Archive for the 'zombie' Category


Hard Water Escape


The Future of Punk

Or horror punk…whatever. Balzac is what one might describe as “progressive” punk. Filtered through the sensibilities of modern Japan, they grew into a spastic sound that is walks in and out of the realm of punk, as well as industrial, metal, and pop.


Castration of a Major Entertainment Company

So, we now have 3 years removed from Jemas’ official departure, four years from the Epic relaunch and Waid-gate, five years from his rise to the top of the heap, and 7 years since he and Joe Q helped create the Ultimate line with USM.

His tenure spawned some of the best books in comics in a long time, and injected Marvel with a sense of newess that brought it more readers than comics had seen in a long time.

For those of you who might not know who he was, here’s a brief synopsis from Rich Johnston’s LiTG regarding the end of Jemas’ tenure:


“Bill Jemas came to prominence in Marvel during the bankruptcy reorganisations, originally from Marvel-owned Fleer, he launched the Ultimate line and eventually was key in replacing editor-in-chief Bob Harras with Joe Quesada. They formed a buddy team for the public, taking the roles of good cop and bad cop, often playing for the peanut gallery and courting controversy and sales as they attempted to mould Marvel in their image. Implementing no-overships, newsstand compilation magazines, the MAX line, entrenching Marvel Knights, removing the Comics Code, widening Marvel’s pool of talent to extremes, embracing trade paperback programmes and much more. They changed the face of the company and helped it move from loss into profit, while simultaneously grabbing positive reviews both inside and outside of comics.

“Years later, that partnership would suffer as controversy was suddenly frowned on by other Marvel execs and Joe Quesada began to disassociate himself from Jemas in the eyes of Marvel employees and freelancers, even as Bill Jemas was spearheading the Epic line which promised career jumping on point for wannabe comic creators.

“Jemas’ interference in plots and scripts at Marvel caused much fury internally. He was seen as arrogant, unfeeling and inconsistent and few felt his hands-on changes benefited the books.

“Avi Arad was furious over certain comics spearheaded by Jemas that caused him difficulty selling the properties to Hollywood, and causing ructions with stars. As the films became more and more important, executive Isaac Perlmutter switched his loyalties to Arad and the writing was on the wall. Bill Jemas’ courting of the press stopped, and his influence within the company was curtailed.

“It is expected that the Epic line will publish all announced titles, with a big splurge in February, but after that projects that have been greenlit, but not announced, may well be cancelled. I hear that already Epic editors Stephanie Moore and Cory Sedlmeier are working on non-Epic projects. The Ultimate line, making up some of Marvel’s best selling titles, will continue along a similar model.

“Bill Jemas’ future is unknown. However, after recently cashing in millions in stock, he’s not expected to be in need of a job or two right now. Jemas often became the Aunt Sally for Marvel. He leaves the company in a far better financial and creative state than it was when he took over. Some will curse his name, some will praise it. But he avoided committed the ultimate sin in comics – he was never boring.”

What we have seen since from Marvel has been the same parade of epic storylines and boring crossovers. The plastic smell has worn off, and everything seems old now. Is this what comics has become? No longer content to push boundries, Marvel has settled back into the ninties, laid it’s head down, and gone back to sleep.



(prose action, opening or notes to a later work.)

In theory Dr. Mordred’s Saturday Night SINema was a perfect showcase for terrible horror movies, and gore flicks that were written and produced in the Lubbock area. Mordred would shamble about in tattered coattails and a gray top-hat, slurring his speech, and flailing around with plastic human remains as he introduced the evening’s entertainment. Mordred, who’s real name was Ryan Sandoval (PetWorld’s night manager monday thru friday,) had originally conceived of the idea after seeing clips of a similar public access show in Panama City.

He had spent most of his life collecting any horror movie he could find. Copius amounts of money spent in converting VHS to DVD, trolling through bins in flea markets and Horror/Sci-Fi conventions each summer. He also nightly dreamed of fistfights between Vampira and Elvira that would end in hushed embrace – most often at the foot of his own bed. Horror, it seemed, was all Mordred cared for.

