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massive fictions | 1 | 2
solution pt. 1 @ arthur mag
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
by Stanley Lieber
"Do you put on your data gloves before or after you piss in the morning?"
There was a reason SL didn’t attend these meetings. Hadn’t, since he’d arrived. He’d been warned in advance.
"Both," he interjected. Of course, he’d take them off to piss. Unlike these cretins, he guessed.
He stood up to leave.
No paper today. Something about a general strike. Apparently only observed by the press.
Otherwise, exactly the same. Tea, eggs, stretch, walk, linger, watch, walk, stretch, sit. His rhythm barely broken by the absence of printed nothingness. Maybe he should save his money.
Welcoming faces down at the VFW. He shot some pool, asked the old men questions about California. They were generous with their stories. One of them had been to the Mission District before they got rid of the bars. A place with comic books varnished to the men’s room walls.
None of them used anymore.
SL had never served so he didn’t have much to contribute in return. He’d mention his father and they’d nod. It was usually good for a couple of drinks.
By Christmas time this place would be full of kids trying to climb onto Santa’s lap, but today it was just a bunch of guys trying not to mention the Internet.
What had really happened back in 1993? By early October the war had kicked off in earnest, but no one seemed to realize it yet. At first the change was gradual, then accelerated smoothly until even before the reboot, continuity was arcing, spiraling gregariously out of control. New voices, new talent. No longer the staid, predictable march from trope to cliché to signature recurring boredom. This was all new. Here was the final dissolution of reading comprehension— e pluribus nullus—ad infinitum.
For SL’s part, he was glad the paper was back in print. It gave him something to do with his hands.
VETERANS OF FOREIGN WIDE AREA NETWORKS
SL stared at the tarnished plaque while the other guys took their shots. He guessed this was an example of their oft remarked upon humor. He missed the jokes they were making in real time while he was busy standing slack-jawed. Someone had just mentioned "Bay Area rents," and the place fell silent as a pre-war visor.
SL edged his way out of the room and made for the front door.
This wasn’t his fight.
Back at the hotel, SL fidgeted nervously, unsure if he should break into his emergency supply of disposables. He’d been doing so well these past weeks. Not even checking his stocks. Here he was contemplating an entire evening drowning his many sorrows in everything he’d been missing during the interim. Like nothing at all had changed.
Well, it hadn’t.
by Stanley Lieber
Friends had been trying to convince him for years that he should come to West Berlin. "It would be good for your art," they all said. Well, now he was here, and there was nothing going on. There was no scene. Had there ever been?
Maybe a scene wasn’t what his friends had been talking about, after all.
SL was up early to do his stretches. It went okay, but he thought he might skip the next session. The pain had inspired his reticence. Thus enlivened, he sat down with his tea and the newspaper. As usual, nothing was going on. What had he expected?
Most of the bars and strip clubs were closed, this early in the morning. Even the drug store and the VFW. Sometimes, someone would be working at the VFW during the day and would let him in anyway. No such luck, today.
For a city of three million (SL could scarcely believe such a small place could still exist), things were awfully quiet during the day. Where did these people go when they weren’t shouting in the streets? Also of note: the homeless were virtually non-existent—or at least, he almost never saw any. Maybe here they actually executed their war on poverty.
The town appeared to be run with strict, German efficiency.
No, there was no scene to speak of. As a consequence SL was left to make his own trouble.
That should have been easy, but it wasn’t.
From one end of the city to the other was a journey of about eight miles. SL walked it every day, trying to soak up anything that might make his recovery journal more interesting. Whatever it was his friends had been so insistent he needed to absorb, he wasn't finding it. His calves always ached but his health didn’t seem to improve.
He’d finally stopped bringing the data gloves. Along with his wallet, keys, and water, he had also chosen to leave behind all of his contraband gear. It was all too heavy. He never knew when he was going to have to try and outrun a giant pickup truck.
The traffic moved—and smelled—like a herd of animals. On their way to be slaughtered, SL assumed. He could only hope.
He hadn’t figured on spending so much time here alone, in this ridiculous little town.
Well, here he was. This was what he always said he had wanted, if perhaps not specifically these specific surroundings. There was no point in pretending he was here against his will. No one else was around, so there was no one else to blame.
