Originally published at benchiladaland. You can comment here or there.

Hey! I drew a new page of The Wizard’s Lesson for you down a bit.

Before we get to that, though, I just need to put part of an old story here.

Certainly not because I’m about to finish new things with this character. Heavens no. Why would I let a marginally-beloved character have new life after years of being allowed to languish? I mean, it’s not like I once wrote about him so often that my fiancee Nadja Robot made me an action figure of Reginald.

Anyroad, here’s a bit of words:


“Bored,” said Sir Reginald to nobody in particular as he threw a fifty peso coin across the room. It ricocheted off of a bronze statue of JFK, which yelped in pain.

“Bored,” he repeated, throwing another coin at the Stone of Unyielding Sorrow, which hung from the ceiling by a rope. He missed, and the coin instead landed in the bucket under it, the one that collects the tears and blood that slowly leech out of the stone.

“Bored,” he said a bit louder and flicked another coin at the back of Willy, the ghost that lived in Sir Reginald’s house in exchange for assistance with matters that only a ghost can assist with. His name wasn’t actually Willy, but Reginald liked that better than its real name. The coin flew through the ectoplasm and landed in a tank of fetid water that may or may not have had a very tiny coelacanth in it.”

To Read The Rest….


And now…the drawing part.

The Wizard’s Lesson, previous chapters.

Part One

Parts Two and Three

Parts Four and Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Wizards Lesson General



The Effective Grinning of Sir Reginald by Nadja Robot

A piece of lovely art from my Robot.

Yes, this may be an ominous portent of Things To Come.

Want to know more?

There's an easy way.

          “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.
     "All of the phones in Sir Reginald's home have dials, and all of them work. On cold nights, he can still call his parents."

Whitney "[info]mockilock" Hanson sent me Sir Reginald magnets and they FUCKING ROCK!

Whitney Hanson's Sir Reginald Magnets

How's YOUR Sir Reginald project going?

Seriously, how's it going?



[livejournal.com profile] ericfmyers is officially the first to complete the open-ended Draw A Five Page Sir Reginald Comic Based On A Script I Wrote A Few Years Ago; I Don't Care If You Can't Draw challenge.

And it fucking rocks. Here's his first page.


Fuck yeah.

Now...where's YOURS?



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.



Maybe in the next few days I'll see who wants to do a Sir Reginald comic. Very short. Five sets of four panels, if memory serves. Was originally planned for a one-per-day-for-a-week release. I think. I scripted it a while back for somebody whose life ended up getting VERY busy, so I'm kicking the moth's balls off of it and looking at it.

Maybe I'll ask several of you to do it.

Or even strongly encourage ALL of you to do it.


Month deadline sort of thing.

Sound good?



May. 13th, 2010 10:45 am


Art "[info]grafunkel " Grafunkel (a.k.a. Belgian Van den Belgian, nee Steven Van den Broeck) has finished page three of the comic adaptation of Sir Reginald vs. Man-X!!!

Seriously, man.


I came.




Sir Reginald vs Man-X, page 3, by Art Grafunkel

In conclusion, Happy Ascension of Jesus Day, Belgium! Enjoy your public holiday!



Today, a super-awesome comic version of my fourth Sir Reginald story, perfectly laid-out and drawn by [livejournal.com profile] evil_egg, brain behind Laszlo Hadron. We both decided that the temporary text was somehow quite right for this.

Big and Awesome Comic that you're going to check out )


The story is a Sir Reginald story I wrote that you can read right here.

Since then, Art Grafunkel ([livejournal.com profile] grafunkel) has drawn two pages of it in comic format.


And while I don't remember writing it into the scripty thing--maybe I did; I'm terribly stupidly forgetful--the thought balloon in the final panel made me put pee in my pants.


Sir Reginald v Man X Page 2


It's a bit of a kick in the creative pants when one of your friends is turning a story of yours into a comic and it's looking better than it did in your head when you were writing it.

[livejournal.com profile] grafunkel totally did that to me.

The story is a Sir Reginald piece that you can read right here. But for now just enjoy his awesome.

Sir Reginald vs Man-X page 1 by Art Grafunkel

Well done, Belgian Van den Belgian--IF THAT IS YOUR REAL NAME. Fucking nice one. Can't wait to see the rest.

Happy Barbadian Independence Day!

The delightfully Jewish[profile] pensylvania_joeis including, with permission, Sir Reginald in a piece he's writing. I hearts me some Joe and I hearts me some Joe Writing. It works out well.

I give his bit to you now:




Thursday, 8:27am. The Wise Owl Cafe, Walter Library, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis

I like this library. It’s really just a science and law library. Not much in the way of real books. But it does go down into several layers of stacks. And there is a door, marked “Staff Only” that leads to the occult section. Between that and the Rare Books Room, there’s some actual value to this place book wise. But more importantly, it has a cafe. A place for coffee. And for cookies.

Right now, I have both. I’m not eating or drinking though. I’m a little bit in shock.

You see, I sat down to enjoy my cookie and drink my coffee. I was all set to do that. Then this guy sat down across from me. He’s got a little goatee that curls up at the bottom, is wearing glasses that are just a pair of sqaure like lenses connected by wire somehow sitting on his nose, and is wearing a smoking jacket, pajama pants, and slippers. His hands are in fingerless gloves that look both like they are hand knit and like they’ve seen better days.

And now, for the REST of the story )
And no, that's not Reginald's Real Name. :)

Smooches, kids.


