“Can’t use this,” said Reginald as he gently tapped a mesh glove and watched blue static play across the surface. “Chrono-gloves are very tricky. I once smacked a man while wearing it and he vanished. Turns out that I’d hit him in such a way that his father had been stillborn. I felt kinda bad for a few hours.”

            By this point, Sir Reginald’s trip across the bridge had become a tedious, delirious journey. Five weeks since he first found the Misty Misty Water Bridge, one of the few remaining entrances to a place he had read about for years. The bridge had never been a priority, just one of those things you toss around in your head as something you’d maybe like to do someday if you get the time and the weather is right. Well, it was someday, he had the time, and the weather was just right.

The directions had been in a book he obtained absolutely by accident. The online purchase of a near-mint, first edition of Convent Cruelties brought them to him in the form of extra pages glued into the middle. He spent days of highly-skeptical research confirming their authenticity.

Christ, Reginald thought as he saw large, bejeweled shadows in the a few yards ahead of him, it’s more fucking nomes.




Oh shit. I wrote a Sir Reginald story. Oh shit. Wow. Okay, I'm just gonna post that in the morning. Zounds. It's been a very, very long time since I could do that. Fuck. Wow. Fuck.

I've left the bastard alone for too long.



I wrote this script several years ago for a friend whose life went unexpectedly very busy. With a bit of rewriting by me and some touch-ups by [livejournal.com profile] fairyarmadillo, it's now ready for YOU. That's right, YOU!

Shit, man, I couldn't draw my way out of something you'd have to draw your way out of, but I still do it!

If you don't know who Sir Reginald is, click the link above. I've been writing stories about him for years, others have been drawing him for years, and I've even given special permission to two people to include the character in works of their own.

IMPORTANT: THERE IS NO SET DESCRIPTION OF SIR REGINALD. You get to decide what he looks like. If you need to read more stuff for ideas, click here for some of my Sir Reginald stories. A goodly number of artists have interpreted him in a goodly number of ways.

This is a five page story, originally written to be about four panels each, save for the last page. While I want you to stick to the five pages layout, the panels themselves are totally remixable by you. Want six frames? Do it. Inexplicably want one frame per page? Good luck.

Please make sure that you include the title (which you can ALSO remix) as well as the names of the writer and artist and the date on your work.

I'm shooting for a one-month "deadline," which is to say "don't spend more time than that on it unless you're really odd, in which case you should let me know that you'll be doing so."

You can't sell your interpretation. Should I ever sell any Reginald stuff and yours is included, I'm sure you'll get a share of the 18 dollars I'm paid.

THERE IS NOT A PRIZE BEING OFFERED. That is not to say that I won't try to come up with something, but I'm poor, so certainly don't expect one.


Now get started, junkies.


benchilada: (GATECRUSHER!)

“The boss here says that you gotta pay here and now or he’s gonna break your legs at the hips and fuck you in half.”

“All he did was grunt!”

“I can understand him.”

“I still insist that Pig-Head Lincoln isn’t really the one in charge here. He’s just some tall clone with a hog’s head mod, and he’s secretly controlled through tronix in your brain.”

“Really? Cause I got zero interest in breaking your legs at the hips and fucking you in half, but Pig-Head Lincoln? He’s game.”

“Will he leave the stovepipe on?”


First off, I drew [livejournal.com profile] evil_egg  for...ummm...[livejournal.com profile] evil_egg . It's also for my Hero-A-Day Month project:

Second, I'm reposting my brother Matthew's favorite story of mine.




     I still don’t know why I’m waiting for her. My canvas shoes are sucking up the rain water like little Hoovers and the newspaper over my head is soaked all the way through to the Metro section. I promised I’d meet her here at midnight, but it’s gotta be one by now. Maybe she didn’t want to head out in the rain. Maybe she missed her bus. Maybe she decided to rethink meeting with a convicted arsonist in the middle of the night. Surely all the water would make her feel safe about the last one.

