From Rock’n'Roll to Darkseid: How Comic Books take nostalgia and kick its ass

  • May 4, 2012 1:15 pm

nostalgia, noun (a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one’s life, to one’s home or homeland, or to one’s family and friends; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time)

If you were alive those last few years, which I can safely assume by you reading this, except if you are from the future then just don’t bother I guess, you probably noticed that nostalgia is everywhere. We live in a time where everything that was supposedly better in previous generations comes back to haunt us: Vinyl, old TV shows, clothes, mustaches, watches. None of those things are particularly bad or offense on their own, just out of place. But taken together, they form a more sinister picture. A picture of a society that is hellbent on fetishizing anything that was ever produced, while rejecting everything that will ever be produced. We are sacrificing a life-time in the future for a few more minutes in the past.

Nowhere is that more apparent than in comic books. Which is frustrating, because comic books weren’t always this way. They used to be avant-garde, the lightning rod that showed us the way of the future. (Space exploration! Robots! Talking Tigers!) It used to be that you turned to comics if you wanted to know what comes next. Unfortunately, this has changed for the most part. There are exceptions, of course, but they are few and far in between. (irony of looking to the past: noted.)

It shouldn’t have happened: Storytelling is more sophisticated than ever, and look at all those comic book movies. The stories we used to love are now on the big screen, for the masses to enjoy. Finally, us futurologists can share our knowledge with the rest of the world.
And that’s where the problem begins: it used to be that other creatives looked at comics and got inspired to create something of their own. Create something that was utterly different and “new”. Now, more often than not, it’s just a rehash of what has come before. Literal translations of stories into another medium. They are not new ideas, they are pure nostalgia. (The most egregious of those offenders is the Watchmen movie. The movie is fine, if you’ve never read the book. Once you do, and I assume most of you had read the book before seeing the movie, you realize that it is the book. If you’re anything like me, you sat in the cinema and the only thought in your head was ‘why’? Zack Snyder did a fine job transliterating the book, but something was off. The “comicness” of the material was gone; left was a husk of good, not genius, story. Been there, done that. It probably was the most fitting movie for this generation.) Comic books also have this problem; constantly rebooting something to catch lightning for the umpteenth time.

And it’s not just in the stories themselves:
The industry is arguing over the merits of digital distribution at the moment. If you stop for a moment and think about that, it seems counter-intuitive for a medium that for all intents and purposes revels in future fetishism:

The Legion of Superheroes is a group of heroes in the 31st Century whose story can only be told on the endless canvas of the drawn page. Imagination abound, time travel left and right plus straight-up weird character designs. (Bouncing Boy, anyone?)
Grant Morrison’s writing clearly comes from the 22nd Century. The idea for Internet 3.0 in Batman Inc., is not far off from the trajectory modern technology takes.
Iron Man builds himself an armor that enables him to fly and shoot laser beams out of his hands. In Warren Ellis’ run, he actually merges with the suit.
I don’t think there is much paper left in Avengers meetings. It’s all iPad-like devices.

And here we are. The digital age is looming, and people (the “fans”) are skeptical, hostile even. I have had tons of discussion with my friends at our local comic book shop, online and with people who have nothing to do with comic books at all. The consensus is this: Old good, new bad. Simple as that. There might be arguments (“The smell of paper!”, “I want something real in my hand!”), but they all fall in basically the same camp: “I want the world to be like it was before”. Nostalgia. A community that pretends to embrace change, is fighting against it with all its might. (Be it a very small might. A mini-might, if you will.)
Our culture wants to keep everything the way it is right now, or better yet, yesteryear. Comic Books are avant-garde again, in the sense that they lead the way in propelling us back half a century. The 70s/80s/90s were better anyway, so bring them all back. At once!

I understand reverence for past achievements. I like quite a few things from the past. But I also enjoy radically different and new storytelling. Scott Pilgrim is one of my favorite books. Mark Waid is doing something very interesting with his digital efforts. I love Grant Morrison’s ideas. And that John Hickman guy? He’s leading a way to the future.

*Our obsession with the past is evident everywhere*

Which brings me to 20th Century Boys, by Naoki Urasawa. I haven’t read much manga in my life. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I just never was exposed to it. I was reading JLA, Superman and Disney books when I was growing up. 20th Century Boys was recommended to me and if people I like read it, I will at least give it a try. Plus, it sounded exactly like the book I would enjoy: A multigenerational epic, filled with intrigue, mystery and friendship. I read the first one and was hooked. For a while, 20th Century Boys was the only book I read regularly. (Buying books is a completely different story…)
20th Century Boys is closing in on the ending now; there are only two or three volumes left. So keep in mind that I haven’t read it until the very end. It’s not important for this text, but if you want to discredit me, this would be a good place to start.

Anyway. I presume you have read the books up until volume 20. If not: there might be SPOILERS! If you have any intention to read it and be completely surprised, don’t read on. I only talk about broad strokes, though. The same goes for Final Crisis, obviously.
Now that we have that out of the way, we can move on. You have been warned.

The plot of 20th Century Boys goes something like this: A group of children creates a book in the 1970s that talks of the attempted destruction of the world and their miraculous triumph over evil in the year 2000. They call the book “The Book of Prophecy” and decades later, the things described in it come to pass, while a shadowy figure, simply dubbed “the Friend”, starts to amass power. They have to band together and save the world from their own imagination. That’s the story in a nutshell. There are several subplots introduced and resolved along the way, multiple time jumps and and a bunch of twists and turns along the way. Also: lots and lots of Dylan. Bob Dylan, that is.

*A future imagined by children*

These kids create elaborate scenarios to fight in their future that are mimicked in the real world years later. It reminds me of my own youth: making up stories of my future heroism. But unlike my stories that went nowhere, theirs become real:
They talk about a big robot attacking Tokyo, so a big robot attacks Tokyo. The real version is not sophisticated at all, but looks impressive nonetheless. They dream up a virus that will kill a bunch of people, so someone creates a virus that does kill a bunch of people. They don’t see the connection immediately and how could they: it’s been years and they were children. They made all that stuff up and forgot about it. They grew. But someone didn’t and now haunts them and takes the world along for the right.
As a culture we have a similar theme running through our collective story right now. Everything that was someone’s childhood dream, comes back and consumes something new like a cancer. Yes, children have a vast and boundless imagination, but so do grown-ups. We just forget that, because we are taught that you have to be “realistic”, whatever that means. Thus, we more often than not relate to ideas we had as children more than with what we come up with as grown-ups. If a kid has a silly idea, it’s cute. If an adult has one, he’s wasting time. We feel that our best ideas come from childhood, even though they do not. It is true that we can learn a lesson from our younger selves, but that lesson is not about only responding to ideas from childhood. That lesson is to let imagination run wild. Someone who takes his childhood dreams as the blueprint for his life and makes no adjustments whatsoever, becomes a sort of super villain. Like the Friend.

The Friend was connected to the kids. He was not a valued member of that clique, but an outsider. He didn’t have any other friends, and only dreamed about being part of the cool kids. He idolized everything they did, and most of all the Book of Prophecies.He wanted to be part of the group, but lacked the social skills to integrate himself. So he tried to buy his way in, and it worked. For a while, at least. As long as the group could read his manga, they would put up with him. This created a positive memory in the Friends head: They like me, because they get something from me. He would later take that to an extreme, by reenacting the greatest moment of his youth (the World Fair in Tokyo), to basically buy the trust of the Japanese people. All the Friend ever does is being a perpetual child.

