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the abandonment of cruelty
the vicar of megatokyo | 1 | 2
thrice great hermes
bwhah @ fwc, portland
xenomorphs @ fwc, portland
katamari @ fwc, portland
tokyo art beat @ superdeluxe, tokyo
full of pryde @ fwc, portland
psychometry ii @ arratia beer, berlin
psychometry @ exile, berlin
found photos @ fwc, portland
rom spaceknight @ fwc, portland
caleb hildenbrandt, 2012
tokyo art beat, 2009
pete toms, 2006
ANTIGONE + MAUDE
by Stanley Lieber
Pink office, teal chairs. His metal shades drawn tight like the backdrop of Prince’s 1999 stage set. Police Lt. Martin Castillo stood rigid in front of his desk and stared, ostensibly at the door in front of him.
It didn’t budge.
Anyway, Ororo was probably right. Esmé trusted in the older thief’s experience. She didn’t need to be the best there was at what she did, herself, she just wanted the stuff. Shortest path between two points, and all that.
Esmé usually got what she wanted.
"We can’t come back here for a while," Ororo said.
"Sure," Esmé agreed.
Now, there would be no point.
The mall was boring. Who knew why Maude never complained. Antigone traced the prompts around the food court, getting her steps in. At the end of the food court was the B. Dalton’s. She wished that more of its stock had been left in place when the mall finally closed down. The place was a mystery.
Bill "Pops" Fomo would probably laugh. "That place went out of business before you were born," he would probably say. Which was true.
"Oh yeah? Then why’s the store front still there, then?"
Well, Dad didn’t know everything.
On, past the B. Dalton’s, beckoned the Radio Shack.
There were computers in there.
He could lift. Whatever the trouble, he didn’t have to deal with any of it while he was in here. Alone. Sweating.
He could lift.
Granit came to the mall even though the mall had been closed for going on ten years. Gym equipment still worked. And no one to harass him about his weight or his complexion, which in both cases lent him the appearance of a giant block of, well, granite.
The nickname given to him in grade three (1987) had been misspelled, and he kept it precisely on those grounds. A forty-two year old man, taking ownership of his own name represented one of his few personal victories.
He was strong as fuck.
He could lift.
All together now, she had gathered them thusly.
ANTIGONE + MAUDE
by Stanley Lieber
There wouldn’t be room in her bag. It was too full. Esmé tried several different configurations before giving up and stuffing the thing into her jacket pocket. Nobody was paying attention, anyway. She probably could have just carried it out of the store. Fine, then.
"Dad’s gonna be gone for two days," Antigone said.
"Three, but who’s counting?" Maude was finishing up the dishes, her cardigan sleeves pushed way up over her elbows, poofed out comically just below her shoulders. "He’ll probably sleep for three more after he gets back."
"Then why are we working so hard, sis?"
"You have a point," Maude said, and turned off the faucet.
Bill couldn’t get the fucking screws unscrewed. His laptop was ruined. The other guys at work weren’t paying attention, thank Christ, but he was starting to sweat. He took a swig of Pepsi, some of it spilled on the table. Tried again.
Nope, this screw was definitely stripped.
Not to put too fine a point on it but presently the alarm sounded. Another run. Bill wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and laid his screwdriver down on the table.
Nobody better touch this while I’m gone, he said to himself.
Esmé was behaving recklessly. Two years younger, she hadn’t yet developed the patience Ororo worked so hard to maintain. She was impulsive, her judgement lacking. So much like Ororo herself in her younger days.
Placed her hand softly on Esmé’s shoulder. Soft, but firm.
It was time to leave.
Yeah, her store had great light. Maude liked to stretch out on one of the checkout counters and gaze aimlessly into the translucent dust as it danced gayly in the wan artificial light. Her Chuck Taylors hung over the edge of the counter, occasionally kicking against a small stand of faux leather wallets. She wasn’t overly concerned about knocking over the stand.
She suddenly noticed a man, tall, with long brown hair, standing over near a rack of dress slacks, examining the price tag on a polyester number that obviously wasn’t going to fit him.
This mall had been closed for years. How in the Hell did he get in here?
ANTIGONE + MAUDE
by Stanley Lieber
ANTIGONE + MAUDE
"I don’t care," she said. The bridge was still burning. Maude flipped the tape over while Antigone strained through the windshield to see their father, still conferring with his coworkers. He was taller than the other firefighters. "He’s never going to notice." Antigone popped the glove compartment and extracted four double-a batteries for their knock-off Walkman. They’d been sitting there for three hours. Waiting for him to finish.
Bill just wanted to get paid. The township honored invoices for every run he showed up for, whether or not he bothered to suit up, and they paid a bonus if a run exceeded four hours. Bridge across the creek was still on fire, so it was fair he was trying to milk this one for all it was worth. Stood up on his tip-toes to check on the girls back in the car. They seemed all right. He wondered what they were talking about.
The hand on his shoulder. The hand removed. We’ll talk about that later.
