Mindless Ones

I don’t know if it’s a memory or if it’s a wholly original invention (something I seriously doubt), but whenever I think of Kraven this scene plays out in my mind:

PANEL 1

HIGH ANGLE. A GLOOMY BUT LAVISH AND HUGE, WOODEN PANELLED CORRRIDOR, ITS WALLS ADORNED WITH STUFFED AND MOUNTED HEADS OF ANIMALS – BOARS, LIONS, TIGERS, CROCODILES, ETC EXTENDING INTO THE DISTANCE. AN ENORMOUS DISTORTED SHADOW DRAPES ITSELF ACROSS THE FLOOR AND THE SNARLING, PETRIFIED BEAKS, MUZZLES AND MAWS. WE CAN’T GET A CLEAR HANDLE ON WHO’S CASTING IT, BUT IT’S EMERGING FROM OUTSIDE THE PANEL

PANEL 2

POV.CLOSER IN ON THE SEVERED HEADS AS WE MOVE THROUGH THE CORRIDOR. ANIMALS GET STRANGER, MORE ALIEN. NOTHING WE RECOGNISE. MYTHOLOGICAL. MONSTERS. IS THAT A GORGON? IS THAT A VAMPIRE? FROZEN, LIFELESS EYES – RED, GREEN AND YELLOW – TWINKLE LIKE MARBLES IN THE DARKNESS.

PANEL 3

ANGUISHED HEADS OF MEN AND WOMEN CAUGHT IN THEIR DEATH GRIMACES.

PANEL 4

AND NOW B LIST SUPERHEROES AND SUPER-VILLAINS. THIS IS WHERE THEY GO WHEN THEY DISAPPEAR OFF THE MAP. ONE’S POWER, EVEN IN DEATH, IS STILL TURNED ON: HIS EYE-SOCKETS AND MOUTH BLAZE WITH ENERGY, HIS FACE CONTORTED IN A FIERY BLUE SCREAM. EMPTY MOUNT COMING INTO VIEW ON EDGE OF FRAME.

PANEL 5

STILL POV. CAMERA RESTS ON EMPTY GOLDEN MOUNT ENGULFED IN THE SHADOW OF A MAN WHOSE SHOULDERS ARE DRAPED IN A DISTINCTIVE, PLUMED, MANE OF FUR. IF WE PEER INTO THE DARKNESS WE CAN JUST MAKE OUT THE WORD ENGRAVED UPON IT: ‘SPIDERMAN’.

Sergei Kravanoff is one mean sonovabitch.

Dare you brave the jump?

In part two of our interview with the lovely chaps over at Funnybook Babylon (part 1 here) we find out who the slackers are, fantasise about monetization, consider Jason Todd’s ethnic origins, and ask the question: what would you do if you were the fucking Beyonder!

Jump over the link and get a blog full of funnybook excitement right in yer face!

Who would be your

DREAM DATE?

The book, Dream Date by Fraser Geesin and Tim Leopard will be out on the 9th of December from Running Water Press.  To pre-order copies for the knock-down price of £3 (rrp £4.99), send an Email stating your name and how many copies you want to:

[email protected]

And you thought we’d forgotten. For the lucky uninitiated, check the Cape-Killer archive:

To catch a cape killer

Cape killer apokriffer

Join Us!

What are you waiting for? JOIN US!!

So. We caught one.. A genuine, real life, stone-cold Cape Killer. Hero-blood under the nails on her dialing finger.

Beware! The mind of a Killer lurks beneath!

When I was about 11 years old my Father and Stepmother moved into an enormous Edwardian house in Surrey, owned by an eminent Buddhist scientist and a Thai Princess. The House had extensive grounds, being situated in a large wood complete with an old cottage that was now a private residence but would have been the servants lodgings a hundred odd years ago. My Father’s family rented one half – again, probably the servant’s half – of the main house, while the owners, complete with jet-setting, Lamborghini designing children, took the really posh bit. There always was, and is, something strange about moving through the main downstairs corridor that connects both family’s ‘homes’ – from the shabby, sepia tinted wallpaper that represented the world I lived in when I stayed there, and out into the clear, white, airy space inhabited by the other residents. There was a feeling of intruding, of being out of one’s depth. But as I got older and eventually got to know the entire place, I started to feel differently. In the end, the overriding feeling was simply that the way the other half tried to present itself was inherently dishonest. Not intentionally so, but nevertheless there was something anachronistic about the kind of aristocratic world that they, and the house, represented. Like a good deal of Edwardian stuff, it felt as though the house and its inhabitants somehow embodied the last, glorious, sad throws of a world that had only recently been devoured by social mobility, daytime telly and cultural relativism. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that, but there was something deeply melancholy about it – as though by peeling back the thick, red, draped curtains that weighed heavily on the bedroom windows, you could reach out, through, and touch that other world of bright sunny days, tennis on the lawn, and all that E M Forster crap. The place, even in the high rent bit, always felt faded, and like all proper mansions was cobwebby, the black wrought iron window-catches didn’t work properly, the grass in the orchard was often unkempt, and it was COLD. Wherever you went in the house, my abiding memory was that it was often bloody freezing. And it hasn’t changed much in that regard.

You have to kick the backdoor to open it – it’s bloody stiff!

The great interblog circle jerk continues with this, the first instalment of my interview with the guys at Funnybook Babylon, where-in we discuss TOUGH LOVE FOR COMICS, contemplate how best to help the little bros, and take Tucker Stone’s name in vain*.

*Tucker responds in the comments

Click for interview action

Coming December 9th, the new book written by Tim Leopard and illustrated by Fraser Geesin (our very own Gary Lactus).

More dream dating after the jump