SL drained the remainder of his tea onto the sidewalk and returned the plastic saucer to the sidewalk vendor.
The buzzing of cicadas put him in a strange mood.
by Stanley Lieber
It would require some unspecified effort to find out just when he had arrived at the hotel. SL no longer had any earthly idea. It would have to have been before Christmas (he remembered attending a Christmas party in the hotel lobby), but beyond that, he could recall nothing of his arrival in the little town.
His friend might remember.
He knew why he was here, in West Berlin, and that was to forget about things like this. Like his friend, he’d find something else to do with his time.
Today he ordered lunch in his room and settled in to review more corrections from his journal.
In the afternoons he would sometimes walk into town to gaze at the traffic as it meandered by on the main road, or to purchase additional items at the drug store. Today he needed blank cassettes and chewing gum. And they were all out of gum.
SL ignored the spinner rack of comics that had imposed itself between him and the register.
Nobody asked to see his ID.
Walking around town would have been almost pleasant if not for the overzealous NPCs chucking beer cans at his head at suspiciously equally spaced intervals. Too bad.
SL varied his route. The algorithm he chose was effective for only a few iterations, so eventually he had to alternate algorithms via an additional, algorithmically generated algorithm.
All of this was possible only because he had held on to the data gloves.
When he was finally caught he had to plead with the hotel administrator to keep his room. At length the stern twenty-something relented, but required him to hand over the contraband data gloves. He went along with it, for now. What else was he going to do?
Owing to a lack of material, he wrote what he knew. Presently this consisted of various ephemera: shopping lists, song titles, ideas for t-shirt slogans, character names and tentative biographies, what he could remember of his family tree, reviews of local shops and eateries, profiles (with analysis) of local politicians, a short inventory of the contents of his room, and a new draft of his final will and testament.
Satisfied with his progress, he closed the journal and returned to his search for the secondary backup pair of data gloves that he was sure he’d stashed around here somewhere.
Personal writing and collage by Stanley Lieber.
2.75" x 4.25", 16 pgs per issue
$5 post paid
THE GREEN CHILDREN
by Stanley Lieber
Dawn, but not down here. No windows in the silo. Tommy switched off his daylight lamp and slipped under the covers. It was time for bed.
Dreams, obscuring like an anti-glare filter, mediating the sensor intake. Who needed it?
Up again at dusk.
Hm. What’s for breakfast?
Nobody wanted to be in the silo, he realized. Life down here had become a necessity if you wanted to stay alive at all. Dad had said so, and it was clear everyone believed him, because their ignorance of the world above was near total. Haha, it almost seemed wrong to take advantage of their frustrated curiosity.
Tommy didn’t believe a word of it, of course. It had become obvious early on that the threat up top had been wildly exaggerated. Sure, there were bombs, but he knew which streets to avoid. If the enemy wasn’t working off the same intelligence then Tommy was clairvoyant.
And Tommy wasn’t clairvoyant.
Dad mostly turned a blind eye towards Tommy’s "wheeling and dealing," and in turn the profits kept rolling in, mostly unchecked. Peter found he was happiest in these moments when the traps were getting money, and Peter was happy a lot these days. That left Tommy to his own devices, which were many and various deployed throughout the silo. Even his dresses were selling.
Still, it would never be enough. Tommy would never settle for mere silo supremacy.
He wanted out of the silo for good.
Bear was still trying to find a way in. The green children weren’t the only morsels on the menu. But getting in was easier said than done. By now he’d been saying so all year.
The father was vulnerable.
"Fired? For what?"
Sounded like Dad was in trouble.
"For letting your son in and out of the silo as if this were some damn revolving door, minimum security prison!" Dad’s boss screamed, boldly pronouncing sentence into the inadequately concealed room mic.
Ah, a new assignment!
Raccoon would survive. No matter what they did to the tree he’d lately managed to scramble up into. Chop it down, see if he cared. These bloodhounds didn’t frighten him. Push him much further and he’d jump right into the river.
All right, he was pumping himself up. The river was poison, much like the home environment from which he’d just egressed. And just like home, he wouldn’t be able to stand it for long.
Well, if he could escape that shithole...
Raccoon closed his eyes and jumped.
Dad’s comics were almost loaded up. His work gear and a few personal effects were pretty much all that remained in the family’s quarters. Tommy blanched as his father rested a big hand on his bony knee.