    I’m slumped like a hunchback, trying to keep the drops of water on my head and off my cigarette. She always told me she thought smoking was sexy if the right person was doing it.

    “A bum can make a cigarette look hot," she'd say, "just like a model can look ugly if she's not doing it right. You’ve got to smoke it like you mean it, but not like you need it. Tease that Lark pack. Make it want you more than you want it.”

    She didn’t always make a hell of a lot of sense, but she could kiss days off your life and her brain was so smart it had its own. I never thought I deserved her. She didn’t think so either, but she said she hated people who were smarter than her. There aren't many of those, and she tends to punch any that she finds.

    It's wet, I'm cold, and my alcohol-blood level is getting dangerously low. If I head for the nearest glass of port, she's sure to show up right here as soon as I start warming my bar stool. Maybe it's the chance I need to take.

    “Don’t turn your back on me, you son of a bitch,” she says as I start walking away.

    “Where have you been?”

    “Hiding between raindrops. Existing as a quantum possibility. Eating cereal in the middle of the night.”

    She grabs me and I kiss her like her lips are trying to escape.


Happy Norse God of Prettiness Day,

Why a weirdass weekend has to cap itself off with extra-weird shit only hours before it ends is beyond me.

     Why did it involve me having to speed away from a fast-food drive-thru--throwing my card through the window and shouting that I'll be back--so I can confirm the license number of and follow, on behalf of the 911 dispatcher I'm talking to, the car that was in front of me in line? The one where I just saw the female passenger shout "What did I do wrong?!" and the male answer "Everything!" before grabbing her left arm and twisting it behind the front seat. That was when she screamed and the little girl in the back seat screamed.

     They realized I was following them and were driving around strangely trying to lose me. Indeed, a cop would later tell me that we had been driving in the opposite direction of their house.

     Gotta watch the police blotter for a few days.

Anyway, I wrote you a story:

    Neil lowered his gun and pointed it at little Johnny’s forehead. Behind him on the ground, chest blown open, was the body of Johnny’s dad.

    “You go on ahead now, boy. You nurse that hate into something monstrous. Then you come find me.”

    It would be eleven years before they met again for the last time.

    When John saw who had ordered the coffee at table seven, he ran back into the kitchen and was sick in the mop sink. After letting out a few short sobs, he wiped his mouth and stood up. He picked up his tray again and spat in the mug.

    By the time he got back out to the dining room, Neil had already paid and left.

Anyway, I wrote you another story:

    These things fly like a dream, Brian thought to himself.

    My hands fit perfectly around each one, and all I gotta do is keep ‘em over my head, and fwoosh, off I go.

    The guy I got ‘em from said they had some sort of experimental new battery in ‘em, could fly for a hundred years without refueling. There’s not even any exhaust or anything, the guy said that they repulsed matter on a molecular level to produce the necessary thrust for liftoff and actual flight. Or some shit like that.

    He said they worked because of some sorta nanotech he’d wired to the muscles in his calves and feet. After I killed him and broke his legs off at the knees, it only took a little experimental squeezing around the ankles to make just the right connection.

    It took a bit, but I got ‘em figured out, and boy, do these things fly like a dream.
Anyway, I made a Valentine's Day Sheet Of Paper for Sara:

Also, I write myself a lot of weird notes, sometimes on the back of Red Lobster receipts

Happy Mondays,

Since writing has taken a back back burner with Sara sick--no change, by the way, and no updates--I thought I'd repost this Sir Reginald story that my brother Jason wrote almost two years ago.

Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you his story:

"Sir Reginald and the Church Basement"

by Jason P. Stone


Contrary to his custom, Sir Reginald was abroad before breakfast. A construction foreman, a McFeeney, or McSurely, or McSomeoneorother had asked him to come to St. Philomena's at 6 a.m., but under no circumstances was he to tell the priest. The mystery of it all attracted him, though he had a hard time imagining that any sort of worthwhile mystery could be connected with union labor.
St. Philomena's was a heavy and imposing, if somewhat ordinary, Romanesque revival pile of white limestone and a gray slate roof. Behind it, a new parish office building was being constructed up against the church. As he approached the gate in the chain-link fence, the foreman offered him a hard hat. Sir Reginald declined.

