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Legends of Indie Comics: Words Only E-Book

Robert Jeschonek

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Herausgeber: Pie Press
Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
Sprache: Englisch

Beschreibung

Just imagine! A full house of top indie comics characters, reunited in this volume of prose fiction tales by the genius creators who first breathed life into them in the 1980s and beyond! Whether you lovingly remember these heroes and creators or are meeting them for the first time, you are in for a wild ride with this star-studded cast. They set the industry on fire in comics from indie publishing pioneers like First, Capital, Eclipse, Dark Horse, Pacific, Aardvark-Vanaheim, and Vortex. Now, more than ever, we need them to remind us how fun and exciting comics can be. Strap in for a lineup unlike any you’ve seen before, crashing together old school indie pioneers and the new school trendsetters who continue to build on the revolution they started. Get a load of this dream team:

Mike Baron – Author, Badger
Donna Barr – Author/Illustrator, The Desert Peach
Bob Burden – Author/Illustrator, Flaming Carrot
Paul Chadwick – Author/Illustrator, Concrete
Michael T. Gilbert – Author/Illustrator, Mr. Monster
Steven Grant – Author, Whisper
Mike Grell – Author/Illustrator, Jon Sable Freelance
Neil Hansen - Illustrator, Badger and Whisper
Matt Howarth – Author/Illustrator, Those Annoying Post Bros.
Javier Hernandez – Author/Illustrator, El Muerto
Bruce McCorkindale - Illustrator, The American
Justin Jordan – Author, Luther Strode
John Ostrander – Author, GrimJack/GrimCat
Willie Peppers - Illustrator, Southern Knights
Doug Rice – Author/Illustrator, Dynamo Joe
Dave Sim - Author/Illustrator, Cerebus
Don Simpson – Author/Illustrator, Megaton Man
Felipe Sobreiro - Illustrator, Luther Strode
Joe and Hilarie Staton – Authors (and Illustrator, Joe Staton), Michael Mauser
Timothy Truman - Illustrator, GrimJack/GrimCat
Mark Verheiden – Author, The American
Henry Vogel – Author, Southern Knights
Pat Broderick – Cover Artist
Mike Gold – Author, Introduction (Co-Founder, First Comics)

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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

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PRAISE FOR THE LEGENDS OF INDIE COMICS

“The 1980’s were a fantastic time for innovation and creative freedom. The diversity of characters was refreshing. The industry exploded and was renewed. This book brings that era and its burst of creativity to life in thrilling new ways. It’s wonderful to see new work from so many of the groundbreaking talents responsible for that revolutionary time.”

– Steve Schanes, Co-Founder, Pacific Comics

“Ah, the 1980s. A time of major change as we transitioned from an analog society to a digital one. It was also the time where changes in the comics market would give rise to a new crop of indie comics and creators. Led by the direct market and the rapid success of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the industry underwent a fundamental change as new publishers arose, paving the way for a new, creative, and independent vision of comics. It was in 1985 that I started Antarctic Press, which has been in continuous publication since then. Yes, the 1980s were a heady time for me, and its impact can still be felt today! I'm glad that readers old and new can relive that classic era, or experience it for the first time, in the pages of this book.”

– Ben Dunn, Co-Founder and Publisher, Antarctic Press

“It was a genuine delight to see the further adventures of the characters found inside! Now I want to read all my old comics! Bang! There goes my productivity this month…”

— Phil Foglio, Writer/Artist, Buck Godot and Girl Genius

On Concrete by Paul Chadwick: “Editing the initial Concrete short story in issue #1 of Dark Horse Presents back in 1986 was my very first experience as an editor — not that there was much editing to be done. Paul Chadwick proved to be a meticulous researcher both in his writing and art. The story here touches on so many points and characters from the early Concrete: Anonymoose, Mrs. Grace and her son’s birthday party, Concrete’s previous underwater foray — not to mention Maureen and Larry. All the necessary touchstones are here, and Paul’s prose is so, well, Concrete-like, that the mental images his words paint require no art. Bravo.”

– Randy Stradley, Co-Founder, Dark Horse Comics

On The American by Mark Verheiden: “Having known, worked for, and written with Mark for twenty-plus years, I have always marveled at his genius, but The American is something else entirely. Reading and looking for the next twist is pure failure for me, but something in which I delight.”

— Aaron Douglas, Comics Writer (Borealis, 10 Years to Death) and Actor (Battlestar Galactica 2004, Murder in a Small Town, and more)

LEGENDS OF INDIE COMICS

WORDS ONLY

Edited byROBERT JESCHONEK

LEGENDS OF INDIE COMICS: WORDS ONLY

Published by Pie Press Publishing

TEXT COPYRIGHTS

CHARACTER COPYRIGHTS

“Those Annoying Post Bros”and “Savage Henry” appear courtesy of Matt Howarth.

Concrete™ appears courtesy of Paul Chadwick.

El Muerto the Aztec Zombie is a registered trademark of Javier Hernandez.