In practice, however, Dr. Mordred’s Saturday Night SINema was a perfect joke for all fans of the macabre who lurked in the shadows of the Lubbock area. Sandoval had long since tried to hide his high-pitched squeek under the guise of a terrible Bela Lugosi impression. He would often drink half a gallon of milk before each taping to “slime up” his voice, but mostly would serve to stain his makeshift zombie cotoure – turning red blood stains into pink swathes of dripping comedy. It was long held that he would pour Pepto on his clothes to achieve an effect of dried blood, but once it was understood that this was an unfortunate side effect of his milk voice, Sandoval became something of a living symbol for Ed Wood fans’ eternal desire to see people fail.


The Quiet Death of Doctor Meyer

“The Quiet Death of Doctor Meyer”

I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since we buried Molly. My sleep is
fitful and restless. Dancing imps crawl about me in my dreams, condemning me
for what I’ve done, a female figure in red the source of my macabre trial.
The repeating rhythm of “Long live Doctor Meyer, burned his wife in a
kitchen fire,” the only discourse the little demons will give me. It?s a
swirling hatred, my nightly tribunal, and it drives deep into my heart. I?ll always fear
the coming of the executioner because of this dream.

Her funeral was the picture of respectful in its opulence. It’s hard to
think of something like a funeral being a social event, but it turned
out to be the place for young socialites to gather. Morbidly curious about the
rich man’s wife, they paid faux respect never knowing the greatest affront
to her memory was that I was there with Sophia.

I refer to “we”, for it was a joint venture between Sophia and myself.
We had planned the death of my wife meticulously. It even was a point of
contention many times, not because I questioned murdering my wife, but because
Sophia’s schemes often drew heavily on Faulkner. I found this sort of
“accidental” death to be something that was easily traced, and had no intensions of
spending the last outdoor walk of my life sauntering between a cell and gallows.

She once told me that certain types of hypnosis, applied clandestinely
to a sleeping subject, would not allow that subject to breathe in such a way
that one would think they are dead. She reasoned that we could have my
lovely Molly carted off as dead long before she was, being done with her
without much worry. I vehemently stated that for all her faults, I would
always love Molly. If we were going to end her life, then we were going
to do it in a civilized manner.

Since the day I set fire to the kitchen, with Molly locked inside, I’ve
been quite satisfied with sticking to my stance. Not many questions were
asked, and it was assumed that it was a grease fire catching her dress.
“It’s the peril in having a kitchen with only two exits, sir.” The constable
said. I shook my head, and wiped a tear, and carried on in the expected
decorum of a gentlemen.

My sleep hasn’t had anything to do with guilt, mind you, but rather
with the fact that Sophia has a tendency to kick in her sleep. She whispers
things that I wish I couldn’t hear, and she moans in a ghastly breath of air when
we make love. She is, essentially, a fine lover but a terrifying
presence in the house. I find her hollow eyes cutting through me at
dinner occasionally, as if she’s staring straight into the soul of my being.
It’s only this afternoon, when she tried to alleviate one of the negro cooks
of her right index finger, did I realize that it was, perhaps, best she

Sophia, however, seems to have had similar plans in effect for a much
longer time. My dreams fight me again, the familiar children?s rhyme
flittering in the back of my head:

Long live Doctor Meyer,
Burned his wife in a kitchen fire.
His mistress and he sealed her in,
A horrid death for loving kin.
Let’s hang that doctor for forty days,
he set his dear, dear wife ablaze.

What roused my conciousness awake was nothing short of terrifying. My
body shook, and my eyes opened to pine above me. Pine all around me. I tried
to move when I realized what was happening, but Sophia prepared well. My
hands were bound behind me, my feet much the same. It mattered little,
though, as her hypnosis was much more effective than I was led to believe. I never
dreamt I would be awake when I was buried.

It was a bare silence. A gruff voice from above me broke in, lamenting
the back breaking work of grave digging. I tried to scream out, I tried to
make him aware, but my heart sank when I heard Sophia finalizing the
deal, I was being buried alive for a week’s pay. Her soft voice carried
sweetly on the air, echoing off of the wet dirt around me. “Leave his marker
without a name.” she says, “I understand that the Doctor has retired to the
Florida Keys.”

And so it began, the gentle wrap of dirt on wood. The slow muffled sound
of life being drowned out. I wept to myself in my last hours, the door
into hell closed behind me. All the while, played in my head, were the
voices of those vicious little imps. “Long live Doctor Meyer, burned his wife in a
kitchen fire.”

The air became thick, and developed an acrid smell. I am nearly postive
that my body is long dead. I can’t feel my heart beat, and there is a dullness to my faculties. The air is acrid and hot, and it no longer hurts to breath.