As they walked to the excavation, the foreman described how the day before they were opening a doorway into the church basement. Sir Reginald wondered if he could avoid having to remember the man's name. Evidently, it had been an exterior basement door that had been bricked up and backfilled, and the architect wanted it re-opened to connect the two basements. They came to the edge of the excavation, and the foreman pointed to the doorway. It was a doorway. It was slightly arched at the top, and a pile of bricks lay just inside the basement.

"I see," Sir Reginald said. Remarkable, he thought, that the stained glass windows in the apse should extend as far down as they did.

The foreman led him through a side door into the sacristy and down the basement steps. It was an interesting basement, but a basement nonetheless. It was only partially excavated, with a dirt floor and a long passageway cut into the dirt, which was about shoulder-high. Other passageways branched off from the main one. Three turns later, Sir Reginald was standing before the same doorway and the same pile of bricks.

Sir Reginald looked through the doorway. Perhaps this would be worth missing breakfast after all. Instead of an excavation, he saw a lake tossed by the wind and forms that looked strangely human lowering small soft objects into the water or fetching them up again. He took a brick and tossed it through the doorway. It landed, and one of the forms turned to look, then went back about its business.

Sir Reginald cocked his head and put his fist to his mouth and thought. He was disturbed by the voice of the foreman."I think it's P—Purgatory."
"Purgatory?" And after a moment, "Ah, yes. Gerontius and all that." After another pause, "Has anyone gone in there?"

"N—no. We all got wives and kids, Mr. . . ."

"Sir Reginald."

"Sorry, Sir Reginald. What should we do, Sir Reginald?"

"We? Hadn't you better tell Father?"

"No!" The foreman was horrified. "If I told him, he'd have to tell the bishop. Then, the bishop would come with a troop of monsignori at his heels. Loose lips sink ships, you know. One loose lip, and a whole parade of pilgrims descends on my construction site looking for their dear departed."

Sir Reginald thought about clapping with one hand, and the man continued: "We'd never make our deadline, and that'd cost us money."

As Sir Reginald began to rearrange his chi in hopes of clapping with one hand, the foreman stepped around in front of him. "Can't you exorcise it or something?"

"Exorcise Purgatory, my good man? One can hardly exorcise a place with no demons in it."

The foreman glanced nervously at his watch. At 7 a.m., his crew would arrive, and the first Mass of the day would be said. He had to get Sir Reginald out of the basement before the priest arrived in the sacristy.

"We've got to do something."

"What you've got to do is brick it back up. From the outside."

"Can't you make it go away?"

"Look, man, it was fine for a hundred years inside a brick wall, and it will be fine for another hundred once you put the wall back up. I can't believe you brought me here to tell you that!"

The foreman was dumfounded. As soon as he recovered his panic, he asked, "What are we…I…going to tell the architect when he says open it back up again?"

Sir Reginald was annoyed.

"Oh, make something up."

Another glance at the watch. Time was running out, and the foreman was too nervous to think. Sir Reginald, meanwhile, was trying to clap with one hand again.

"I don't know what to tell him."

"Tell him anything,” said Sir Reginald, losing his patience. “Tell him the portal…er, the doorway…was unstable, and you had to fill it back in."

Fr. Schneidemann was a good, punctual German, and he had already arrived in the sacristy. Noticing the open door to the basement, he followed the sound of voices to the portal. He might have admired the accuracy of Cardinal Newman's description of Purgatory, or he might at least have spoken to the men. Instead, he simply exclaimed, "Mother, is that you?" and rushed over the bricks and through the portal before either man could stop him.

"Poor man. Portals like that are always one-way."

The foreman was beside himself. "There's a Mass in ten minutes! The Bishop is coming next week! We've got to get him out of there!"

"That would take a plenary indulgence. And I haven't got one."