Ebook ISBN-13: 979-8-9875846-8-2

Published in January 2025 by arrangement with the authors.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Pie Press Publishing

Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904

www.piepresspublishing.com

Illustration Credits

Dedication

Content Note

Four-Color Freedom

An Introduction

Mike Gold

Foreword

Robert Jeschonek

Spotlight on…Badger

Badger in “Kaiju Steaks”

Ethically Sourced Me'et

Mike Baron

Spotlight on…GrimJack

Grimcat

A GrimJack Story

John Ostrander

Spotlight on…Jon Sable

Freelance

Excerpt from a Jon Sable Novel

Mike Grell

Spotlight on…Mr. Monster

A Quantum of Hemo…

A Mr. Monster Adventure

Michael T. Gilbert

Spotlight on…Flaming Carrot

Flaming Carrot's Wonderful Bouncy House Adventure

Bob Burden

Spotlight on…Those Annoying Post Bros.

L.A. Differential

Starring Those Annoying Post Bros.

Matt Howarth

Spotlight on…Concrete

Deep Work

A Concrete Adventure

Paul Chadwick

Spotlight on…Michael Mauser

Backup

A Michael Mauser Story

Joe and Hilarie Staton

Spotlight on…Luther Strode

Bloodletting

A Luther Strode Story

Justin Jordan

Spotlight on…Megaton Man

April's Fool

A Megaton Man Mega-Epic

Donald Simpson

Spotlight on…The Desert Peach

New Ground

A Desert Peach Story

Donna Barr

Spotlight on…El Muerto

Love Over Life

Featuring El Muerto the Aztec Zombie

Javier Hernandez

Spotlight on…Cerebus

Cerebus' Wellness Journey

Starring Cerebus the Aardvark

Dave Sim

Spotlight on…Dynamo Joe

To Have and Havoc

A Brief Side-Story of the Orion War, Starring Dynamo Joe

Doug Rice

Spotlight on…Southern Knights

Crush Hour

A Southern Knights Tale

Henry Vogel

Spotlight on…The American

Never Pay

A Tale of The American

Mark Verheiden

Spotlight on…Whisper

City Of Night

A Whisper Story

Steven Grant

Acknowledgements

By Robert Jeschonek

About the Creators

Special Preview - Space: 1975

ILLUSTRATION CREDITS

The cover of this book was penciled and inked by Pat Broderick and colored by Robb Epps

The following illustrations accompany the stories in this volume:

Badger by Neil HansenGrimJack and GrimCat by Timothy TrumanJon Sable Freelance by Mike GrellHemo-Boy by Michael T. GilbertMr. Monster by Michael T. GilbertFlaming Carrot by Bob BurdenThose Annoying Post Bros. by Matt HowarthConcrete by Paul ChadwickMichael Mauser by Joe StatonLuthor Strode by Felipe SobreiroMegaton Man by Donald SimpsonThe Desert Peach by Donna BarrEl Muerto by Javier HernandezCerebus by Dave SimDynamo Joe by Doug RiceCaptain Tanamara by Doug RiceSouthern Knights by Willie PeppersThe American by Bruce McCorkindaleWhisper by Neil Hansen

DEDICATION

To the vanguard of indie comics creators, for throwing open the gates and inspiring those who came after.

The revolution may be its own reward, but we can never thank you enough for the wonders you’ve shared.

CONTENT NOTE

The content of this book does not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editor or individual creators.

The inclusion of material reflecting specific opinions does not imply the support or endorsement of those opinions in any way by the editor or individual creators.

FOUR-COLOR FREEDOM

AN INTRODUCTION

MIKE GOLD

Mike Baron, Donna Barr, Bob Burden, Paul Chadwick, Michael T. Gilbert, Steven Grant, Mike Grell, Javier Hernandez, Matt Howarth, Justin Jordan, John Ostrander, Dave Sim, Donald Simpson, Joe Staton, Mark Verheiden. Holy crap!

When the remarkably patient Robert Jeschonek asked me if I’d like to join the above-mentioned flesh-and-blood characters, my first thought was “Hey! This is a great line-up! It would make a great crew for a new publishing outfit!”

My second thought to myself was: “It’s not 1982! And you worked with half of these folks at First Comics!” Because I’m just about the only person who can debate me without getting angry, I reminded myself that I almost worked with several others, but not every great project comes to fruition.

So that white glow from New England isn’t another wandering drone, it’s the blinding light from my giant-sized ego.

This was a unique time in American comics history. For the years leading up to what was soon called “independent comics” (I never liked that name – independent from what, and why was Disney Comics on that list?), most comic book stores and comic book fans saw the medium as consisting of merely two publishers: Marvel and DC. Combined, they published a lot of great stuff and a lot of same-old same-old. The range of stories one could tell and the ways one could tell them was extremely narrow. But if you compared their output with what was selling internationally, we here in the States had a range that ran from A all the way to B.

The real beginning of First Comics occurred almost a decade earlier. New Year’s Eve 1973, to be specific. I was at a Woolworths (I miss Woolworths) in downtown Montreal, Quebec, and I was standing in front of their graphic novels racks. Well, they weren’t called “graphic novels” back then. Or, given the territory, romans graphiques. I was overwhelmed by the vast array of drop-dead gorgeous art in stories that might have been heroic fantasy but were not superhero comics. The only capes I saw in town were at the subway station near the Montreal opera house. Sadly, all of this stuff was in French. I’m an American; and Americans do not speak foreign languages.