"Son, I’d like to tell you a story."
"Sixty years ago, none of this could have happened. Religious authorities wouldn’t have permitted it. But the war we’re in now... It’s not what any of us signed up for. I don’t want to bleed for copyright."
"Dad, I know," Tommy said, not wanting to get into it.
"With that in mind, I’d like you to have this."
From a small metal box that Tommy hadn’t noticed before the monologue began, Dad produced a worn leather belt, married to a large brass belt buckle that read BORN AGAIN in bold print. Intricate leatherwork reproduced scenes from the classic tale.
"Back when I was first in the Service," his father began, but then trailed off, neglecting to complete the by now familiar introduction.
Tommy prayed to a non-existent God for leniency. What had he done to deserve this? But the absentee God didn’t hear him, or was otherwise unable to respond.
"Let me tell you about a man named David Mazzucchelli..."
And so it began, again.
Raccoon was less experienced than he let on. In and out of trees, in and out of the river—that just about covered it. But he read a lot, which in his estimation counted for something. The green children were more than enough to keep him busy, to give him a sense of what might lay beyond his narrow field of vision.
Bear had spotted him more than once. That was a concern. But time and time again Raccoon had bet everything on his seemingly infallible ability to evade capture. By now he’d lost track of the odds.
Raccoon crossed the meadow in broad daylight.
So Dad left. It happened. A month or so later, on his first visit back to the silo to retrieve the scant personal belongings he’d left behind, Tommy saw fit to brag, "...And I haven’t cried at all since you left." His father was duly impressed.
This trip, Tommy was awarded a medium-sized, gold lamé box filled with half-empty bottles of Testors model paint.
It would keep him busy for a while.
by Stanley Lieber
2.75" x 4.25", 8 pgs.
$3 post paid
by Stanley Lieber
SL’s friend followed him around with a camera. Offline, so it was technically permissible under the hotel’s ToS. Didn’t stop SL from getting annoyed.
"Quit pointing that thing at me," SL would say, and his friend would quit, for a while, sometimes for the rest of the day. But the camera always returned.
SL had got enough of this treatment at home.
Breakfast now consisted of reading a paper newspaper, alone. Half the paper’s weight comprised loose leaf advertisements printed on slick paper that stuck to his fingers when he tried to remove them. Coupons for stores and restaurants that did not have operating locations in this tiny resort town.
It was a local paper.
The supposed news itself was all too relevant—hyper specific POV reporting that relied on an intimate knowledge of local personages and customs. SL possessed neither. He poured over the paper anyway, enjoying the certain je ne sais quois of this textual delivery system for... nothing. Anyway, it passed the time.
In the afternoons he could often be found by the pool. This unlikely juxtaposition found him defending his sketchbooks from the regular interpolation of screaming, splashing children. He wanted to give them back their visors.
He was settling into the routine, and yes, he was still cheating.
SL’s friend had found other things to do with his time. He was not even showing up online anymore. Zero contact for the last month. SL had stopped keeping track.
He had contrived any number of schemes for tracking his friend down, but frankly concluded that he might be better off simply letting the friendship go. Lately, he’d noticed himself contriving ways to avoid him. That seemed to suggest perhaps the partnership had run its course.
He wondered how his friend would react when he found out SL had stopped paying the hotel bill.
SL wanted to think this would work. So far, being dropped into an environment of strict network non-availability had to cut his daily time online in half. Without the visor, and without authorized access to the local mesh, he was slowed down enough to discriminate carefully between potential activities. He planned in advance.
No logging. Bandwidth wouldn’t permit it.
Remembering what he was doing still proved to be a challenge.
by Stanley Lieber
SL, protagonist. "Every novel is somebody’s first," SL said, by way of introducing the present storyline.
SL’s friend, supporting actor. "Sometimes I think I don’t know who I am anymore," he mused, and happily downed his coffee.
Preamble concluded, the main cast got on with their tale.
The hotel was a couple hundred years old, give or take a few decades. Not that a casual would be able to tell, after unending waves of renovations. The parts that looked the oldest were in most cases the most recent facelifts. The hotel restaurant, for example, had been rebooted just last month.