After the Friend takes over the world, he enacts a plan to keep Japan stunted, even retarded. The Tokyo in the year 2020 looks exactly like the Tokyo in 1970, down to the cassette tapes and TV sets. It is the ultimate triumph of nostalgia.

*Reject progress at all costs*

It is also a scary vision of a possible future for our own reality. He maintain it by issuing a vague threat of alien invasion, which mirrors President Bush’s threat of “global terror” perfectly. Clearly, no one actually believes in aliens, but it’s better being safe than sorry. Be afraid, stick to the past and don’t ask questions. Life is easier if you have an enemy, and better yet an intangible, all powerful enemy. So everyone just goes along and lives their lifes. It’s not like you need a new TV, the old one gives you comfort by being exactly like you remember a TV from your childhood. Childhood means safety for most people, or at least simplicity. The 1970s was the best time for the Friend, so obviously it’s the best time for everyone else too. He does this not by force, but with a cruel tactic of appealing to memories. Remember the World Fair? When our country had all that optimism? Remember when we had the future to look forward to? We were going to the moon! We would build robots! Let’s have that again!
And this is where nostalgia becomes dangerous: By trying to recapture the magic of the past, but forgetting why it was magical in the first place. It was magical because it changed your perception of your environment, broadened your horizons or changed your opinion. It wasn’t magical because it was the exact thing, it was magical because it was the exact thing at the right time. This is not lost on this generation, but there are forces that try to eradicate that. Imagine: A world where you only ever have to produce a few song per year and slightly change them to sell millions upon millions of (vinyl! CD!) albums. A constant loop of the same shit regurgitated over decades. Always appealing to the lowest common denominator and the memories of the past. No more changed perception, no more broadened horizons, just constant reminders of how great everything was in the past. A cultural retardation.

Which leads us back to comic books as a medium. Because this is exactly what happens right now in the so-called mainstream of comic books, which is to say stories of costumed vigilantes. We very rarely get a new story nowadays, more often than not it’s a warmed-up version of a classic tale. And the ones that push the boundaries? Well, they sell like shit upon which someone shat. “I don’t get it”, is a common complaint I’m reading online and describes perfectly what is wrong with everything. When did art become something you had to get? When did challenging your perception become something bad?
Here’s my advice to you: If you don’t get it, read it again. Spend some time with the work, maybe think about it for a minute or two. Write down your thoughts (I know you can write), and tell the world what you don’t get. I had it with people who want their culture spoon-fed to them. When we were kids, when our parents were kids, hell, when our grandparents were kids no one complained that they didn’t “get” a comic book. It is supposed to confuse you. It is supposed to make you think about the world. But alas, people want their regurgitated shit.
Here’s another thing (and I know that it’s a tangent): Why are we still clinging to Watchmen like it is the holy grail? Yes, it is one superb comic book, that redefined what a comic book can be. It showed a whole generation that comic books can be serious and mind-expansive. But that generation didn’t do much with it. They mistook the “grittiness” as the thing that made Watchmen tick and ran with it. Nevermind the underlying subtext, we have big guns and blood! We are back to a point where we limit our ability to tell a story, because there was something in the past that was great. If Watchmen is the best the comic book industry can come up with, if nothing ever comes close to this, then we can close up shop and call it a night. If nostalgia reigns supreme, society is done. There is no way around it, we have to create new things. Yes, the future is inspired by the past, but once you chain them together, you are fucked. Once you limit your ability to forge a new path, because you want to pay homage to past glories, you give up. I don’t want to live in a world that rereleases the White Album over and over again, because I listened to the White Album and it’s fucking great. Now give me something new and not watered-down versions of the same thing.

*What did Superman wish for?*

And along came a solution: Final Crisis. At its surface it’s a simple superhero story, good versus ultimate evil. The heroes are taken by surprise and scramble to reverse the effect of Darkseid’s presence. In the course of seven issues, Grant Morrison explores the whole DC Universe and beyond. He takes us from the gutters of a murder scene to the (literal) fabric of existence itself. It’s a balls-out trip to the imaginaspace, that shows us how art can be utilized to comment on culture and expand our horizons (there is that phrase again.).
Final Crisis also comments on nostalgia and the limiting effect it has on progress. The monitors, an obvious stand-in for continuity-obsessed readers, work hard to keep the world of the DC the same. You have your 52 worlds and they are not allowed to progress. The orrery of worlds keeps them in sync. The Supermen of Many Worlds have to travel the bleed, the arteries of the living organism that is this universe, to find more allies against the ultimate darkness. Darkseid could only manifest this dangerously, because the monitors kept it all chained to a very specific idea about how the world is supposed to be. Darkseid used the fact that the DC Universe was bound to arbitrary rules, that were put in place to give it a bit more faux realism. Remember, comic books are not the real world. An ever shrinking readership demanded more realism, though, and brought about the near destruction of everything super heroes stand for.

Ultimate Evil is the belief that nothing can ever be as good as it once was, so we should strive to make everything like it used to be.

But Final Crisis had a few more tricks up its sleeve. Attacked by “critics” with the usual “I don’t get it”, Final Crisis offers a glimpse of a better future. A real future. Darkseid, the manifestation of evil in the DC Universe hatches a plan to take over the world with the “Anti-Life Equation”, proof positive that Darkseid reigns supreme and that evil is all there is. Using the internet to spread it, he manages to enslave more than half of the people on earth, before he gets stopped by Batman. But when Darkseid falls, a bigger threat emerges: a story sucking vampire monitor named Mandrakk. He is the worst version of us, the reader, in that he wants to make sure that every hero suffers the most. Because only suffering is a “real” emotion. A group of superheroes offers another solution, a counter-proposal, if you will: Join us, and let imagination run wild. The Zoo Crew (a team of superpowered animals), along with the Superman of 52 earths and the Green Lantern Corps defeat Mandrakk, by being optimistic. Superman literally wishes a happy ending for the universe. That means no more monitors, no more restrictions what and how stories can be told. No more rules to chain a boundless space of imaginauts. The future is not yet written, so don’t waste your energy binding it to the past.

Short Stories

  • January 11, 2012 4:02 pm

Hey there,

there is a new collection of short stories on the amazon kindle store (de, us, uk) right now! The title is “Death of a Sister and other Tales” and it basically deals with domestic issues, like losing your job and heartbreak. There is also a fun story about french ninjas on Schönleinstrasse, which you can sample for free. It’s around 2,99 in your local currency, which is the lowest price I could set while retaining 70% of the money. I kinda feel entitled to that bulk, being the sole author and all.
I know that there are some folks who don’t use kindle, but I ask of you to buy it there anyway. I will send you a pdf, if you send me a copy of the bill (block out any personal data. I don’t care for that.) I know that it’s cumbersome to do so, but I don’t want to create a specialised outlet just for this book.
If you really don’t want to give amazon any money, you can paypal me the 3 Euro to peteschueler@gmail.com. Be sure to declare it as “DEATH OF A SISTER”, so I can keep track of the thousands of orders I’m sure to receive. And if you’re in Berlin, you can just give me the money in person, along with your email adress.
I have plans (and if you’re reading this, there is a good chance you already know what I’m talking about) for this year that go into a radically different direction, publishing-wise. I wanted to put those stories out there as a sort of test, and because I was sick and tired of telling you about my writing without actually producing anything.
You would make a very happy puppy if you’d retweet this, post it on your facebook wall or just tell your mom about it. I think moms gonna love the stories. Oh yeah, and please buy the damn thing. Buy it twice, maybe even thrice. If you like it, write a review. I need reviews. I heard they are kind of important.