The foreman made a noise as if to speak, but Sir Reginald held his finger to his lips and slowly said, "Brick it back up." And he turned to leave.

On his way to breakfast, Sir Reginald made one last effort and gave up. Who ever heard of an Englishman clapping with one hand, anyway?


And there you have it. Now I totally want to convince as many family members as I can to write Sir Reginald stories.


PS: Jason has included the following as a bit of a lesson about the imagery and information in the story, 'cause he's like that:

If you're curious... )
"What the hell is that supposed to shoot?" he asked.
"Buckshot and bad thoughts."
Her shotgun boomed like thunder and fed him a gut-full of paranoia.
She smiled as he began to sweat and cry.

                                                                                              --- from 6 GUNS.

Click here for the fragment that started it.

And yeah, I'm back on three of my projects if my writer's block stays dead.
Man, I've always been pretty weird, haven't I?

                “This is so amazing! My mind still reels with the implications! Hold still...your velvet sash is askew.”

                “And your tunic, your Majesty—I mean  Jack—is a bit too precisely laced on the side. Nobody cares about precision in fashion when you’re as poor as me…I mean, you…”

                “I share your confusion! This is a grand social experiment, my friend, and what we learn from it will surely HURK!”

                The Prince’s face froze as the pauper thrust a dagger between his ribs and directly into his heart.

                “My father used to tell me that one of life’s great ironies is how every man wants both to be royalty and to kill royalty. Look at me; I’ve gotten to do both.”

                The Prince fell to the ground, grabbing at the paupers boots, mouthing breathless words as he died.

                “Amazing. I believe I’m the only man who’s ever known what he’ll look like when he dies.”

                He allowed himself a smile before calling out for the palace guards…

“I’m telling you, Amama..mamin…jihad…there’s no way your plan will work!”

“Please, just call me Mr. President, Mr. President. And yes, our plan will work. Right now, thousands of Iranian sleeper agents are ready to strike, prepared to take action against your corrupt American government!”

“You wouldn’t.”

“And why not, Mr. President? What do we stand to lose? The deal is as follows; leave us and our nuclear programs alone or we will crush your economy, throw your populace into armed revolt, and have all of your fun for ourselves.”

“Does…wait, does that last part even make sense?”

“You are not one to talk, Mr. President. Literally. Your move.”

“All right, fine, we give in. Just call ‘em off, Mamoo.”

“It’s Mah…oh, never mind. As soon as you push through the U.N. resolution that we have prepared for you, I will give the order to stand down.”

“Nice one, Mr. President. Well played, you bastard.”

“A pleasure speaking to you.”

President Ahmadinejad breathed a sigh of relief as he hung up the phone.

Operation Loiter At Wal-Mart And Target And Buy Every Wii We Can Get Our Hands On To Keep The Americans From Getting Them, Thereby Ruining Christmas And Every Other Day For As Long As We Can Keep It Up was an unprecedented success.

First, somebody just gave me an anonymous year of LiveJournal, which is pretty fucking awesome.

Thank you, Mystery Person. You're The Bee's Balls.

Also, it's been a VERY LONG TIME since I asked you to Fuck With My Art, so here, have this.

I was taking a moment from my latest Sir Reginald story because I couldn't get three words out of my head. You know, when you're writing and something else gets in your head and you need to ditch it so you can continue? I didn't know what to do with them, so here you go.

Finish the story, or draw something related to it, or take a photo of something that looks like a thing that the story reminded you of that one time.

You know. Whatever.


“Cheeseburgers for Jesus?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Cheeseburgers for Jesus.”

“I…was that a question?

“It was the first time, yeah. The second time it was a statement.”

                It’s precisely for reasons like this that I hate going Christmas shopping. You’re doing something relatively innocuous, like trying to get all of the motion-activated barking dogs to go off at the same time by jumping in front of them, then some guy who smells like gin and mustard is talking to you about cheeseburgers and Jesus.