I was familiar with some of the talent as some book people tried to remind us that things were different in the rest of the world. Jean Giraud, Guido Crepax, Alejandro Jodorowsky, Hugo Pratt, René Goscinny, and several other heavyweights. But I hadn’t read much of their work; by 1973, very little was reprinted in English, and I had to drive from Chicago to Toronto’s Bakka Books to pick up what few translations might be available.

So, staring at these racks, I was racked with jealousy and envy. My lizard brain slowly started pounding out concepts and plans. I went to DC Comics 30 months later trying to answer the question “why does the American comic book industry work in such weird ways?” (I’m an existentialist.) I came back to Chicago, worked for a while with the great Stuart Gordon and the Organic Theater — of Warp fame — and met their producer, Rick Obadiah. We became friends, and I thought, well, we had a barn out in back, so we could publish comic books the likes of which hadn’t been done in this country. We could, as they say, burn down the house.

The rest is well (and occasionally accurate) documented history. At that moment in time, I was hardly alone in those thoughts: Dean Mullaney, Gerry Giovincio, Bill Cucinotta, Bill and Steve Schanes, and a little bit later, Dave Olbrich, Tom Mason, and the man who made it really work, Mike Richardson. To name but a few who had the right idea at the right time.

As far as I’m concerned, this entire movement owes its existence to the underground comix movement which directly sold their product to “head shops” (today seen as vape shops, but with a lot of incense) and not through the general newsstand distributors. A critical part of all that was Mike Friedrich’s comix-sized Star*Reach, the springboard for Howard Chaykin, Jim Starlin, Walter Simonson, Barry Windsor-Smith, and other worthy people who would become A-listers in just a few years. Mike gave them what most American cartoonists could not get elsewhere: vastly expanded horizons and the freedom for this talent to build their own customized comics condos.

Together, we are legion. Well, a small legion. The newsstand publishers were helping us in that their bread-and-butter distribution system of returnable comics sold at independent drug stores, candy stores, and newsstands were artifacts of a dying era. From a distribution standpoint, Marvel and DC were mostly making buggy whips. Instead of finding a way to make new-look buggy whips, we sought to build us a fleet of new horses.

It was a struggle. The comic book shops that carried “independents” largely were owned and operated by people with little to no experience in retail management. Every month Diamond Distribution dropped another catalog in the mail, a thousand comic book shop owners had to bet the rent on their selection of non-returnable product. I am amazed more shop owners didn’t go crazy with worry and fear.

Things began to evolve. We had a lot of distributors, but as most went out of business, getting payments became difficult unless your name was “Marvel.” But even the mainstream publishers — including Archie — started to stretch their horizons and create formats that would compete with us. When distributor money started getting tight, the Big Two were there with checkbooks not open, but at least cracked. They gave the medium the opportunities and the freedom (certainly not complete freedom), and they brought over a bunch of us that were equally interested in paying their rent, including many if not most of the 15 highly gifted cartoonists whose names are contained herein.

Last year, Joe Staton and I were walking from the First Comics’ 40th anniversary panel at the Baltimore Comic-Con, and I turned to my old friend and, for the first time I said, “You know, I think we really accomplished something.”

And, herein lies some of the best people to prove that truth.

(Mike Gold was co-founder of First Comics, DC Comics’ group editor and director of editorial development, a political activist, and a broadcaster who, with his pal Bob Harrison, babbles at least once a week on the live video Pop Culture Squadcast and columnizes at the Pop Culture Squad website. Gold still likes writing about himself in the third person.)

FOREWORD

ROBERT JESCHONEK

You had to be there.

How often have you heard that expression, referring to some extraordinary event that you could not fully appreciate unless you’d experienced it firsthand? Someone could describe it to you in great detail, doing their best to help you understand just how amazing it was—but it would never be quite the same for you as for the eyewitness.

You really had to be there.

The early days of the indie comics revolution are like that. If you weren’t around and reading comics at the time, you might not realize how big a deal it was to those of us who were. You might understand intellectually what an impact it had on the industry, how it laid the groundwork for the vast indie comics universe we enjoy today…but you might not know exactly how it felt to watch it unfold.

As someone who did watch it firsthand, I’m here to tell you it was truly thrilling.Life-changing, even.

At the start of that particular era, from the late 1970s through the early 1980s, American comic book readers had limited choices. Most comics were sold via newsstands, drug stores, grocery stores, and retail outlets other than comic book specialty shops, which were still a rarity (arising from “head shops” of the 1960s and early 70s where underground comix were sold alongside paraphernalia favored by hippies and drug users). A handful of companies dominated sales, and the products they published—with some exceptions—tended to stay “within the lines.” (This was after the peak era of underground comix, which were anything but “within the lines.”) If you didn’t like the output of the “Old Guard”—Marvel, DC, Archie, Gold Key, and Charlton—you were pretty much out of luck.

Then, in 1974, The First Kingdom came to life. Originally published by Comics & Comix Co., this serialized graphic novel got rave reviews for writer/artist Jack Katz. Its limited, infrequent release schedule kept it from reaching the multitudes, but Kingdom showed the way for other creators to publish their content outside the framework of the Old Guard.