Until soonish,
Peter

A Christmas Adaption

  • December 25, 2011 10:07 pm

“A Christmas Carol” is one of my favorite stories of all time, and the 1988 film “Scrooged” my favorite version of that story. I tried to adapt it myself this year and feel like it’s a pretty interesting take, especially towards the end. It might be long and riddled with errors, but that’s what I like about posting things on the blog; they’re not finished. Go read it if you like, and tell me what you think. I will put it in a PDF eventually, so if you’re that guy you can wait.

Think of it as a “public beta” for my story. Enjoy.

 

1.

It was a cold and dark winter’s morning. Ed Scrooge was sitting in his pajamas, waiting for the alarm to beep. He was awake, and he had been so for quite some time. He was thinking about the previous nights occurences and how they would affect him. One thing was sure: He would need some coffee. The alarm beeped and he got up to go into the kitchen.

The day before Christmas was always the buisiest day of the year for Ed. He wanted to make sure that everything got out on time, so he would have that precious week between Christmas and New Year’s off. He didn’t take a lot of vactions, and he never went anywhere, but he needed at least one week of uninterrupted pleasure to get him stoked for a new year. It was his fourth year in earnest as a freelance artist and the flow of money was still a problem. No one wants to buy any paintings in a down economy. He became more and more reclusive and thus his paintings turned sour as well, which also didn’t help his cause. People wanted to be entertained, he detested them for it. How could they be entertained, if they lost their jobs? Life is a struggle, they have to get that! But they didn’t, and so he worked hard at something no one wanted to buy in the hope that someday he might get discovered.
On the way to the post, for a last minute deposit of paintings, he met Sally, his next door neighboor and nemesis from art school. People don’t move far away from each other a lot. “Hey Sally,” he opened, “how are you today?” He said that in the most obnoxious, obviously faux-friendly way possible. She responded in jest. “Fine, fine, I’m great. How are you?” “Great. Listen, I heard about that thing with the gallery. Don’t worry. There’ll be another one next year. I had that happen to me all the time, when I was starting out.” “Right. Oh no, don’t worry. I’m fine.” They both smiled, because they didn’t know what else to say. “Anyway, I gotta” “Yeah, me too.” And off they went on their seperate ways.
The line at the post office was atrocious. Ed had to invest an hour, just to get to the top spot, and then another 20 minutes to get all of them through. It was hot in there as well. The lady behind the counter was overly cheery. It made him sick. As if there was something to be happy about. The year was almost over, the financial crisis was in full swing and those idiotic talent shows were still all the rage. All. Over. The. World. It was insanity, while he had to scrape by at the bottom of the pit. He was producing art! He was saying something about the world! But the uneducated, hungry masses didn’t care. They just wanted to see pretty people play dress-up and make pretend, so they would have something to be angry about. He never believed the conspiracies about television programming. Now he was starting to take them a little more seriously.
It all looked so forced: The decorations, the smiley faces, the music. There wasn’t even snow, for crying out loud! But they were still cheery and happy about themselves. “I can’t wait till this is all over,” he mumbled to himself. His was looking at his shoes to avoid the cheerfulness. “Really? You want this all to be over? Godamn, man!” Ed looked up, to see the lady he usually saw on the U-Bahn. She was all in tatters, looking rough. Some of her front teeth were missing, others were broken. Her hair hadn’t seen a shower in weeks. She usually sold homeless papers. There were at three in the city, and he was certain he had seen her selling all of them, which made him wonder if there was any brand loyalty whatsoever. He stared at her, as if he didn’t understand a word she said. “Hey, I’m talking to you, Mr. No-Fun. You want all of this to go away? Shit, don’t you realise how the world would look like without Christmas?” He snapped out of his temporal trance and lashed into her. “Who the hell do you think you are? You are disgusting. Have I ever bought your stupid ass paper? Yeah, I’ve seen you. You’ve seen me. Don’t pretend you haven’t. You’re always stopping where I’m sitting. And now you’re going out of your way TO FUCKING TALK TO ME?! GO EAT SHIT!!” He yelled from the top of lungs. People stopped to look at him. “Aw yeah, what’re looking at? That fucking crazy bitch started talking to me! Is not my fault she’s homeless.” No one reacted. He looked around the circle that had formed. “Aw come on. You all wanted to that. We all know that they’re just sucking us dry. Fine. Whatever. I’m going home. You and your cheery spirit. It’s all Humbug I say. HUMBUG!!”

2.

When he returned to the studio (which really just was the second room of his apartment), he turned up the music and started to work. He had a few paintings he needed to finish, before he could take off from work. Not that anyone pressured him, but he wanted to feel accomplished. Besides, if he did that, no one could rip him a new one for excessively playing Star Wars.
He worked till late that evening, when he decided to take a break and do some relaxing on his iPad. He opened another bottle of wine, his preferred energizer for just about everything, and curled up on his couch to watch some online videos. Predictably, he fell asleep.
When he woke up, sound was still coming out of the speakers. The iPad was lying flat on his stomach, with the back side up. “I must’ve hit a loop or something”, he thought and picked the device up to see what was playing. It took him a few seconds to figure it out, but it was a version of his favorite Charles Dickens story, “A Christmas Carol”. In this version Ebenizer was a wealthy oil man, who grew up in the deep south. On top of being grumpy, that Scrooge was also a full-on racist, who basically employed slaves. It was one of the darkest versions out there. It was also one of the worst. The acting was sub-par, there were no production values to speak of, and in a lot of ways, it just was a thinly veiled platform for racism. He turned it off and put the iPad aside. Staring at the ceiling, he tried to make out what he would do next. He could go back to the studio and finish the painitng. Or, and that seemed like the more reasonable impulse, he could get up and make something to eat.
There wasn’t a lot of things in his kitchen, so he had to make due with what he had. A few apples, two slices of bread and some pesto. He didn’t even had any pasta. So apples on bread it was. While he was eating, he heard a low rumble from the back of his studio. He didn’t pay all that much attention to it, but enough to be mentioned here. The rumbling got louder, and he was wondering if he had mice again. It wouldn’t be the first time. But no, mice are not that loud. Something must’ve come in through the window, he thought. Did I leave it open again? He wasn’t sure, but he was determined to find out.
He approached the studio very slowly, looking left and right, over his shoulder and at the ceiling. The rumbling got louder as he closed in on it. He started to get nervous. If there was a big bird, not just a common pidgeon, what should he do? He was hoping none of his paintings were scratched. What if it was a malicious bird, sent out by a competitior to destroy his work? The rumbling got even louder. He was taking very small steps. The door wasn’t closed completely, there was a small opening. With arms outstretched he pushed the door open and saw…

3.