SL liked the hotel restaurant. He’d pack up his supplies and sit down there in a booth for half the day, reading his comics and sketching the other guests. Most of them would calm down if he showed them his work.
SL’s friend didn’t like to be sketched. When SL picked up his pencil, his friend would usually up and leave the room, often without saying a word. Suited SL fine. As time wore on he began to regret inviting the imbecile along. And he’d even offered to pay. Idiot.
No bacon this morning. It had only taken them a month to figure out he wasn’t going to eat it.
The fines for attempted network connections were accumulating steadily. Fortunately he was fucking rich.
He’d sit down there in the restaurant and wait for something remarkable to happen. Something rarely did, so he didn’t make many remarks. During the interim between minor piques of interest SL would maintain his recovery journal. Filling page after page with minute details of mundane memorized responses to the predictable plot machinations. He supposed this was what they wanted. He described what it had been like to probe the shared hallucination for the familiar topography of his face.
Nowadays he just looked in the mirror.
Or in this case, a salt shaker. His reflection bent and wobbled as a server knocked it completely horizontal, bumping into SL’s table on her way through the dining room to put out a small fire near the smoking section.
The quiet here was unbelievable. SL found it was conducive to memory, which was something of a mixed blessing. On the one hand he needed to keep in mind why he was here, but on the other hand he didn’t really want to be here.
He was out of hands.
Most of his personal equipment had been confiscated upon arrival, but SL still carried concealed within his shirtsleeve a backup pair of data gloves, folded neatly into a tiny green square and pressed into an equally diminutive Faraday pouch.
Hastily, he ripped open the pouch and slipped them on.
by Stanley Lieber
Every moment of his youth apart from its dream was forgotten
— Bertolt Brecht, Baal
West Berlin, Indiana. 2049.
It was time to dry out. Like so many of his contemporaries, he had made his way to West Berlin, to take in the waters, to suffer the moribund, exquisite desolation, to luxuriate in the low bandwidth and utter lack of interest in—or from—the outside world.
Newcomers recognized each other easily by the pale strip of tender flesh surrounding each set of eyes, where their visors had been attached, never before removed. The visors would be useless here— they didn’t even work as sunglasses.
Blue ridge, no antennas. The town was situated in the cleft of an ancient river valley. It was easy to forget sometimes that anything lay beyond, if in fact anything did.
Everything felt familiar.
SL had never seen the place. Not with his own eyes, anyway, and his pale strip was starting to heal over.
He stopped the record player and returned the vintage pressing of Scott Walker’s Tilt to its pristine sleeve. He liked the record, but the input was overwhelming him.
He needed silence.
He’d come to West Berlin with a friend. Perhaps friend was too generous. A contact. They shared an affinity for a particular misconception of West Berlin culture. Old books, music. Of course, that world was long gone, if it had ever really existed. Which, now that he was here, seemed increasingly doubtful. Still, they were interested. You could say, willfully credulous.
They’d met online, many years ago, and now it was time to dry out.
SL sipped his tea.
"What’s your name, anyway?" his friend asked. "I mean, your real name. In real life."
It was a dubious question. What constituted real life? Also, did SL sound like an alias?
"Ray," SL lied. "Call me Ray."
"Okay," said his friend, satisfied with the singular morsel of misinformation.
They rode the lateral elevator down to breakfast in the hotel restaurant. SL asked for his usual scrambled eggs with toast and instead received a small round plate heaping with bacon.
"You gonna eat that?" asked his friend.
The poor fool was oblivious to the spiritual implications of consuming swine flesh. SL nudged his plate across the table, careful to avoid spilling his tea.
The morning sun ducked behind a smear of clouds and the pair soon followed suit, finishing off the remainder of their meal in silence before making their excuses and retiring to the darkness of their separate rooms.
Hotel surveillance promptly detected network traffic passing to and from the rooms, a blatant violation of the terms of service.
The response was automated and immediate, brooking no appeal to due process.
collecting ACTRON v4 issues #1-14
full color, 5.5" x 8.5", 116 pgs
THE GREEN CHILDREN
by Stanley Lieber
"Do you think this is blasphemous?" Tommy asked, more than a little sheepishly.
"More like diaphanous," Peter offered, but his disinterest was apparent. He was hardly impressed with this, Tommy’s latest effort in pink taffeta. The flowing dress abruptly drooped. Tommy let it drop all the way to the floor, unfinished. He was disappointed. "You never like anything."