Following in Kingdom’s footsteps, Cerebus the Aardvark issue 1 launched from a small press outfit in Canada in 1977—coincidentally, the same year the original Star Wars premiered in theaters. It didn’t flash on many readers’ radars at first, but it inspired other publishers to try their hand at this pioneering new system for finding an audience.

Cerebus was followed by Elfquest, another self-published title that launched in 1978. Created by Wendy and Richard Pini, Elfquest attracted a lot of positive attention…as did Sabre, an early graphic novel created by writer Don McGregor and artist Paul Gulacy, published by Eclipse Comics (also in ’78). Sabre made inroads as the first graphic novel distributed only to comic book specialty shops…a sign of things to come as the “direct market” began to take shape.

Things further heated up in 1981 with the launches of Nexus and Badger from Capital Comics and Jack Kirby’s Captain Victory and the Galactic Rangers and Mike Grell’s Starslayer from Pacific Comics. Pacific, founded by Steve and Bill Schanes, also scored hits with Dave Stevens’ Rocketeer and the EC-style anthologies Alien Worlds and Twisted Tales, written by Bruce Jones, among others…but the company didn’t last. Pacific closed its publishing arm in ’84, as did Capital.

Other companies soon took up the torch, though. Upstart publisher First Comics burst into the marketplace in ’83 and made waves with one hit series after another: Howard Chaykin’s American Flagg!, Mike Grell’s Jon Sable Freelance, John Ostrander’s Grimjack, Joe Staton and Nicola Cuti’s E-Man, and Jim Starlin’s Dreadstar. First also picked up Nexus, Badger, and Whisper from the defunct Capital and further expanded their output with the classic translated manga Lone Wolf and Cub.

And all that was just the beginning. Years to come brought a wide range of titles from a host of publishers, everything from Timothy Truman’s Scout to Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to Antarctic Press’s Ninja High School to reprints of British content like Alan Moore’s Miracleman (originally titled Marvelman in the UK) from Warrior.

Truly, it was a boom time for indie comics, resulting in a proliferation of new content for readers like me. Not only did our choices explode, giving us a vast array of characters and creators to choose from, but the quality of certain indie content was light years beyond what we saw in many titles from the Old Guard. The storytelling—verbal and visual alike—was often more artful and provocative, exploring characters, settings, and narrative from a more mature perspective. This New Wave of comics was finally overturning certain well-worn assumptions about comic books being junk entertainment primarily intended for children.

In addition to giving us exciting indie comics, this sea change in artistic approach pushed certain members of the Old Guard to up their game in response. Sometimes, this amounted to hiring away key creatives and editorial staff who’d made a mark in the indie world in the hope of stealing whatever magic they’d brought to the indies. In other cases, indie success stories inspired Old Guard publishers to loosen content restrictions and improve production processes, publishing comics with stories that felt more engaging, paper that was heavier and brighter, and colors that popped in ways they hadn’t when printed on old school newsprint.

In other words, comic books leveled up overall…and readers like me were the winners. We were willing to pay inflated cover prices if it meant getting better products. We were also willing to go to greater lengths just to get to our comics, which were increasingly sold only in comics specialty shops. For years, I had to travel 45 minutes with a fellow fan, Bruce Wechtenhiser, just to reach such a shop—and we were more than happy to do it. If anything, it made it more of a mission, a holy quest, that made it all the more gratifying when we finally got our stacks of comics from the person behind the counter.

That is when comics were most exciting to me…when the first real indie big bang filled my world with greater choices, better stories, and more eloquent and diverse voices than I had ever known. When comics went from disposable diversion to treasured obsession, from ho-hum to Hallelujah.

And this was before the start of Image Comics and the even bigger bang of indie publishing that came with it. This was before distributors’ monthly catalogues inflated to the thickness of phone books and comics stores filled to overflowing with new offerings on a weekly basis.

And all that was long before comics finally became not just acceptable to the general public but desirable big budget entertainment. Before the birth of the Marvel Cinematic Universe and DC’s televised Arrowverse and smash hit serialized live action streaming video series based on indie titles like The Walking Dead, The Boys, and The Umbrella Academy.

The original indie big bang was an age of miracles and wonders that led to even greater miracles and wonders to come…and that is why I wanted to make this book. Because now, in a time when the promise of the indie revolution has been fulfilled, looking back can help us appreciate, take stock…and look forward to what might come next.

The collection of stories in which you’re about to immerse yourself revisits some of the key heroes and creators who captured so many imaginations back in the day, including my own. They deserve another chance in the spotlight in recognition of their groundbreaking roles in reshaping the comics industry…and for giving us so many wonderful stories along the way.

The cast of characters, by design, reads like a Who’s Who of significant creations of the indie comics revolution of the late 70s and 80s. For the first time, we have assembled Badger, Cerebus, Concrete, the Desert Peach, Dynamo Joe, Flaming Carrot, GrimJack, Jon Sable, Megaton Man, Michael Mauser, Mr. Monster, Southern Knights, The American, Those Annoying Post Bros., and Whisper in one volume…all written by their original creators. If you’re anything like me, you might never have expected to see stories by Mike Baron, Dave Sim, Paul Chadwick, Donna Barr, Doug Rice, Bob Burden, John Ostrander, Mike Grell, Don Simpson, Joe Staton, Michael T. Gilbert, Henry Vogel, Mark Verheiden, Matt Howarth, and Steven Grant collected in the same place…yet here they are.