“What the hell?” A man was sitting on the chair in the middle of Ed’s studio. It was not any man, though, as Ed would soon realise. Now he was too busy trying to come up with words. Or a weapon. He would’ve really preferred a weapon. “Relax, son. I’m not a thief, or, or a murderer. I’m just here to talk to you.” Ed’s mind was racing. He knew that face, that voice. He knew the guy. He knew him. While he was thinking, the smell emitting from the center of the studio was slwoly crawling through his nostrils into his brain. Under normal circumstances he would’ve reacted quicker, but the idea that he knew that guy that was standing in the middle of his apartment, was stronger. When he first registered the odour, it was already to late: He backed away in disgust. “Ugh, what is that. It smells like dead bird!” “Well, tough shit, son. It smells like that, because that’s what I am!” “You’re a bird?” Ed wouldn’t lose his cynical humor, even in mortal peril. “Now, I’m dead, you idiot! And so will you, if you don’t listen to me.” The man was approaching him now, thrusting the stink even more in Ed’s direction. “You’re going in the wrong direction, son. A blind man couldn’t see that.” The truth dawned on Ed. There was only one man he knew, who converted that grammatical error into a talking point, and that man had been dead for three years. “Shawn? Shawn? Are you behind this? Stop fucking with me!” He looked around for the hidden camera, for Shawn hiding behind a plant or the desk. But he couldn’t see anything. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it tonight. Everyone needs a few minutes to adjust.” “You, you are de..dea..” “DEAD, son. Yes, I am. And you can close that mouth of yours now, all the creativity flows out.” Ed was thinking: Had he been drinking? Are those the fumes? He tried to buy the good colors, but sometimes, when the money is short, there is no way of making sure. It’s not like the guy behind the hardware store keeps the labels on when he sells that shit out of his van. And unlike a lot of his peers, he never cared for his material all that much. The message was important; what he said, not how he said it. “You are a hallucination. You are a..” “Ghost, yes. I’m surprised that this is so hard to grasp for you. A Christmas Carol is still your favorite Dickens story, isn’t it?” Ed nodded. “Well, and I’m your old companion to tell you about the three ghosts.” Ed fell down on his knees. “Please, please go away bad fumes. I promise I won’t buy the cheap stuff anymore. Shit, I never wanted to actually know how it feels tripping balls.” “You’re not tripping, you idiot,” the ghost said and slapped him right across the face. “Now get up and listen to me!” Ed complied.
“You know the drill: I’m here to tell you how terrible my life was, and how I threw it all away. You’re gonna get vistied by three ghosts, yada yada yada. But listen: My life was not a waste. I was a genius! Women adored me, men, well, they did too. I don’t regret a second of it. And neither should you. But those ghosts will come. I’m just the messenger. Do what you will, but remember this: The chains we forge in life carry over. Remember this. REMEMEBER THIS…” A manic laughter filled the room. The ghost was fading. “No, wait, Shawn! I need to know if you killed yourself. Don’t go, not again, Shawn!!” But it was too late, the ghost of his dead friend Shawn was gone and Ed was alone yet again.

4.