Some corny old song, slowed down. Pink and teal. Camera pans from the entrance across potted plastic palms and fountains, introduction to a derelict mall. But the girls were home. Antigone’s room in the hollowed-out shell of a pretzel shop. Maude with a whole Sears men’s department to herself. Their father occupied the administrative offices of the mall itself, random stacks of his stuff piled on top of random stacks of mall junk. The skylights were leaking, and on a cold day you had to watch out for puddles of water in front of the Radio Shack. The electricity inexplicably still on.
This was fine.
by Stanley Lieber
EMBITTERED B-MINUS COMPETITORS
In my capacity as author I have followed the ACTRON characters from second grade until the present day. Both the primary "living" protagonists— Actron, named for an automotive diagnostic tool, and Piro, so called because he was a pirate—were in fact christened by my cousin, Brandon. We collaborated on a succession of half-baked (and usually unfinished) comic book series starting in 1986. ACTRON was the most successful, in the sense that I managed to complete drawing, scripting, reproducing, and distributing at least seven full issues during the initial burst of heedless enthusiasm. Brandon co-plotted (process: we traded off every other comic book page), and, again, insisted upon inking, even though he otherwise did not draw.
As I say, Actron and Piro were and are alive. Writing them is essentially transcribing an ongoing hallucination, although who is doing the hallucinating and who is ultimately being hallucinated eludes me even on a good day.
A few weeks ago I decided to stop.
Around 2003, I resumed writing prose fiction. As an exercise, I strip mined reams of stories churned out since childhood. A chapter from my first book written as an adult, ’Towards Mythologizing The Coming Resurgence Of Covert Warfare,’ was lifted wholesale, barely altered, from a novella I wrote for the Young Author’s Conference in the fifth grade. None of its characters were alive, so to speak, but the voice stood up and walked all by itself. I built upon that skeleton, eventually piling hundreds of pages of semi-related nonsense on top of the frankly inadequate foundation of my grade school writing. Rickety dwelling, no insurance, inhabit at your own risk.
In 2005, I decided to commemorate ACTRON’s 20th anniversary by creating a new ACTRON comic series. Or rather, a new ACTRON comic book. It took the better part of two years to finish this less-than-twenty-page story (with ample assistance from my pal, colorist, and cartoonist in his own right, Pete Toms). Piro and Actron picked up their running dialogue, as if no interruption had occurred, and they haven’t paused for breath since. I continued writing books, comics, zines, short stories, and complaints featuring these same obnoxious characters from my youth. You may have noticed the pattern.
It’s now late 2020, and I’m beyond tired of listening to them. No memory of why I even started.
And you know what?
by Stanley Lieber
2D COLLISION DETECTION
Human minds as the medium for conflicts waged by lower life forms.
Flatland intersecting, obstructing the path of the inevitable ant-crusher. Possibly, intersecting other, geometrically opposed flatlands along the way.
The blocks were projected in "3D." Actually, flat paintings in light of imagined real life constructions. Call them panes.
K.A.R.R. suddenly realized that his visor was just comics.
He took the fucking thing off, looked at it, turned it around in his hands.
Put it back on.
Garthe slammed on the brakes but Goliath was ignoring manual input. If anything the rig seemed to be accelerating. Garthe wrinkled his nose and pushed air through his nostrils as Goliath barreled toward the inert figure laying in the sand. He’d have to pretend this was somehow intentional.
Without warning, haptics kicked back in. Luckily Garthe had never stopped tugging on the steering wheel. Goliath swerved mightily, nearly toppling over, and narrowly avoided flattening K.A.R.R. into a tasteless desert doormat. The rig, however, had become perilously unstable along the way.
That was when Goliath collided with what appeared to be a large rock.
Trailer capsized. Comics everywhere. This strange little fellow rolling around rubbing the wings of his cloak against the pages, oblivious to the danger. How had this been allowed to happen?
Garthe was beside himself. He’d spoiled the whole load. How was he going to explain this to his dad?
Oh, and it hadn’t been a rock that he’d hit, either. Garthe had run over another (smaller) vehicle. Not much left of it now. And, all of his tires were flat.
He stroked his mustache, trying to think of what he could do to salvage the load.
Nothing came to mind.
Comic books were falling from the sky, or rather, many, many pages thereof were pinwheeling carelessly into the sand. K.A.R.R. grasped at them, fascinated. Most of these were from key issues. It was too bad about the condition.
It was too pink out to read. K.A.R.R. gathered up the loose leaves as best he could before they floated away, into the unmarked desert. He had nothing to carry them in, so he ended up folding them into his cloak and heaving them over his shoulder, a back-issue bindle, Martian Santa with his glistening black trash bag.
Meanwhile, back at the scene of Garthe’s final humiliation...
by Stanley Lieber
K.A.R.R.’s own interests were decidedly singleminded. Wherever he went, whatever he was supposed to be doing, he was always on the lookout for new comics. Within this category (comic books) he discriminated freely, snatching up whatever flashy new title looked cool, and ignoring the material he didn’t like. Since most of the planet was covered with sand, and there were few habitations to speak of, he enjoyed few opportunities to exercise the ruthless, discerning razor blade of his taste. Mostly, he sat in his box and re-read the books he already owned.