“But what about such-and-such by you-know-who?” you might ask. Rest assured, I left very few stones unturned in recruiting talent for this book. Think of a legendary figure of the early indie comics era, and odds are I approached them to join the team…but not everyone was available this time around. It broke my heart that some folks were unable to lend their voices and creations to the project, though I was also happy at the prospect of seeing the new work that kept them too busy to join Team Legends. Thankfully, even as I hope they will come aboard for a future effort, the history-making current volume now exists for you to savor.

Make no mistake, this first volume is indeed focused on the promise of such future efforts as well as the milestones of yesterday. For that reason, I invited two creators whose work has appeared more recently—Justin Jordan and Javier Hernandez. Justin co-created the influential Luther Strode for Image Comics with top-tier artist Tradd Moore and continues to push the envelope while publishing extensively across genres in the indie comics universe. As for Javier, his brainchild, El Muerto the Aztec Zombie, was adapted for the big screen and continues to thrill readers with a high-octane blend of supernatural action, character development, and Latino cultural influences. These creators, each with their own wildly idiosyncratic visions and voices, represent distinct aspects of the current wave of indie comics…and suggest directions in which the field may expand as it moves forward.

Though I have no crystal ball, I think such expansion seems likely in spite of negative predictions regarding the industry from certain self-proclaimed prognosticators. I look forward to an even greater variety of titles covering a broader range of styles and subject matter, with creators continuing to experiment with form and content in ever more entertaining and evocative ways.

Will such experimentation feature new approaches to mixing comics and prose? AHOY Comics, a current power player in the indie field, has found success in that direction, adding prose backup stories to most issues of their monthly titles and becoming a viable market for fiction authors in the process. Approaches like that, in fact, helped spur me to build this book as a comics-inspired prose anthology with occasional illustrations instead of a straight-up collection of actual sequential storytelling. Judging from the success of the Kickstarter that funded it, I’d say there’s a market for more of the same, or for even more experimental material. There might even be another volume of Legends in the offing, if the stars align, and perhaps that will be the kind of place to try something even more different than the prose fiction format of the current, first volume.

I, for one, can’t wait to see what’s next, and I hope you’ll be along for the ride, as well. Who knows when the next indie comics revolution might burst into being, breaking new ground and throwing the gates open to ever more incredible possibilities? Watching as it happens will give us all a millionfold thrills, paving the way for those who follow to make tomorrow more exciting than ever, even as they try to convey to new generations just how special a time their own revolution was and how it felt to witness and be a part of it.

Then, it will be their turn to tell younger creators and readers the same thing they were told by their predecessors. When asked, “What was it really like back then?” they might chuckle, sip their coffee (or whatever the beverage of choice in the future might be), and say, as the cycle continues…

You had to be there.

You really had to be there.

Johnstown, Pennsylvania, December 25, 2024

SPOTLIGHT ON…BADGER

Norbert Sykes is a man of many personalities, and one of them is the masked vigilante known as Badger. Together with a 5th-century Druid named Ham, Badger got in one wild scrap after another, starting with his self-titled series from Capital Comics. Badger’s special brand of martial arts madness never went out of style, moving to First Comics, then Dark Horse and Image. His creator, Mike Baron, also co-created Nexus and went on to write loads of stories, including notable long runs on The Flash for DC Comics and The Punisherfor Marvel.

BADGER IN “KAIJU STEAKS”

ETHICALLY SOURCED ME'ET

MIKE BARON

Nicolet National Forest encompassed one and a half million acres of northeast Wisconsin, near the Upper Peninsula. On a cool October day, two sheriff’s deputies made their way through the dense woods, primarily spruce, oak, eastern red cedar, and white pine. A man and a woman, both wearing tan cargo pants, olive green wool shirts buttoned to the neck, Sam Brown belts, .38 revolvers in leather holsters, and Smoky hats.

A Belgian Malinois dog strained at the leather leash, pulling Deputy Oscar Huntington forward, Deputy Alice Wentworth nearby. They’d been searching the woods for an escaped convict from NcNaughton Correctional Institute in Oneida County. Luthor X. Kleindeist had been convicted of three counts of murder and two counts of rape. As enforcer for the Scumbags MC, he’d beaten one man to death with an ax handle and shot the other two.

The deputies were two miles from their cruiser with orders to keep searching until dusk. If Kleindeist escaped, it was their ass. For the last half hour, neither spoke. They were gassed. They weren’t used to forced marches. The Malinois, Boris, was having the time of his life. Straining, pulling, looking back as if to say, drop the leash, you fat fuck.

“Whoah whoah whoah,” Huntington gasped, sitting on a rock. “Just cool it, Boris. Give me a break. My heart’s beating like timpani.”

Wentworth came over and stooped, hands on her knees. “Look. The dog doesn’t have a clue. He’s happy just to be out here roaming around. Let’s head back to the car. God knows how long we’ve been out there.”