All that lives in me now is a regret for what I’ve done, and a burning hatred for
Sophia. These are the things that let me know I was once a person, because humanity
left my heart long ago.


Some Victorian horror monstrosity….

Composed to entertain Allycat. Thought about going somewhere with it, but like everything else here : It’s in the dump.

(prose action)

It was October the ninth when I met Alan Barclay. After one of Yeat’s little
gatherings, I found him out on the veranda smoking cheap American tobacco. He
immediately took to me when I mentioned Volkischism, and a mature love of the
old practices.

We spoke for almost four hours that evening, and stood like stone when the sun
awoke. Matters such as the nature of the universe were a common topic of
conversation in those days, and that morning was nothing out of the ordinary.
When I heard that he knew, intimately, Black Annis I felt a kinship. The man
crawled about in the dark, and knew things I yearned to know. It was then that
I realized that Alan Barclay and I would have many more nights like tonight, in
which to discuss what goes on in the wandering world.


Behind the Colfield mansion there is a wide open garden. A specificly designed
arangement of hedgings and reflection pools. It’s been debated as to why the
garden is structured in it’s way. Adept Warren once told me, very matter-of-factly,
that it was in fact a recreation of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, though decididly
less than hanging.

This concept wore on me – this sort of sigil work gaining popularity in the face
of the old ways seemed to be an affront to metaphysical manipulations. Barclay,
however, laughed at the concept of a giant recreation of a very unmystic place
in a fairly boring part of the world. He postulated that it was in fact just an
ordinary garden, though quite ornate. The hauntings here in Colfield were simply
the remnants of the very debauched late family, and had nothing to do with any
imbedded sigil or unfinished spell castings.

It’s worth noting that deep in the heart of this massive garden is what we would
refer to as the Gardener’s House, but in fact is a lone stone column of a building
that housed one of the larger occult libraries outside of the Hamade Vault in
Copenhagen. This is why we were here. Barclay had his eyes set on a certain first
edition, and I attended to strong-arm any undesirable elements he may encounter.

There are no doors on the ground floor of the gardener’s house. It was made abundently
clear when we tried to gain entrance that the steel rung ladder was the only route. No
amount of pounding, or searching for a passage was going to yield another answer. We
ascended the ladder to find that the heavy iron hatch on the roof as left open,
inviting anyone in.

The oddest thing about the gardener’s house were the gaslights. The main building,
and the adjacent lodgings were all still using candle light. This development was an
oddity, as we had been led to believe that the column was much older than the main
manor. From the outside it was evident that no construction on this building had been
attempted in atleast a hundred years. Sir Colefield’s craftiness spoke for itself.

The library was some twenty feet under where we assumed ground level was, and may have
reached out under the entirety of the garden. Barclay remarked that the library was
more of a home than the dwelling upstairs. My only asceratation was that perhaps Sir
Colfield hadn’t disappeared, but was mearly lost within the monstrosity of his
accumulated knowledge.

Where as the crown’s libraries had a tendency to be divided into Fiction, Non-fiction,
and Refrence, Colefield’s library had but mearly six rooms, and one large ante-room. A
glance at the dedication plates outside the entrance to each room revealed that they
were not divided into an easily digestable areas of study, but rather origins of the
mauscripts inside. Killian Colefield’s room of transcribed pagan practices sad dismaly
next to “Barristar Culfold’s Alexandria Room – The Largest Collection of Rescued
Inventory from the Great Library in Alexandria.” I begged Barclay to let me into the
large oak doors marked only with a single word, “Ba’al”.

These things caught my attention, more so than the wandering spirits who made a home
of the place. If they spent their lives collecting these works, than they spent their
eternities enjoying them. The truest example of bizare, though, was the center of the
ante-room. The altar and gore-drains meant nothing, but the glass case was cause for
surprise. There, in the center of this massive monument to dead cultures, sat another
kind of monument. The carefully crafted plate read only “Diana, b. 425 AD -“


[My Dead Rock Star Boyfriend, or COME BACK]

(script action)


1 – Est. shot. A honky tonk in the middle of nowhere. A real retro feel to the
place, with classic cars all around. It’s a clear night outside, or only so
because of the light eminating off of the bar. Neon signs and car lights
illuminate the immediate area.

Singing from inside-

Singing (cont.)
All I waaaant!!!!