"We’re just going to go over your numbers for August."
Bonnie on the line. She’d called and interrupted just as K.A.R.R. was starting work. He’d already been told not to charge time for these calls.
"Your efficiency is off."
K.A.R.R. of course knew the reason for this failure. Since his recent suspension for falsifying company records, he had been reporting his time accurately as a matter of principle. How to break it to his boss that the reason she wouldn’t be getting her bonus this month was because he was no longer protecting her?
"What can I do to improve?" he asked, quite earnestly.
"I just feel like people are playing games with their numbers," she said, ignoring the question. "I just want you to know, now is not the time to be playing with your job."
She clicked off.
K.A.R.R. guessed he was now free to get to work.
The new release was coming along, but it was not going to release itself. K.A.R.R. organized his notes and assembled something resembling an orderly accounting of all the changes made since the last release. Some of the commit messages were above his head, but that wouldn’t significantly hinder his ability to sort the list into general categories, alphabetized. Next he would proceed to the crux of his real contribution: selecting the correct cognitive color tone, the precise, faintly audible pitch of the associated propaganda. How to set the whole thing vibrating such that it settled into an auspicious trajectory (rather than being ground into corn meal between the massive, competing gravities of nearby thought constructions) while still remaining legible to the semi-disinterested reader.
He double-tapped the side of his visor, momentarily switching contexts. Fourteen issues were missing from his bind map, and he intended to somehow finish tracking them all down before his nap this afternoon.
Unbeknownst to him, the context switch had triggered an alarm that would be flagged for managerial review.
"This is an investigation meeting," Bonnie announced, peering through a ridiculously oversized visor at K.A.R.R., who returned her confused gaze through the slowly cycling woosh of his own tastefully fitted yellow frames.
"Woosh," K.A.R.R.’s visor said.
"No. More. Personal. Use. Of. Company. Visors." Bonnie tapped her leaf as she read each word. Sentence pronounced, she smiled conspiratorially to herself. She’d made it through the whole thing without having to ask for help.
"Okay," K.A.R.R. lied, and waited for her to continue.
But that was it.
Garthe had loaded up Goliath with comics. The militarized tractor trailer rig was overweight, hauling crates of floppies to be bound, somewhere across state lines. Though how he was supposed tell where the state lines were, out here in the middle of all this pink, remained a god damned mystery.
Black smoke belched from Goliath’s twin smoke stacks. Garthe laughed, seemingly at nothing, the potent evil he usually radiated now focused tightly through his trim mustache and beard. What was his problem, anyway?
He didn’t notice K.A.R.R. laying motionless in the sand until it was too late.
by Stanley Lieber
It was the only time K.A.R.R. had ever fallen asleep in the desert. He was cataloguing his failures vis-à-vis K.I.T.T. when it happened. Started awake just before he hit the ground. Suddenly, he came to, and he was falling.
So, the last time he had bothered, K.I.T.T. had insisted upon pushing even more details lifted from other media. A list of his latest infatuations included: NASCAR, Namor the Sub-Mariner, and, for some reason, the Fawklands War. Some of these would make it into issue three.
K.A.R.R. had rejected NASCAR out of hand, without really knowing what it was about. He guessed that K.I.T.T.’s sources were probably not much better informed, TBQH. Besides, the material was anachronistic. He rolled over in the sand. Why was he even out here?
K.I.T.T.’s susceptibility to whatever half-held interest he currently pursued had been a consistent annoyance. Their books often came out resembling whatever garbage was currently being talked about by the most insipid of K.I.T.T.’s friends. At the same time, K.I.T.T. was incredibly sensitive to criticism. He took disagreements over taste personally, which was why K.A.R.R. was more relieved than surprised when K.I.T.T. inevitably quit the company.
If I am destroyed, so shall you be.
K.A.R.R.’s eyes were blurry. Without his visor he missed quite a lot of detail. Luckily, the landscape consisted primarily of wall-to-wall, undifferentiated pink. Even the sky, at dusk, was more or less the same color. What use would he have had for the increased resolution?
In these moments of relative sensory deprivation, the shapes and whorls he usually tried to ignore would settle down and start to coalesce into a sort of fabliaux. K.A.R.R. considered his visor’s interface to be a metaphor for this process, and not the other way around. But now, perhaps for the first time, he realized that he’d never heard anyone else express it in quite this way. It seemed that whichever direction he faced, he would find himself still affixed to the same monotonously rotating landscape, which seemed immune to revealing its situatedness through mere empirical investigation. Walk too far in any one direction, the motionless/revolving horizon seemed to suggest, and you’d overtake yourself from behind. This was the nature of the world he lived upon. Static, but sinking, spinning.
He was dizzy.
Called Bonnie, who dispatched K.I.T.T. to come and pick him up.
There would be no delay.