Ed didn’t believe in ghosts. He was too rational for that. But he did believe in the effects of cheap liquor and inhalation of fumes from his colors so he tried to come down with lots of water. What time was it, he thought, looking in the mirror. The first ghost always comes at midnight. Always. “I should go out”, he said to himself. “I should be out on the street, with no clock to remind. I’m going insane if I stay in and watch the clock tick-tock.” He hastily put on a coat, emptied his pockets from all the things that could tell him the time and left with only keys and a bit of change.
The night was cold and harsh, there was no snow. Goddamn global warming, Ed whispered to himself. He was remembering a time when there was snow weeks before christmas, and “Dreaming of a White Christmas” was not just another platitude. It was real, you could look back at last year and hope that this year would yield as much snow. He passed a few people here and there, but tried to remain to himself. Don’t listen to them, they might tell you the time. He felt paranoid still, ascribing that to the effects of his color abuse.
He went into a Spätkauf, the only type of store that would be open on Christams eve, and bought himself a good ol’ bottle of wine. He was paranoid, but he was in dire need of more alcohol, to stave off the hangover that was looming on the horizon. He bummed into a bum on the way out. “Hey, man. Look where you’re walking.” “What. Fucking bum.” “Eh, that ain’t nice,” the homeless man replied. “Yeah, you know what’s nice? A shower. So get lost.” Ed pushed him aside and moved on. “That ain’t the spirit of Christmas,” the homeless man called after him, “that’s just plain mean Edward Scrooge.” Edward stopped in his tracks. He was sure that hea heard his name. “What did you just say?” He asked without walking back. “I said that it’s not nice, the way you treat people.” “Yeah, but you said my name, also.” “So, Edward? What about it.” Edward approached the old man again. Slowly, on step at a time. “Where do you know my name from? What is this?” The man laughed. “What this is? Oh man, every time. They never learn. I am the ghost of Christmas Past!” He said, beaming with pride. “FUCK YOU!,” Edward screamed. “Fuck you, whoever that is. You hear me, fuck you! I get it. You’re making fun of me, because I was pissed a lot this year. So, what? I deserve it. I had an exhibition. I can pissed all day long, if I want to.” He turned to the old man. “And you: Who hired you? I pay double if you tell me.” The man laughed. “You don’t have that kind of money. Look at you! Buying the cheap wine in the middle of the night. What is this? Getting away from reality. Well, that’s not gonna work. And I’m not here to prank you either. I am the ghost of Christmas Past. I’m here to show you your…well, past. Don’t make it hard. I got some more appointments to get to.” Ed stared at him in disbelief, then at the bottle. He took a big swig and walked up to the ghost. “What the hell,” he said, “show me my past.” The ghost laughed out loud and began walking.
“You grew up in this town, you know all the places,” the ghost said. “Yeah, so?” “Well, let me finish, goddamnit. You know all the places, because you lived here your whole life. But, there are places you have forgotten, because you lived here your whole life. People do that. If they spend enough time somewhere, they forget. The little hide-outs, the hidden streets. Those things become less important as you grow older, but they’re still here.” The streets changed in front of their eyes: It was day, all of the sudden, and the cars, the posters and the people were all different. It was Schöneberg, a place Ed didn’t think much about at all anymore. He lived here when he was a child. “God, that cheap wine, eh? You wanna swig?” “No, thank you, Edward. I don’t drink.” “Well, more for me then.” The ghost lead the way: He walked up to a door of a building and passed right through it. “Hey, I know that joke. I won’t fall for that.” The ghost laughed and opened the door form within. “I knew that,” he said, “but I need to be relaxed for this.” They entered the building. It was an apartment building, and it had two flats per floor. A smell was perpetrating from the some apartment or the other. “Do you smell that?” “Yeah, it’s horrible.” “Well, you’re right, it is. But where do you think it’s coming from?” “Mrs. Petersen. She lived right next to us. I hated her when I was young. She always yelled at me and my brother for being kids, basically. We would run around and play, and she’d yell at us.” The ghost smiled. “Nice story, but no. It’s not Mrs. Petersen cooking. It’s your mother, you dimwit! I’m supposed to teach you something about your Christmas past, not Mrs. Petersens past. Come to think of it, she’s my 8 o’clock though. Anyway, let’s check it out.” They went into an apartment on the second floor, and Edward immeadietly recognized the place. There was the weird board that held the telephone and adress books, there was the dinner table, withe the round-cornered edges, and there was the christmas tree, small and full of boring shit. He hated the christmas tree when he was a child. They were always using white lights, and silver balls, because his parents wouldn’t go for the more colorful decorations. “Look, there you are!” the ghost pointed out a kid, maybe tenish, who was putting on a coat. “I’m going out, it’s snowing!” he proclaimed happily. “WAIT A SECOND!” his mother screamed. She came storming out of the kitchen. “Where are you going? Dinner is almost ready.” “I just wanna go outside.” “There is a common back yard for all the apartment buildings,” the older Edward whispered to the ghost. “I know,” said the ghost. “And you don’t have to whisper. We’re just watching!” The older Edward punched the ghost on the arm. Meanwhile, the younger one had negotiated some playtime outside. “But be in shouting distance. I’m warning you, if you’re not, I’m gonna fucking hit you over the head.” “Yes, mother.” He ran to the door and went out. “Let’s see where you’re going.” The ghost and the older Edward went after the boy.
Minutes later, they found themselfes on the palyground, that was part of the backyard. All was white from the snow, and youg Edward was the only one outside. He was running around, jumping from things and generally behaving like a child. “Now that is really something, ghost. Looking at myself up to monkey business. I get it now.” “Fuck you and your generations cynicism. You always have to be hipper than anybody. Just wait and see. I know how to do my job, okay?” Edward mumbled something unintelligable and took another big swig from the wine.
The young Edward ran around for a few more minutes, before he saw something behind a couple of trees. It stopped him in his tracks and he stared at the trees. “What is it?” The old Edward was impatient, for which the ghost shushed him. “You’ll see.” The young Edward slowly walked over to the line of trees and then passed that. The ghost followed him, while the old Edward stayed behind, rolling his eyes. “Come on,” the ghost demanded. “What the hell,” Edward said and followed. He hadn’t moved through underwood for a while, so it quite annoyed when he had to walk for what felt like 5 minutes through dirty trees and snow. But once he was passed that, he saw what his younger self had discovered: There was a small evergreen, barely two foot tall, fully decorated. His younger version stared at it with the greatest delight. “This is amazing, I don’t remember that.” “Of course you don’t, you focus on the bad stuff all the time. Come on, we don’t have much time and the next memory is already waiting.” “But, but,…” “No but. At least for now.” They were walking past the trees again, but found themselves at a different place alotgether when they passed the last line. “That is moy schoolyard!” “It sure is, Ed. But don’t get to excited now, you won’t like it.” “Not like it? I hated that place. I was smart and leading the pack, but I had no one to really talk to.” “Leading the pack, huh? Like over there?” “What the…?” The ghost was point at a bunch of kids, laughing and making fun of one measly looking boy. “Is that…?” “Yep, that is you. Let’s go check out what they’re chanting.” “Don’t be so fucking gleefull, you, you apparition.” “That’s the best you can come up with, funny man?” As they moved in closer, they started to hear what the other kids where yelling at his younger version. “You stink, man. I can smell you even when I go home. And I live three stations off.” “Star Wars, you baby. No one likes to play with puppets. You’re an idiot!” The laughed, and screamed, and yelled and there was nothing young Edward could do. The older one, though, tried to punch the kids. Of course, that didn’t work, being a ghost and all. “Those fucking pricks. Do you know what they do now? Do you, ghost?” “No, but I guess you will tell me.” “Sure will. See that asshole over there? He’s in construction. He makes minimum wage. He’s drunk before noon. Or look at the prick Kevin Gone, that son of a bitch. He’s a coke mule. He was mathematical genius and what did he do with that? Selling crack. Oh, or that bitch over there. Samantha. She’s working at a hair salon. A shitty one! She has four kids, none of which will get to college. And they make fun of me? ME?! I’m godamn artist, godamnit!” The ghost patiently listened to Edwards outburst. “Are we done now? Have you told me enough of those people? I gotta say, it’s a little weird, that obsesssion with your old classmates. They should be irrelevant by now, shouldn’t they?” “Whatever. You’re a ghost, who haunts people every year about their past. I’d say that is a bit hung up on yourself.” “Fair enough,” the ghost replied, “let’s move on.”
Through a mist, they arrived at their last stop. “This is my last stop. The ghost of Christmas Present will take over after that. I just want to take the moment to thank you for you patience and hope to never see you again.” “Aren’t you a sentimental person,” Edward said as snarky as possible. “No, not really. It’s just better for you, if I don’t have to come again. I moonlight as conductor for the hell express.” Edward wanted to reply something, but was hit by a ball to the head instead. “Ouch,” he yelled. “Sorry,” came the reply from the distance. They were at a party, there were a bunch of people. He looked around and eventually recognized what was going on: This was the Christmas party at his old house. The roommates! The last party before he moved into his studio. “Ghost, I remember that day. The party was off the hook.” He chuckled. “What’s so funny about that,” asked the ghost. “Nothing. It’s just a Arrested Developement joke.” “Whatever, funny boy. You’re here to observe. See that sack over there? That’s you.” Edward looked around and finally spotted himself. He was sitting on a couch, drawing on a piece of paper. “Notice something?” “Yeah, that’s where I drew the sketch for what would become my first exhibit piece.” “No, dummy. You’re alone! There’s a party going on. Chicks all over the place. And you are drawing on a piece of paper, barely sipping on your beer.” “Yeah, maybe. But it led to all that I have now.” “What, a crappy _studio_? No friends? Selling a picture every once in a while? That’s the life you wanted?” “Well, yeah. Kind of. Being an artist means being alone, doesn’t it? I can’t deal with people when I’m working on a masterpiece. Besides, who are you to tell me what’s going on in my life? I know what’s going on. I have things under control. People just don’t appreceate my genius, that’s all. People don’t see what I’m capable of. They don’t get it. You know why? People suck, that’s why! And another thing: You suck, ghost of Christmas my ass!” Edward was yelling at no one. The ghost was gone, so was the party. He was standing alone, in the street, holding up a bottle of cheap wine. A stray dog looked at him. “Oh, fuck off.” The dog ran away. “Damn cheap wine…”

5.