“Can we even find the car?”

Wentworth pulled out her phone. “I have an Air tag app. Look.”

She held the phone out for Huntington. A Google map of the area showed their location as two blue dots, the car red. They’d covered six miles.

Wentworth pulled her canteen from her belt, unscrewed the cap and glugged. She handed the canteen to Huntington.

“We’d better go easy on the water.”

“We can’t drink from all the streams and pools?” Wentworth asked with a hint of whine.

“No. It’s unfiltered water. Christ knows what’s in there. Moose shit. Bacteria. We should have brought a purification device.”

Wentworth slumped, back to an oak. “I have this nightmare. They’ll find our bodies in a couple days, and Boris will be sitting there wagging his tail and licking his chops.”

Boris lowered himself to the forest floor and rolled over on his back, legs in the air.

“If Boris can drink the water, why can’t we?”

“‘Cuz he’s a dog. They have a different immune system.”

Wentworth lay on her back. “Boris has the right idea.” She stared up at the maze of intertwining branches. Her brow furrowed.

“What the fuck?”

Boris rose, pointed his nose at the sky, and exploded in a fusillade of barking. Huntington looked upward.

“Holy shit. Is that a man?”

The cops stood, craning their necks. About sixty feet up a stout oak, the figure of a man dangled from his knees, lank hair hanging, arms moving in the breeze. He wore camo pants and shirt.

Huntington cupped his hands. “HEY! HEY YOU! COME ON DOWN HERE!”

The man yelled, “SEZ WHO?”

“GRANT COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT!”

The man swung once, twice, released his legs and fell ten feet to a stout branch, which he gripped with gloved hands, only to drop eight feet to the next branch, on which he landed like a gymnast, twirling and spinning until he landed on both feet in a crouch between the deputies. He wore Timberline boots, and a black claw emblem covered his camo chest. He stood. He was five feet nine with the smooth musculature of a ballerina.

“May we see some identification please?” Wentworth said.

“I’m the Badger.”

“How about a driver’s license?”

The man dipped into a snapped pocket, removed a fat Harley wallet, and handed her a Wisconsin driver’s license made out to Norbert Sykes. She peered at the picture. She looked up. She looked down. She looked up.

“What is your place of residence?”

“Four four seven two Tree Lobster Road, Iowa County.”

“Mind telling us what you’re doing up here?”

“Bigfoot.”

“What about him?”

“I’m hunting the Beast of Bray Road before he can kill again.”

“Whom has the Beast killed?”

Badger ticked them off one by one on his fingers. “Lancelot Lunchalot, the Snot-Nosed Punk of Yore, He Who Must Not Be Named, Alfred E. Newman, Judge Crater, Amelia Earhart…”

Wentworth held her hand up in a signal to make him stop. “Are you under the care of a psychiatrist? Have you ever been incarcerated in a mental hospital?”

“I spent two months in Monona State. That’s where I met my patron, Ham.”

“Ham.”

“Hamilton Thorndyke, the billionaire philanthropist and druid priest.”

“I think I’ve heard of him,” Huntington said. “Well, look. We’re searching for an escaped murderer. This might not be the safest place for you right now.”

“Pretty sure I’m safe in the tree. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go back up.”

“Mr. Sykes, it is not safe for you right now. There’s a known killer on the loose. We advise you to get out of the forest, maybe go into town. Kleindeist doesn’t like towns. He prefers to catch his victims alone.”

“Do I gotta?”

Huntington and Wentworth looked at one another. Arresting Sykes and taking him back to the cruiser was an idea not without merit. They could explain it was for his own safety. But they were the only deputies available to search for Kleindeist in the state park.

Kleindeist had killed a man and stolen his car in Rhinelander. They had found the car abandoned in the state forest parking lot. The victim’s widow had told them her husband had kept a .38 revolver in the glove compartment. It was gone. Now the murderer was armed. It was likely Kleindeist was headed for the Upper Peninsula, where he could steal a boat and cross into Canada.

“Happy to sign a waiver, “ said Badger.

Huntington pulled out his phone, poked. He turned it so that Badger could see the mugshot. Kleindeist looked like Bluto from Popeye. The scowl, the massive jaw, the stubble, with blue prison tattoos crawling up his neck. “This is what he looks like. If you see him, take no action. Please notify the authorities. Do you have a cell phone?”

Badger patted the other cargo pocket. “Yup. But reception’s pretty bad.”

“If you see him, give us a heads-up. Here’s my card. If you can’t get any reception, get out of the park and find the nearest landline. There’s a reward.”

“How much?”

“Twenty thou.”

Badger took the card. “Okey dokey.” He stooped to pet Boris. He leaned in. He and the dog exchanged growls. He stood. “He wants to know when he’s gonna eat.”

“Mr. Sykes, have you thought of going after the Rock Lake monster? It’s much easier to find. It’s a small lake.”

“You mean the giant, serpent-like creature that drags people and livestock to the depths, tossing their bones up on the shore?”