"I like whatever is good," Peter sighed. Not this again.
"Just never me," Tommy whined, trying now to make the best of a steadily deteriorating situation by groping after Peter’s brown pirate pants.
"Stop that," Peter scolded. "You’re behaving like a ridiculous child."
And he was.
The pieces were just not coming out how Tommy had envisioned them. He could admit, now, that he simply didn’t possess the manual dexterity, all right the sewing skill, to fully actualize his vision for the Fall collection. He would have to rely on Peter for help. Peter could do anything.
Problem was, Peter didn’t want to help. Considered Tommy’s dallying (he called it dallying) with fashion to be a distraction from their obvious true calling: ripping off the neighbors.
Yeah, but Tommy cared about more than just making money.
He wanted the neighbors to want him, too. And for the right reasons.
Silly? You bet!
But Peter said okay.
For what it was worth, Bear liked the dress. Picked it up off the floor after the boys had gone out to do whatever it was they did up top the silo. Holding it up in front of himself in the mirror he felt pretty, perhaps for the first time in his very long life.
The boy would pay for that.
Still, Bear was curious to see where it all might lead. If Tommy only kept at it, developing his talent, who knew how far his prodigious potential might unfold?
It was a puzzle Bear would worry at, pawing it over like some negligible smaller animal, right up until the moment he realized it was too late for him to withdraw.
Still, it might all be worth it.
Bear studied the dress.
Peter peered through his hands, forming a triangular frame around the pink fabric of Tommy’s latest creation.
"It’s just. This material is preposterous," he finally said.
"Your mom," Tommy remarked, quite creatively. It would be hard for Peter to argue with this, since his mother was essentially nothing more than a giant pink triangle.
"Let’s leave that bitch out of this," Peter laughed. Tommy laughed too. Perhaps too readily, but Peter let it drop. If he himself had been proven not to exist, well, then, he could hardly throw out a flag over some minor point of procedure where his equally non-existent mother was concerned. Fair was fair, and all that shit.
Peter was annoying. Always worrying about (bothering himself with, more like) rosters, trades, and stats. If a dress Tommy had made failed to trend, there Peter would go, calculating, unsolicited, the precise amount of money Tommy had lost them fiddling around with his unsalable product. He could be relied upon to point out that meanwhile, there rested copious amounts of perfectly good junk up top the silo that could easily have been siphoned off and filtered down to the rubes on the lower levels at whatever premium he and Tommy chose to command.
Peter didn’t understand Tommy’s art. Tommy was sometimes sorry he had created him.
Tommy put on the pink dress and climbed back into the freight elevator.
"You coming?" he asked Peter, suggestively.
"Not yet I’m not," Peter quipped in reply.
Dad lit his ritual tobacco and invoked Mars deep into his lungs. Getting born had undoubtedly been a mistake, but here he was. Periodic field trip around the sun.
Smooth flavor, he guessed. He hadn’t been able to discern any difference between his usual brand and this new stuff his boy had brought back from beyond the silo. He had to smile. The boy seemed to know his business.
Breaking the news to him that he didn’t have what it took to compete in the cutthroat world of wartime fashion was going to be a real bitch. But he did like those pink numbers the boy had been cranking out lately.
He hated this. The merciless honesty. Everything he had hated about his own father.
This was what being a father was all about.
Peter didn’t like it, either.
THE GREEN CHILDREN
by Stanley Lieber
Looking into his eyes one would first be confronted by the plastic strip, alternately flashing a series of targeted, third-party ads. If he caught you staring he might flip over to the mirrored surface. An abrupt rendezvous with that which the onlooker most feared—the complete absence of third-party affirmation.
Building on this tacit exchange with the viewer, Tommy might next offer a cup of tea. He was off his coffee, and as a guest you drank what he offered. That is, if you wanted him to talk business.
Tommy’s business was the traffic of information and goods from beyond the silo. The information he simply made up. The goods he stole from the other families.
Kids in the silo could not get enough of his warez, even though in some cases the merchandise had been stolen from their own homes.
Who could explain it?