After a short period of desorientation, he continued wandering the streets, as if nothing happened. He walked and walked, but there was no other soul roaming the streets. It was a rare sight, usally the streets were filled with people. The occasional car passed him by, but that was it. Until he met the second ghost, in form of a female beggar. “Got spare change on you, sir?” “What? No, I’m sorry.” “You are not.” “Excuse me?” “You’re not sorry. You don’t care.” “Who the hell are you to tell me that I don’t care?!” “Why, I’m the ghost of Christmas Present, of course!” “Of course you are. And I am Mickey Mouse.” The girl, she appeared to be only twenty years old, shusched him. “Don’t say that out loud, man. They’re very litigius.” “Right. But you’re a public domain character, so everything is fine.” “Exactly. Now, listen. You don’t wanna do this, I don’t wanna do this. You know, you eat one leg of a person for Christmas dinner, and you’re damned for eternity. How is that fair?” Edward takes a few steps back. “Oh, nonono, don’t worry. I won’t eat you. I can’t, I’m a ghost. Besides, that was in the war, alright? Everybody was doing it. I’m just the only one who had sex with the guy beforehand.” “What the…?” The ghost of Christmas Present tried to diffuse the situation. “Alright, listen. Here’s how it’s gonna go down: You stop being afraid of me. I’m here to help you. Well, I’m here, because I’m supposed to help you. We’re gonna take a look at your friends real quick and then I leave you with the big daddy. Is that alright? Just a quick peek. Nothing fancy. I’m really tired.” Edward emptied the bottle and reluctantly agreed.
“Where are we going?” “I told you, _Ed_, we’re going to visit you’r friends. Don’t remember where they live?” “I do. But are we gonna walk? It is a long way, don’t think?” “Not for me. Besides, maybe you can start sobering up on the way, for the big finale. I wouldn’t recommend seeing the big guy with a flame like that.” “Seriously? Whatever. I was gonna stop at a Spätkauf, but now I’m not. See, I’m a good guy. Can I go home now?” “Nope, first we gonna see your friends and hear their opinion of you.” She lead the way, pausing everytime he tried to sneak away, giving him no chance to make an escape. “Tell me, why don’t you want to see your friends? It’s Christmas, after all. Time for friends and family.” “Well, I don’t think they want to see me at the moment.” “You poor thing. Aren’t you lonely?” Edward snickered. “Lonely? I have my art, that is all I need. Just give me a room to put up a few canvases, a couple of colors and I’m happy.” The ghost of Christmas Present paused. She took a long look at Edward and then hugged him. “Get off me,” he yelled at her, pushing her away. “I don’t need your pity.” The ghost was offended. “Alright, have it your way then, Mr. Grumpy Pants. We’re here anyway.” Edward couldn’t believe it. “Seriously? We only walked for like five minutes.” “Christmas magic. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it.” Edward mumbled to himself yet again, and then followed the ghost into the house. “You’re sure we have to do this? I think I leared my lesson with old bumface. I’m a good boy now.” She turned around looked him deep in the eyes. He got uncomfortable quickly and looked away. “No, you’re not. No one is after the first ghost. That part is left to the big guy. He knows when you’re ready. Anyway, let’s see what your friends are doing here.” They walked into the apartment just like that, because the ghost knew were the spare key was. “I knew that as well,” Edward said. “Sure you did.” They entered the living room, where a big part was going on. All of the people he used to see each day were there, as were a couple of folks he’d never seen before. Music was playing, and a certain cheerfulness spread across the room. “Look over there, it’s your friend Peter! Go, say hi.” Edward grimaced. “You’re not fooling me, lady. I can’t go talk to him, because I’M A GHOST, REMEMBER!!” “You don’t need to yell at me. In five out of ten cases it works. It’s worth it for that. You should see the disapp…Well, anyway. Let’s go over there and find out what he is talknig about.” They walked passed a couple of people who were busy cheering their friend, who was chugging a huge glass of beer, on.
They reached Peter, and he was busy talking to someone Edward didn’t know. “…yeah, I know him. He’s one of my oldest friends, actually.” “Really? I quite liked his last exhibit. Can you put me in contact?” “I’m sorry, I can’t. I haven’t talked to him in a while, and he doesn’t respond to my phone calls either.” “That is so not true,” Edward interjected, temporarily forgetting that he was a ghost. “You just don’t call me, you prick. Besides, if you had anything to say that was worth my attention, I would’ve seen it in the trades. But you don’t produce anything, man!” The ghost tapped on his shoulder. “What?!” he barked back at her. “Remember that whole ghost thing?” “Aww, shit. Why do bring me here than, if I can’t fix it?” The ghost shrugged. “Beats me. It’s the job. Quick, let’s see what she’s up to.” She pointed at a woman in her late twenties with long brown hair and glasses. She was talking to a guy, who seemed pretty interested in her. “That’s Jannine. I used to date her. We broke up in May. I couldn’t let her drag me down.” “Is that it?” “Sure it is. What else would it be, _Tinkerbell_?” The ghost rolled her eyes. “You think you’re _so_ funny. Come one, let’s hear what she’s talking about. If I was a betting ghost, I would say those two are flirting.” “You want me to punch you? I have no qualms about punching female ghosts.” She took him by the arm, sighed, and pulled him right into the discussion. “And you,” the big guy said to Jannine, “any boyfriends I need to worry about?” “Well, there was this one guy a while back,” she said. “He was a total prick toward the end. I broke it off before it got completely out of control. He’s a sweet guy, but a bit full of himself.” The big guy laughed, inching closer towards her. “Haha, you don’t have to worry about that with me, hon.” Edward was blankly staring at her. “She must be talknig about someone else. Maybe she met another man since we broke up.” “Sorry, Edward. She didn’t. She is talking about you.” He seemed to think about that, but eventually came up with the following: “Well, I don’t need her anyway. She dragged me down. I couldn’t really focus on my art when she was around. Maybe it is for the best that way.” The ghost patted him on the head. “Poor thing. Come one, I’ve got one more to show you. After that, the big man is waiting for you.” “You keep taling about that big man. I’m not scared of death, you know? I even deal with that in my paintings. I don’t think that guy will change anything, so you might as well call him off and save him a trip.” “Who says the big man wants to talk to you about death? Come on, over here.” She walked through the crowd and he had problems to follow her. After a few minutes, they arrived in the kitchen, where his brother was talking to group of people. They were laughing it up and seemed very cheery indeed. “That is John, my brother.” “It sure is.” “What is he doing here? He doesn’t know anyone.” “Well, he knows you,doesn’t he?” “Yeah, so?” “Well, don’t you think he talked to some of your friends when he was busy helping you getting your little shows together?” “I never thought of that, but you’re right. I took him to all of my early stuff.” The ghost smiled. “Yes you did,” she said in a voice you’d use for a toddler. “But where is he now? Do you still take him with you?” Edward frowned. “No, I don’t. I have people working for me now.” “Have you now? I thought you were poor?” “I have interns, who work for free. How about that?” The ghost shook her head. “Poor thing.” “Stop saying that!” “Whatever you want, Ed. Now listen to what your brother has to say.” Edward complied and listened in on the conversation. “…yeah, I first met Betty through my brother, actually. They had a joint showing or something. I loved her from the moment I saw her.” The woman sitting next to him smiled. “That is Betty,” the ghost said. “I might not talk a lot with people, but I am not a moron,” he barked back. “Alright, Mr. Touchy Pants.” “Anyway, we’re expecting the first one in March,” John continued. “They’re having a baby,” Edward whispered. “Yes they’re having a baby.” “He never told me. He never told me any of this.” “Well, maybe you should’ve paid more attention. Looked at your email once in a while.” “What is your brother doing today? Is he here,” one of the bystanders asked. “No, he isn’t. I asked him to come, but he didn’t reply.” Betty carresed his head. “You know, stubborn as he might be, he is still one of the best painters I have ever met, and a great guy to boot.” “He is not,” another bystander proclaimed. “He hasn’t talked to any of us in months, and only god knows what he’s up to.” “Well, but he is still my brother and I love him,” John said. “I love you too, man. But you know how I hate functions. And all those people suck. You shouldn’t socialize with them.” As he said that, he was already outside again. The ghost had pulled him away. “Why did you show me that? To bum me out? Well done, lady. I feel horrible. Can I go home now? Maybe I’ll call John later, when he’s not on that dreadful party anymore. How about that?” “Oh, Edward,” the ghost said glumly, “why is it that you people don’t learn anything? I think it’s time to see the big guy now. It won’t be pretty, but it might be your only chance. Take it.” “Whatever. I’m ready. I don’t care. Bring it on!” he screamed, but the ghost was already gone.

6.