                “So…did you want me to give cheeseburgers, um, to Jesus? Or for Jesus? Was that some sort of commentary on…I dunno, pop culture or something? Oh, pop culture and religion and consumerism, yes? I’m right, say I’m right!”

                “It’s just cheeseburgers for Jesus, man. It is what it is.”

                I looked over at a little boy who was looking at Gin and Mustard Man. I mouthed the word “run” at him but he just started laughing. I mean, REALLY laughing, like I’d just put a trout in my pants or something. Gin and Mustard Man turned at stared at the kid, who immediately started crying and ran off in search for his parents.

                “Now. Cheeseburgers for Jesus.”

                “Look, you crazy bastard, these dogs aren’t going to bark on their own, and I gotta see if somebody’s hidden one of those Judge Death figures. I found a transparent one behind the Fantastic Four movie toys, but…hey! Dude! Not fucking cool!”

Sir Reginald clutched his broken arm and watched as the creature menacingly licked its lips before putting them back on.
This is a great story by [profile] gdwessel.

He created [community profile] nano_wrimo.

Please note the "nano" part.

Also: Buy an original Sputnik mock-up. For 10,000 dollars.

     Sir Reginald knew which side his bread was buttered on: the inside.
     "What, that's it?" asked Sir Reginald. "That doesn't even sound original. Look that up on the internet, I bet that's been said a dozen times already."
     Wait, what?
     "I said look up that thing about 'the inside,' as I'm sure it's been said before," he reiterated. "I reiterated? Isn't that a bit forced? And...hang on, did you just italicize the word reiterated? The reader should be able to infer, by context, which words should be emphasised."
     Well, sometimes I think they need a little p--
     "Did you properly notate above that I interrupted you? Good. Because I'll have you know, you fucking

I first posted this story last year.

I got some good comments from some awesome people.

Now, finally, my brain knows exactly what's going on.

Here's a repost of it, for all of you who weren't here a year ago, while the rest works itself out in my brain and on my notebook.


            I’m not certain what to do with it.

You see, in one of the boxes that my grandfather left behind was a strange gun, rounded and very rusty. It weighs several pounds and has knobs and dials along the side. If you put your ear against it, you can hear it quietly humming, and on its side is a dark and cracking piece of masking tape, upon which is written “Disintegrator Gun: still dangerous.”

My grandfather worked in a granary since the day he turned twelve and didn’t learn to read until he was forty-five. According to my mother, he’d never been able to change a light bulb without blowing a fuse. He couldn’t have invented this, it’s too complex to be a toy, and it seems unlikely that a man who spent most of his life hip-deep in feed corn would have ever been in a situation to stumble upon something like this.

So where did it come from? I don’t know, but it’s sitting on my desk now. Every time I bring it close to my laptop, the LCD starts flowing and the fans start spinning faster. My cat’s hair stands on end when she gets too close. I set it next to a fountain pen which promptly started leaking ink out of its tip. If I hold it near my head, my fillings ache.

If I hold it in my hand, I feel like the most powerful man in the world.

It’s like a little boy’s dream come true, but I can’t bring myself to so much as touch the trigger. I thought of testing it in on a rock in the back yard, but what if it’s got a really wide beam, or punches a hole in the ground the size of an SUV? What if it explodes in my hand?

What if it does nothing?

So for now it sits on my desk, all but begging me to pick it up.

“Be a hero,” it whispers.

“Be a villain,” it suggests.

“Be whatever you want, so long as you use me to do it.”

I know that I’ll break down soon. I’ll use it on a tree or a wall, a car or a criminal, on a bank or on myself. But I’ll use it.

And I’ll never stop.

"This White Russian is really strong,' Sir Reginald noted, just as the Cossack tried to punch his eyes into his brains.
Indeed, Sir Reginald played a far crueler version of 'Got Your Nose.'
     As Sir Reginald wearily emerged from the house’s library--his shirt and pants in tatters, the book in his hands still vomiting torrents of blood--he had to suppress the urge to find Levar Burton and punch him square in the gob.


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