The Blanks showed up. Their disgust was transparent, but each individual’s unique vision of this new fresh hell could only be expressed through the printed matter and flare carried upon his person. The zines were generative works curated by personal algorithms, while the buttons were mostly handwritten. In both cases they kept the material strictly to themselves.
Tommy nodded to the guy in front, who he assumed to be their leader. Just as he was about to speak the real Boss Blank surprised him, elbowing through the crowd to reveal himself, resplendent in... well, nothing. He was clearly pissed.
"Let me be perfectly frank," said Frank Blank. "I don’t like the way this is shaping up. Something essential seems to be missing from the template."
Like your clothes, thought Tommy.
Frank Blank stepped back into his cutout. The template, which up until this moment had been supported by his neighbors on either side, toppled backwards and crashed to the floor with a disturbing clatter. Frank glared at them both in turn.
"Now see what you’ve done. I’ve gone and telegraphed a facial expression."
Titters from the Blanks, who were by now all breaking facial discipline.
Hey, if the Boss was doing it...
Tommy’s visor flashed solid white. "You guys are a riot. Love to see all these smiling faces."
It had not been intended as an insult. But the look that now descended over Frank’s face like a theater curtain removed all doubt that Tommy had stepped, oblivious, of course, across some invisible line. Apparently discernible only to the Blanks.
What was he supposed to say?
Frank frowned, resigned to his new reality.
"We have the cash. Did you bring the stuff?"
Peter couldn’t see them. It was the rare moment when Tommy didn’t seem to need him. He took the opportunity to switch off.
If the Blanks had noticed his suddenly but slowly slumping form, nobody said a word. They were being awfully polite.
Bear followed the transaction’s progress with interest.
Bear considered the Blanks null nutrition. Followers tasted bad. Not bland, but actually bad. He’d tried them on occasion but always came away regretting his adventurousness. They got stuck in his teeth, and then the flavor would linger for an era. Gross.
Non-nutritive Blanks. Hardly unobtrusive, in spite of what it said on the tin.
They were in the way.
"That’s okay, we’re not hungry," Tommy said, as Peter jolted suddenly back to life.
Frank Blank pocketed the unbranded energy bar. He guessed these guys didn’t go in for the no-name shit.
"If we’re all finished up here, I have comic books to read," Tommy said, and snapped shut his Zero Halliburton. "Let’s go, Pete."
Peter’s head swiveled from Blank to Blank like a shrugging parrot. "Who the fuck are you talking to? Where did that money come from? And so forth."
"Don’t worry about it," said Tommy, patting his imaginary friend on the head.
Trouble was brewing in the ranks of the Blanks. Certain points of ethics, terminology, and even simple etiquette had presently fallen into dispute. A radical wing of the subculture had asserted that, so long as they were all going to bare facial expressions, well, members might just as well start to allow for variations in grooming, accessorization, and other aspects of the outfit's trade dress. Did anyone here care to advance a counterargument?
And so the battle was joined by essentially every member of the away team who had been dispatched earlier that day to conduct the silo transaction. Reader, it delayed their transit home.
In the days and weeks that followed, once the offending individualists had all found their separate ways back to Blank House, the infection inevitably spread. Almost immediately, individuals asserted their individual points of view. Just as immediately, a volunteer squad of conservatives spontaneously self-organized into a kind of police force, equipping themselves with rudimentary weaponry culled from private reserves (Blank House having heretofore adhered to an stoical—and economical—policy of strictly non-violent opposition to the forces of the mundane world) and proceeded to, well, police the local environs for perceived infractions against the still not fully articulated, prior norms of public conduct.
Militant, certain, and yet not entirely clear.
"What is he saying that you have a problem with?"
One of the New Police screwed up his courage and slashed a thin blue line across his own forehead, in blue paint. A symbol, or so he said, of the radicals’ break with what had previously been agreed in their subculture to be common sense. And the New Police commitment to restoring order.
Nobody understood, at first. Why had he chosen to mark his own face as a rebellion against the individualists? Why had he chosen blue? (Perhaps it was the old jar of blue paint someone kept leaving on the floor near his cutout—it drove him nuts.)
Color would prove a new frontier upon the Blank page.
In these uncertain times, the New Police’s new obsession with blue bodypaint would be certain to attract imitators.
And what could be threatening about that?
MASSIVE FICTIONS XVA VOLUME 1
by stanley lieber