This is how it’s done, whippersnappers.
This comic brought to you by the two-story geyser of wine that Cap’n Meredith unleashed upon our ballroom’s ceiling.
I was trying to tell her about the trout. After Caporetto when nothing was clean or dry we plunged our hands into the water and felt them sliding by slowly. Their flanks were round and they made us curl our fingers to feel. The blood streamed off slowly. We thought of trying to catch them, but there are some things that you know you should not do, not because they are wrong or even because you will regret them, because regret is in the future. The future was too pretty to think of, you see. I was trying to tell her. Suddenly a button burst and my stomach was on the table, and the absinthe glasses rattled and one fell onto the floor. I was so embarrassed that I stood up right there and punched her in the face!
Later I left my name at the Hotel Vendome where she knew I knew the concierge. The concierge tells me that when she passes on the street she throws up in her mouth a little. But I do not mind it very much. You see, one comes to understand certain things.
Ragnar Manhasset was burly and ruggedly handsome, with muscles like heavy sacks of money attached to his whole body. While his mind was sharp and acutely capable of discriminating logical (and thus also moral) concepts that so many have proven incapable of conceiving in our current morally bankrupt society, in a brief handshake his touch gave a warm, radiant feeling. “Greetings,” I said. “I am a novelist, a philosopher, a thinker, and in some sense a warrior. Ayn Rand is my name, as you probably know. Very likely you know me by my works, those monuments of and to myself that I have left behind me for those who are capable of living a moral life.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of you,” the brute replied. “I heard you were actually, like, on food stamps. I heard nobody likes your works.”
“Sir!” I cried, “You are small! Your mind is small, and you have neither read any of my works nor watched their highly acclaimed cinematic adaptations! You have fundamentally misconstrued my message, which is that in a corrupt society the labors of the intelligent are not appreciated or repaid, but only looked at with bovine incomprehension and a disdain that thinly disguises fear and slavish timidity. You must refrain from making logical statements about my works until you are brave enough to master the art of reading comprehension, you coward!”
Unfortunately for him, he had already begun to walk away halfway through my educational monologue. I laughed and laughed at him!
Judged by any ordinary aesthetic canon, Mary Hamwich was more than commonly beautiful; certainly she was a kind of fixture in the cosmology in which I personally ventured, however tentatively, to believe. Yet no influx of admirers thronged about her person; for reasons, if reasons they may be called, which remained obscure to me, she had neither husband nor beau of any kind. Each seventh day I watched her solitary processions back and forth from the little church in the dark glade at the end of the lane on which I then resided. I wished to speak with her, but each week when I searched within myself for courage — courage, a virtue with which I was little enough acquainted, to be sure — I found it not.
On this last Sunday I resolved myself to wait no longer. Rather enduring than suppressing a quiver of trepidation, I stepped out, thinking to make some excuse for detaining her. “E-E-E-Excuse me,” I stammered. “I have long wanted to speak with you.” She made to raise her gaze from the path, where it had been occupied, to my precariously composed visage. O! O! What transpired next can scarcely be described, so utter is its horror!
For when I had dressed myself, such had been my distraction that I had neglected to fasten the buttons at the front of my trousers. It had been such, in fact, that I had neglected to wear any undergarments beneath them as well. And so when her glance once took in the gaping blackness at the point where my body’s trunk bifurcates, she beheld not only that murky blackness which mirrors the soul and fate of mankind. She also saw — the Monster! That horror which has no name known to man — a name it has, but known to only one man, and that man not lief to tell it — that undulating apparition that rose to meet the daylight for the first time!
The night is dark and cold. In the dark, the lights of Gotham try to provide some comfort. Some hope in the darkness. The lights of the theater were burning brightly, Zorro’s theme playing through my head. My heart wouldn’t slow down. It couldn’t. I didn’t want it to. I entered the night more than just a boy. I was the masked man people feared, I was their nightmare. I was legend. My parents flanked me on either side. The noise and light of the theater faded into the empty Gotham night. My eyes were still wide eyed. I should have been paying closer attention. Should have seen the clues. A cough. A quite footstep. A stillness to the air. But I didn’t. All I saw was another man’s legend as my own.
And then I saw something else. A different man. He was mysterious, dark, as he emerged from the steam filled alley. I couldn’t help but notice his hands, strong, masculine. Yet they revealed so much more about him. A longing, a tenderness, an understanding. They were hands that knew and had seen the world.
I locked eyes with him. They were deep. Never ending. A man of a different age. The eyes of an old soul.
Then he shot my parents.
I was so embarrassed.
The results may be out, but the Hunt isn’t over until HQ is all cleaned up!
We have HQ until Tuesday. Today, we have to get it all cleaned up so we can move out in time. We got some of it done last night after results were announced, but we’ve still got quite a ways to go before it’s presentable again.
This will go a lot faster if we have a lot of you here to help out. So, please come on down to headquarters after work, class, or anything else you have going on today, and pitch in a little bit. It’s not hard work, and we’ve got some snacks and drinks here to keep you sustained through the cleanup.
Besides, your Mama Shaq always told you to clean up after yourself.
1st – BJ (3322)
2nd – Snitchcock (3259)
3rd – MacPierce (2973)
4th – Max (2646)
5th & 6th – Breck & Scamp (2559 & 2590 in some order)
7th – Blint (2451)
8th – GASH (1876)
9th – Pals (425)
10th – FIST (356)
11th – Rural Jurors (8)
12th – Greeks (0)
Congrats to everyone. GASH did spectacularly considering our size and our approach — I’m really proud. And on a personal note, as a former BJ scavvie from 10 years ago, way to go BJ!