ground and opens it - a flood of blinding rainbow hews emerge from it, brightening the gloom. He plucks a single gem from it, pale amber, regards it with a hint of sorrow, then places it on the ground and reseals the case. The hooded figure eyes it but doesn’t approach.
“So this is your life now? Guarding a treasure you can never take for yourself.”
“The Stones, it seems, are not without a sense of irony.”
At this, the soldier give the briefest glimmer of a smirk.
“Well, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. So long, Schmidt. Enjoy eternity.”
The soldier turns to leave.
“And what of you, Captain Steve Rogers? What treasure do you seek, that you cannot obtain?”
The soldier stops but doesn’t turn. The hooded figure steps closer, edging around the gem, a look of pleading and a hint of anger on his featureless face.
“Release me from my imprisonment. Destroy the Soul Stone, and I will give you your heart’s desire.”
The soldier hesitates, conflicted. He screws up his eyes… And reopens them, resolute.
“… What I desire… isn’t yours to give. Goodbye, Schmidt.”
The soldier walks off, disappearing into the wasteland from whence he came. The hooded figure silently fumes, but a glimmer catches his eye, and he chuckles softly to himself. The glowing amber light intensifies.
“A soul for a soul.”
Meanwhile, on another world, in another time…
A woman, dressed in black, her red hair shot through with white, lays still on the ground. Suddenly, her eyes snap open and she gasps in air, as if recovering from drowning. She looks around - she doesn’t recognise her surroundings. She instinctively puts a finger to an earpiece.
I’ve tried drawing “actors who are friends and appear in a lot of movies together” before, but this was by far the most fun because Simon Pegg and Nick Frost change their appearances so much for different roles.
I didn’t add all the animated movies they’ve both voiced and Doctor WHO feels like cheating because every single British actor ever has been on that. I will probably update it when I find out what their characters in Slaughterhouse Rulez look like (Sounds like cheesy gory silliness with posh British teenagers murdering each other. Think a mix between Battle Royale and Harry Potter)
I was minding my own business when an ad for Isle of Dogs came on in the background. I was so preoccupied with what I was doing that I didn’t pay it any attention until I heard Edward Norton’s voice softly say “I want my Master” and I was like wait what!? Let’s just say I thought it was en entirely different movie for a second.