2 – Int. of the bar. It’s packed. Psychobillies, gutter punks, retro mods, and
alt. country folks everywhere. Drinking and carousing about, enjoying themselves
as a three piece band is on stage.



3 – Close up of the band on stage. Nathaniel striking the last chord, the band
of psychobillies enjoying the hell out of themselves.


1- Nathaniel holds the mic with his fret hand. He’s got a sort of goth-pretty to
him, but he’s too vulnerable to rely on it.


This next song was originally written by a band who took their name from the
song we just played.

God that sounds stupid when you say it aloud.

Did that make sense to anyone else?

Regardless, this is “No Other Girl”.

2- Small panel of the guitar and Nate’s hands working over it delicately. He
only picks one string at a time.

3- Two table back from the stage, over Nate’s shoulder we see a girl. Meet
Angela, our female lead. She’s trying not to look too enamoured. A drink is
playfully circled with her fingers. He’s intently watching the show, ignoring
everyone around her.

4 – His eyes closed, Nate gets awfully close to the mic as he sings. Put some
soul into him.

Let me tell you something, baby.


1- A close up on Angela’s face as she watches.

Nate (off panel)-
Your my only woman.

2- The whole band plays in a subdued manner. Nate croons.

All I need is you, my gal.

Why don’t you listen to me?

3- In the back of the bar, leaning against a pool table is Sebastian. The angry
little bastard of our story. Too fashionable for the rest of the bar, he sits
back seething like an evil little Arthur Fonzarelli. Behind him there are
four guys playing pool.

Nate (off panel)-
Cause your MY only one.


1 – Sebastian turns to one of the guys playing pool, Whispering in his ear.

Keep him away from Angela.

2- We see Angela again, intently watching Nate on stage.

Goon (off panel)-
Didn’t you dump her, Sebastian?

3- We see a different time, a different place. Angela’s screaming at Sebastian,
another girl behind him with her clothes part way taken off.


4- Back to the present, Sebastian doesn’t even look at the goon, he just stares
hatefully at past him towards the stage.



1 – Nate is placing a his guitar in it’s case. The band behind him cleaning
up their gear.

Angela (off panel)-
Nice set, greaser.

2- He turns his head to look over his shoulder, shot from behind, we see his
eyes peeking out over his shoulder.

I’m happy to please, M’am.

3- Big money shot here. Full on gorgeous woman. This is our formal introduction
panel for Angela.

My name is Angela.


1- Wiping his hands clean with a shop rag, Nate stands straight in front of her,
caught slightly off guard.


I’m Nate.

2- We see Nate’s hand pointing to the two-piece behind him, cleaning up their

And these are The Hanks.

3- Nate steps off the stage.

4- And stands right infront of Angela.

I know you from somewhere.


1- Angela drops her head a little bit, looking out from under her brows, smiling

I dated your ex-bass player.

2- Close up on Nate smirking.

Ha, Sebastian?

3- Angela pushes the hair on the right side of her head over her ear.


It took me far too long to realize what kind of a child he is.

4- Nate smiles and scratchs the side of his head, his elbow sticking straight
into the air.

Well, I can’t fault you for that.


1- Nate drops his head a little bit, a trying to hide his laughing as he stuffs
the shop rag into his back pocket. Angela holds her hands in front of her. The
panel should look like the two of them are finally realizing that they’re into
eachother, a little uncomfortable about it.

2- Viewing them from off in the distance is Sebastian. He’s massively pissed,
the goons swarming behind him like evil little clones.

3- Close up on Sebastian’s face, his eyes bloodshot.

THIS isn’t going to happen.


1- EXT of the Honkey Tonk. Nate and Angela are walking out of the bar, Nate with
guitar in hand. Angela holding tightly onto his arm. The parking lot is clear
of all but three cars.

And the guy from Moon Records offered us a contract on the spot.

2- Angela looks up to him, smiling.

But why play rockabilly?

What’s so special about it?

3- Nate’s a bit taken a back, his eyes wide, like someone just knifed him.

4- His eyes soften and he gives a thoughtful half-smile.

Why not?

Mike Black is…

A writer, reader, commentator, music lover, art lover, futurist, tech lover, pragmatist, romantic, DepDecoist, and a bastard. Hopefully you enjoy.

Archival Footage

RSS The Music

  • An error has occurred; the feed is probably down. Try again later.

Within the Lines

Blog Stats

  • 5,110 hits