Edward stood for a few minutes in silence, before he decided to walk back home. The night had been long enough, and if the ghost of Christmas Future wanted to see him, he would find him anyway. There was no point in staying out anymore.
He decided, against better judgement, to hit another Spätkauf, to get another bottle of wine. He had to wait in line, since he wasn’t the only one out. He thought back at the meeting with the first ghost and figured that he would meet the third guy soon. “That’d be just my luck,” he said to himself. No one noticed. The third ghost didn’t appear.
He walked back home, while drinking the wine. He fumbled to get the keys into the lock. Nothing was in focus anymore. The clock showed 5 am. Maybe he was hallucinating all of it. Maybe it was the bad fumes that created the ghosts. And just as he said that out loud, to himself, to make sure that it was said, he saw someone sitting in his swirling chair. “So, you’re the one they call Big Guy, huh? Come on, show me what you got.” The person in the chair swirled the thing around and got up. “Hey,” he said. Edward almost dropped the bottle. “That’s a bad, bad joke, isn’t it?” “Nope,” the ghost answered. “I am as real as you are.” “But you are, you are…” “Come on, say it,” said the ghost, smiling. “You’re me, man! Me in a 1,000 $ suit.” The ghost laughed. “4,000 $, actually. But yes, I am you. I am, well, you are, the ghost of Christmas Future.” Edward gripped the bootle firmly and took a big, deep swig. “I didn’t see that one coming.”

Ghost of Christmas Future
Of course you didn’t. Why should you? This
is a much bigger delination from the text
than you originally thought. You figured this
is all just Dickens fare, but now you’re
confronted with your own ego. Ever wondered if
you might be going crazy? This would be the
moment to make sure. Suffice to say, from my
point of view, you’re crazy.

Edward takes a few steps in the direction of his counterpart.

Edward
But if I’m my own Ghost of Christmas Future
and I’m wearing a very expensive suit, does
that mean I succeded? Does it mean the future
is bright?

Ghost of Christmas Future
Depending on your point of view it is. Yes,
I’m wearing expensive clothes, and yes, I
apparently have a job in the afterlife, but how
does that affect you? Do you thing this is
something to strive towards? You’re not my first
guy today. I saw dozens of people repent or not repent. They all have their problems, but you are
something else. You are me, but much younger. I
dreaded the day I would have to come here, because I knew it would happen. I knew that I would have to face you eventually. I managed to stave it off, but now I’m here. I can’t tell you
what is right or wrong, because it would change
who I am as well. The look into your future is me. What I can offer you though, is a conversation. A conversation about your life, and
where you’re headed.

Edward
Well, I guess there’s no going around it then.

Ghost of Christmas Future
No there isn’t. So sit down and listen.

Edward sits down on the couch. The ghost of Christmas Future paces the room.

Ghost of Christmas Future
So, let’s do this. (beat) What the fuck are you doing with your life, man? You shut everyone out, because you think you’re so superior to everyone else, while in reality you are just too stuck up with pleasing the fucking critics all the time. You got into the arts to change things, remember? And now you’re doing this! (gesticulates towards a couple of paintings) They’re shit, and you know why? Because you don’t care anymore. You had a few sucesses, and now it’s all just about pleasing _them_. It’s not about the art anymore. Your last couple of short stories were shit, they didn’t challenge anything. You did exactly what was expected of you. Because it was the easy way out. Because it was the thing that would keep you in the business. Because you didn’t want to upset anyone. It sickens me to see you like that. You should be out there, destroying your own image and rebuilding it from the ground up. Every. Single. Day. Stagnation is death for an artist, and you are dying. For heavens sake, you’re adapting your favorite stories just so you can feel close to artistic value again. Do something else. Change your style. Play with the medium, like you used to do. And don’t let people tell you that it’s bad. If people tell you it’s bad, if art people tell you that, than you’re doing something right. Because they don’t know shit. They know what they know. They’re sheeps. You need to be a shepard. But what you most need, above all, is friends. Your friends should be the people you listen to. Your friends should be the ones to help you reinvent. You need them like the air to breathe. And what do you do? You shut them out again. You pretend like you have everything under control, even though it’s all spiraling out of control. Not knowing where to go is good. Having people there to help is good. Life is good.
Your favorite Christmas story is Dicken’s immortal Classic “A Christmas Carol”. I don’t even know why anymore. I don’t know if you got the message. You are every bit as bitter as old Scrooge, and you don’t even have any money. You are poor. Poor people don’t get to be bitter, because they will stay alone far longer. You have betrayed yourself and let the establishment get to you. You have let them dictate the terms of your life. Go out, change it. Don’t let them do it. Before they tear you down, do it yourself.
And don’t sit at home, alone, crying about your indifference. If you keep on doing that, if you keep on letting others dictate your life and don’t do what you truly want, you will destroy yourself. And if that happens, I can’t help you anymore. There is nothing I or anyone else can do, if you don’t want to be helped.

You crave riches, you crave fame. You don’t create, you please. You don’t express yourself, you consume. You don’t like, you tear down. You don’t build, you fit in. You don’t love, you comply. You don’t live, because you’re busy dying a slow death of attrition.

God Bless us Everyone, Indeed.

toilet problem

  • December 8, 2011 8:41 pm

This was created in less than twenty minutes. I think that is really the beauty of web cartooning, having the ability to put something out there almost the minute you think of it. (And yes, it looks crude and jerky, but that is the kind of the point.)

The inspiration once again came from the excellent work of Josh Bauman. You should check out his stuff over at caffeinatedtoothpaste.com or his twitter feed at twitter.com/joshbauman

 

 

 

South Park Cyclops

  • December 5, 2011 7:50 pm

The things you discover…

 

update: a link to the image, so you can look for yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

patterns

  • December 4, 2011 9:00 pm

Smell the way out of here

  • December 4, 2011 8:51 pm

French Ninjas

  • November 29, 2011 5:03 pm

I have some time on my hand right now, being out of a job and all that. So I’m going over a lot of stuff I’ve created this year, to find the stuff I’m gonna publish. It’s a tough process and I did some pretty weird stuff. There are things that I want to sell (more on that in the future, where I’ll beg money off of you), but some of it is just not commercial enough. Whatever that means.

This little piece dates back to over a month ago, when the ever-great Josh Bauman had this funny little strip on his page. I concluded that the robber must be French, and he added that it was in fact a ninja. All very scientific and based on facts, of course. Nothing to do with stereotypes or the sorts. Well, almost two thousand words later, I’d like to introduce you to this little thing down there. It might contain a few errors, mostly of judgement. But decide for yourself.

 

“It’s a fact that 93% of the robbers on Schönleinstr. are french ninjas,” he said very matter of factly. “Really?” I asked him. He nodded. I wasn’t surprised by the high number. After all, I had seen quite a few french ninjas in my time. The only thing that bothered me was the exact number he so effortlessly quoted. “Is that a statistic you pulled from the papers? Did I miss something?” He laughed. “No, it’s not in the papers yet. I have a friend working for the sociological wing at the FU. He’s done some studies on ninja population in Berlin and for some reason that bit stuck in my head.” “I see…” I sipped on my coffee and stared along the street, hoping to spot another ninja. He told me a few more stories about his friend and the ninja studies. It was a quiet afternoon.