“That’s the one.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Badger watched them head north, Boris pulling at the leash. He climbed the tree, his senses alert to every sound. Every smell. He smelled wolves, badgers, hay, juniper. Fifty feet above the ground, he sat on a stout branch, legs dangling, and cupped his ears, turning his head slowly from side to side. He heard the soft crunch of paws on leaves, the cooing of an owl, mourning doves, the faint drone of an airplane.

The Beast of Bray Road was a werewolf. Last week under a full moon, a farmer in Antigo found one of his dairy cows butchered, stripped to the ribs, and the footprints of a gigantic hound. The month before, a dairy farm in Minocqua lost a steer, similarly butchered. Under a full moon. It didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out the Beast was on the prowl. Most people dismissed the Beast as just another absurd superstition, like the hodag. The Badger knew they were real because animals told him. The Beast had wreaked havoc on the coyote and wolf population to the point where the Department of Natural Resources was now importing wolves from Canada.

Badger’s mission was twofold: kill the Beast and deliver the carcass to the Hoity Toity, Ham’s restaurant that specialized in dinosaur steaks. Ham wanted to expand the menu to include kaiju, but they were just so damn hard to find.

Badger had communed with Myrtle, the giant badger that was his spirit animal. She had told him that the Beast was real, the Beast was on the prowl. This was his chance. Don’t blow it. He could practically taste those werewolf ribs.

“Excuse me, dear fellow,” Max Swell said in his ear. Max was one of the seven personalities inhabiting Norbert’s body. “How do you reconcile your meat consumption with your championship of animals?”

“Look at your teeth, Max! Look at your incisors! Man was bred for meat! Meat was made for bread! Myrtle, in her wisdom, bids us eat whatever we like from the animal kingdom except termites, cockroaches, crickets, cicadas, etc. Man must not eat insects because insects taste like shit.”

“You should try it. Why, just the other day at the Holistic Onion, I consumed a magnificent grasshopper ragu.”

“Bite my schwanz, Max! I’d rather eat mung beans.”

“There’s nothing wrong with mung beans.”

“Gedaddaheah, Max, or I’ll scratch your Debussy records.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Max was gone. Badger was alone once more. Slinging a rope beneath his arms and around the tree, he went to sleep. He woke to a full moon. He almost howled.

“It would not be meet for me to howl,” he whispered to himself. “It might discourage the Beast! Let the Beast howl!”

“Howling is so déclassé,” Max sneered. “Just ignore him.”

“Max! Get the hell out of here! What are you going to do? Pelt it with man pads?”

“Oh dear. Have I ruffled little Fifi’s feathers? Do you realize how ridiculous you appear, crouching in a tree waiting for some nonexistent cryptid to appear?”

“Nonexistent my ass. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the Diplodocus roaming around the back forty. Or the Parasaurolophus whipping the waves in the pond?”

“I don’t deny Dr. Riviera’s genius. I just wish he’d use it for the common good.”

“Making delicious dinosaur steaks is the common good! They’re already extinct! They pose no danger to the environment!”

“They would if they got loose.”

“Have you even tried the Diplodocus steaks?”

“It’s a reptile, dear boy.”

Badger put a finger to his lips. Someone was running toward them. He heard the quick footsteps, the desperation in her breath. A woman. She stopped, leaning against a tree.

“Please, somebody help me!” she cried in a quavering voice. Behind her, other footsteps. Someone was chasing her.

“Oh God,” she said in despair, appearing at the edge of the clearing. A woman in her mid-thirties wearing blue jeans and tennis shoes, her long brown hair tied in a ponytail. She wore a plaid shirt with the tails out, a Packers cap, and a Hello Kitty backpack. She ran raggedly right beneath where Badger crouched and disappeared into the forest. Seconds later, a massive man wearing a muscle shirt, his shoulders, arms, and neck covered with ink, pounded after her in size 18 Doc Martens.

Badger prepared to drop, but at the last second, the man veered around the tree, almost as if he knew something was up there. He never looked up, though. Completing a half circle, he returned to the chase.

Badger swung backward and forward like a Jacob’s ladder until he reached the ground and took off in pursuit.

By now, it was dusk. In a half hour, it would be dark.

Badger trusted his sense of smell. The woman wore Chanel #9, quaint by today’s standards. Her pursuer stank of body odor, the kind that comes from doing meth. He paused and cupped his ears.

“Someone please help me,” the woman sobbed in despair from behind a circle of rocks. Badger ran and leaped atop a four foot boulder. A dense club struck him in the ankles, sweeping his feet out from under him. Before his head hit the rock, a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt seized his mop of blond hair and yanked him to the ground, where a size eighteen foot stomped on his chest.

Air whooshed out. Badger gasped for breath. Above him loomed a nightmare face in a massive head that looked as if it had been chiseled from granite. From a Mt. Rushmore of monsters.

Kleindeist grinned, his teeth like an abandoned cemetery. “What the fuck we got? A good Samaritan? Are you mental?”

He smashed Badger in the face with a fist like a rock.

“Who the fuck you think you are? Some kinda superhero? Running around in your camo in the middle of nowhere? You gonna save the bitch? You can’t even save yourself.”

Grabbing Badger by the ankle, Kleindeist lifted him and swung him around in a circle like an event from the Highland Games, then released him. Badger flew twelve feet, smashing into a tree headfirst. He was on the verge of blacking out.

Kleindeist strode over. He was having fun.

He picked up a rock. “You think my fists hurt?” He swung the rock, striking Badger above the ear.

Everything turned black. Badger was only out for an instant, but when he woke, he was spread out facedown on a broad rock, pinned by a rock that weighed over four hundred pounds. The woman sobbed. Badger lifted his head.

Kleindeist had her by the hair in the middle of the clearing, his massive fist in the collar of her plaid shirt. He effortlessly tore the shirt off her, exposing a white bra, tossing the shirt over his shoulder.

Badger tried to move. Every muscle hurt. His ribs were broken. He could barely twitch. He was in no condition to dislodge the stone that weighed him down.

“Wait a minute wait a minute,” he gasped feebly.

Kleindeist looked over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up. You got a front row seat. When I finish with the bitch, you’re next.”

A low growl sounded from just outside the circle, too soft for Kleindeist to hear. Maybe there were wolves. Maybe wolves would appear and rip Kleindeist to pieces. Badger could reason with a wolf.

Kleindeist turned back to his victim, too absorbed in his cruelty to see the creature that leaped effortlessly atop the boulder. Hunched over, it was about five feet tall. But when it stood upright, it was over six. It weighed over three hundred pounds. Its canine snout displayed massive, hooked teeth, the color of ivory. Its ears resembled those of a wolf. Its tail twitched in anticipation. It looked at Badger and winked.

With a howl that would wake the dead, it leaped high in the air and came down on Kleindeist’s back, flattening him like a tin can on the freeway. Its massive jaws closed on the killer’s neck and ripped it open, the spine caught in the werewolf’s teeth as it pulled back. It worried the spine like a dog with a toy until it ripped free all the way to the pelvis.

The werewolf tilted its head back and howled, like every wolf in the world howling at once. The woman scrambled backward on her elbows, mouth a slit, eyes wide open. The wolf turned, leaped, sprang, and landed on the boulder where Badger was pinned. It casually flicked the massive slab of granite off his back.

Badger lay there for a moment, waiting for feeling to return. Groaning, he turned over and lay on his back staring up at the moon, panting.

“Ouch.”

The werewolf growled, sibilant and soft.

How now, brown cow?

“I was looking for kaiju for a friend’s restaurant. I thought you were kaiju.”

Do I look like kaiju?

“Bro, do you even know what kaiju is?”

I’ve seen every Godzilla movie. They bite the blue bizuti.

“Then why did you watch them?”

One can’t be too picky at the outdoor drive-in. If I may.

“Go ahead.”

You’re from down south, right? I think I read something. You know where Lake Ripley is?

“Yeah.”

There’s your kaiju. A large, dinosaur-like head and a thick snake body, with buggy eyes and greenish brown flesh.

“Are you shitting me?”

Why would I? I have nothing to fear from you.

“Awrite. Thanks for the tip.”

The werewolf disappeared into the forest.

Badger lay there for a minute, then heaved himself up and gingerly climbed down. The woman sat with her back against the tree, arms around her knees, head forward.

“You okay?”

She looked up. “I thought I was going to die. I can’t believe what happened. What was that thing? Who are you?”

“I’m Badger. I was looking for kaiju for a friend’s restaurant.”

“What’s kaiju?”

“You know. Giant monsters. Pacific Rim. Godzilla. What are you doing out here?”

“I just wanted to go for a hike in the woods. He came up behind me and nearly strangled me. He dragged me out here to rape me, or eat me, I don’t know. I thought I was dead.”

“Do you need help getting back to your car?”

“I’m lost. I have no idea where it is.”

“Come on. I’ll take you.”

“How do you know where it is?”

Badger sniffed. “I’ll follow your scent.”

An hour later, they emerged from the forest to a small gravel parking lot with one car, a Prius, rear bumper festooned with hortatory stickers.

The woman turned toward him. “I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t even know your name.”

“Badger.”

“Really?”

Badger shrugged. “What’s yours?”

“Isabelle.”

“You okay to drive?”

“I think so.”

“Go to a hospital. You need to have those bruises looked at.”

“What do I tell the police?”

“Tell them whatever you like. Kleindeist no longer exists. The werewolf ate him.”

Isabelle looked at him funny. “Oh...kay.”

Badger watched her drive away. He walked down the dirt road to the parking lot where he’d left his Jeep. He got in and headed south. It was a four hour drive to Lake Ripley. He passed deputies Oscar Huntington and Alice Wentworth going north and waved out the open window.

SPOTLIGHT ON…GRIMJACK

Anything can happen at any moment in the pan-dimensional city of Cynosure...and John Gaunt is just the man to keep a lid on it. An accomplished mercenary and private investigator, Gaunt takes on the toughest of assignments while navigating the nexus of all realities that is Cynosure. From his headquarters in Munden’s Bar, he tackles every challenge that comes his way as the larger-than-life figure they call GrimJack. After popularizing this character with artist Timothy Truman in his self-titled series at First Comics, creator John Ostrander went on to a long career writing comics like Suicide Squad, The Spectre, and Hawkworldfor DC, X-Men for Marvel, Hotspur for Eclipse, Magnus, Robot Fighter for Valiant, and many others.