Night had fallen over the city when I got home. Or, more precisely, early evening. It was fall in Berlin now and it had become cold. Not that the summer was anything to write home about. The whole year had a weird weather vibe about it, now that I think about it.
I thought about the conversations from earlier. You started to notice the trend in ninjas in the city. It started approximately two years back, when the the worldwide need for them started to decline. They blamed it on the economy, but really, it was the times. No one needed an honest to god ninja, when they could get a ninja robot for much less. Most of them quit or were forced to retire. The ones that were passionate about their trade came to Berlin. Being that the capital of Germany needed something to distinguish itself from the likes of New York and London, the ninja were a welcome cause to support. There were all kinds of tax breaks and programs they could join. Rent was cheap. Food was aplenty and also cheap. Ninjas were the next big thing, and that attracted a lot of other people to move to Berlin.

I put my key in the lock and turned it when I heard something behind me. It was timed almost perfectly to the clicking of the key. I stopped and listened. He was good but I was trained to pay attention to these kinds of sounds. I took this course in ninja deflection at my “Volkshochschule”, a public school for adults. It trained the basic facts of ninja deflection and the key marker for everything was listening. You had to be very aware of your surroundings to spot a ninja. Because for all the good they brought to the city, there were also the black sheep, the robbers that hunted streets like Schönleinstrasse. Not a day passed that didn’t see some tweet about ninjas and crime.
I listened and heard another rustle. I turned quickly and saw him: black clad, katana on back. He went for the classic look, so either he was very poor or traditional. Being that I detected him so quickly, I bet on the former. He most definitely was not one of them punks who run around my neighborhood. “Hey, stop. Come here. I can see you.” He stopped and stood like a stature for a second. I could see that he was thinking about his next move. He could try to run, risking the scorn of his friends. If there even was another ninja watching the spectacle. And around here, you could be sure to have someone else watching. Or he could stop, turn around and face his enemy (me) face to face. He was thinking about it, while I prepared to hit him over the head with the baton I had stuffed in my pocket.

“Don’t!” he yelled at the last minute. “I’m harmless. I was just, I was…” “yes? Stammering me to death?” I felt awfully witty that night. “No, no. I was just, just, you know. Hanging out. Figured I could scare a few people before turning in.” “With that noise level? Hell, you couldn’t scare a deaf person with that.” Again, the witty. “I know. I’m also not really a ninja, not yet at least…” He pulled up his mask and revealed his very young face to me. If he had been a real ninja, he would’ve been dead at that point. You cannot reveal your identity like that. Never. Ever. That’s just common sense. “Not a real ninja, huh?” “No, sir. I applied for a few internships with local masters, but none would take me.” I couldn’t but chuckle at that. “I wonder why,” I said, slightly regretting it. His head fell and he seemed as if he would cry. “Hey, listen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, okay? It’s just rare that you see a fake ninja nowadays. Come on,” I said, ” come in. You can warm yourself up for a bit.” i invited the fake ninja into my house, much to my own surprise.
I made coffee for me and the fake ninja. I offered him tea first, but he declined. Some wannabe ninja that is. “So, what’s your real name then? Or should I address you fake ninja all night?” “I’m not supposed to reveal…” He caught himself there. “Right. My name is Gordon. And you.” “I’m John. Nice to meet you Gordon.” He nodded and squeezed out a smile. “So how long have you been running around, pretending to be a ninja?” “Years, if I be honest. I think it all started when I saw a commercial for ninja robots as a kid. I got obsessed and started following that dream, you know? Didn’t work out the way I planned, though.” “But you’re not giving up, I like that. Yeah, the robots. They have become quite the nuisance around here. Did you know that most accidents involving martial arts occur when a robot is around?” “No, I didn’t,” he said rather impressed. I continued. “Yeah, it’s true. I have this friend, who studies socialeconmics or something and he is full of those little tidbits. Told me all kind of things about ninja related topics.” “Wow, that’s interesting.” There was an awkward pause, in which we let the information sicker in. “Listen, I’m grateful that you let me in and all, and I don’t want to stretch your kindness, but might I use the toilet?” “sure,” I said, “go ahead. It’s down the hall to the left.” He went to the toilet, while I stayed in the kitchen.
We talked for an hour about all kinds of things, before he announced that he had to leave. He said he had a date. I made sure to give him something to eat for the way.
I woke up the morning feeling very good about myself. I always strive to be a good person, one that would invite a complete stranger into their home just to give him a place to stay for a few minutes, but like most people, I rarely act on it. Helping out poor Gordon was a nice thing to do.
I told Simon, the friend from the beginning of this story, on our way to work and when I got to Gordon’s name, he stopped. “Wait a second,” he said. I turned around seeing him standing there. I stopped too. “What is it?” “You invited a young wannabe ninja named Gordon into your house?” “Yeah, whats the big deal?” “are you crazy?!” He yelled at me and grabbed me by the jacket. “We gotta get to your place, now!” I tried to protest. “We have work,” I said. It didn’t help. Simon yelled some more and we went back to my place.
I almost passed out when we arrived back at my place. Because there was no my place anymore! My house, the whole thing was gone!! “WHAT THE FUCK?! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?!!” Simon looked at me very serious. I must’ve looked like an idiot, mouth gaping and all. “It happened because you let a french ninja into your home! They steal houses! Don’t you know that?” I was dumbfounded. “What are you talking about? I didn’t let any french ninja in my house. His name was Gordon. He had no accent. He spoke fluent english!” “With a slight scottish hint, maybe?” “Wait, what? Yeah, now that you mention it…” “Well, when the french settled on the island they brought names with them. One of them is Gordon. They never officially ceased to be french though.” “That’s insane.” “Well, write that into your diary. Oh wait, your house is gone! Jebus Christ, it’s like you have learned nothing in all the years we’ve known each other.” “He seemed nice,” I tried to defend myself. “Well, i’m sure he did. Right up until he stole your house that is.” “Jebus…”
Simon took me in for a while, so at least I had a place to stay. I went to the police, but they said there’s almost no chance that I would see that house again. They were most likely to sell off the parts or ship it wholesale to Mars. Either way, it was probably gone. After a few moths, I sold the lot, for a tidy sum, and moved on. I learned my lesson: never trust a french ninja, however friendly he might be.

Epilogue:
The house was never found again. To this day, Schönleinstrasse has the highest buildings in all of Kreuzberg.
Simon eventually moved to the moon, where his paranoia, eh knowledge, was put to work.
Gordon became the president of the French Ninja Council for Western Europe.
And me? Well, I became a well-known writer a ninja based fiction.

Disclaimer:
This work of fiction is purely fictional. No ninjas are actual frenchmen, at least to my knowledge. I have nothing against the country of France or its lovely people. In fact, I rather enjoy a lot of their products. Wine being chief among them. This is a satirical work and as such has no agenda beyond entertaining you. So, shut up, you stuck-up ubercorrect internet assholes!

Apology:
I’m sorry if I offended you with my foul language in the last paragraph. It is not my goal to make enemies of my readers. But it’s also not my goal to please everyone, so if you feel offended in any way, please, feel free to leave. But tell your friends! They might like it. Even if they are ninjas.

Thanks:
To Josh, for the inspiration. Keep making them comics, man!

For more, go and check out the complete collection of short stories in the kindle store. You can also follow my antics on twitter @peterschueler.

falling

  • November 28, 2011 11:05 pm

I don’t even know, and I’m living it!

 

DARKSEID IS

  • November 24, 2011 9:50 pm

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