"Well," said Sir Reginald as he grunted another steaming turd onto the Prince of Darkness's smoking head, "the devil will have his doo."

For those of you unfamiliar with him, here are Sir Reginald's stories (I'd start at the beginning), here is Sir Reginald art, all from others, and here are all things related, including art. The following is a stand-alone-mostly story that's part of a bigger arc.

I left him alone for a long time, but I anticipate his semi-regular return.


“Oh…fuck,” said Sir Reginald as he stared down the alley. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

In the back, next to a filthy dumpster, a pile of meat began to unfold itself. In seconds it had become skinless beast somewhere between a dog and an antelope. It straightened, popping and cracking, and started to void itself onto the cement. Its urine stunk of rotten meat and spoiled milk. It opened its mouth wide, showing a tiny fire glowing in the back of its throat. As it walked forward, its muscles folded in on themselves, then unfolded, ends detaching and reattaching elsewhere. The effect was that of a river of muscles squelching and popping as it constantly adjusted itself for maximum speed and fluidity of movement. The beast made a terrible snorting noise and licked its lips, leaving flaming mucus along their edges.

Reginald didn’t check his revolver, just drew it from his shoulder holster and emptied it into the monster’s flesh. The thing only cocked its head to the side and extruded the bullets.

“That is patently unfair,” said Reginald as he drew an auto-loader from his jacket pocket and dropped in the four special shells They would be more than enough, he calculated, to take down the fasciopteryn. He revised his assessment when the animal dropped its haunches and birthed a second, smaller version of itself.

“Oh, come on!” Reginald shouted as he fired an explosive shell into the little one’s face. Its skull opened up like a flower, baring a mutilated brain to the cool October air. Muscles and tendons quickly flowed, sealing the breach and rebuilding what had been destroyed.

He fired again, this time launching a small slug of green demonic plasma into the same animal. It whined as its muscles stretched and popped, shifting the small fire under its lack of skin. It bayed and squealed, eventually managing to expel the hellfire-soaked lead, which landed in the pool of urine.

Reginald choked back his vomit as the piss boiled and steamed, releasing clouds of horrible fumes. The elder beast did its best imitation of a smile as the smaller edition walked forward, ignoring Reginald’s next bullet, one that expanded into a small but beautiful flower of flechettes, all of which vibrated at different frequencies. Muscle tore and metal stuck, but the thick and sticky blood that came out flowed nowhere.

“THIS BULLET WAS EXPENSIVE!” screamed Reginald, focusing his chi into his revolver for one perfect shot.

He shifted his aim at the last second, figuring he’d best kill the big one if he only had one more chance. The singularity shell exploded into life with a loud tearing of air.

The tiny black hole hit the fasciopteryn in the center of its chest and immediately began to pull the creature in. It fought hard, twisting and adjusting in a vain attempt to escape the terrible gravity. Bones began to stick through as unfolding muscles were pulled into the darkness. It tried to scream, but the sound was quickly absorbed by the singularity.

And then it was gone.

Reginald’s eyes darted about quickly as he made sure that the singularity had vanished. In theory it should have folded in on itself, become impossible, and vanished. Satisfied that the tiny black hole was gone, he turned to face the smaller creature.

Junior was sniffing the air where its parent had been, finding no odor at all where there should have been a horrid stench. It arched its back, tilted its head back, and let out a three-tone howl that shook everything in the alley. Reginald felt his bones vibrating and stumbled from the creature’s line-of-sight. His skin still numb, he began to run.

He needn’t have bothered. The speed of the monster was unholy. Before Reginald had even gotten half a block he felt a burning tear at the back of his shin as shark-like teeth tore through his Achilles tendon.

He screamed at the top of his lungs and fell to the ground. His momentum tumbled him a half-dozen feet, an arc of blood following his leg. The fasciopteryn skidded to a stop as it chewed and swallowed the chunk of flesh it had won from its opponent.

Reginald pulled a twisted wand from inside his jacket pocket and aimed it at the creature. A gout of green flame shot forth, but the creature shifted its muscles and rolled safely to the side. It leapt forward and grabbed Reginald’s forearm, ripping its teeth through flesh down to bone and dragging its muzzle down his forearm, snapping the wand in the process.

There was a loud pop and small green fireballs erupted from both broken ends of the wand. They swerved around Reginald, who was now bleeding and screaming at equal volume. The dog-thing was not so lucky, as both of its forelegs were blown off, the stumps seared shut. Its flesh tried to rebuild what it had lost but failed every time it reached the smoking bone.

Sir Reginald used his good arm and leg to push himself along the pavement as the creature flailed about behind him. It was no use, though. His injuries were far too grave and he was nearly unconscious from lack of blood.

He leaned his face forward and whispered quietly at the band around his left ring finger.

“Help me.”

Behind him the fasciopteryn was peddling its legs, pushing itself along the cement on its chest. Just as it caught up to Reginald it stopped in place and began to cough.

It was only a few hacks at first, then small belches of fire began to erupt from its mouth, along with what appeared to be tiny flaming stones. As the fit grew in intensity, the fire in its throat went out, extinguished by what were now clearly…pillow candies.

It thrashed about on the ground, vomiting the sweets everywhere. In no time at all it was dead, its head resting on a mound of candies, its legs still steaming green smoke.

Sir Reginald slumped forward, his face hitting the ground with a sharp thud.

“Oh dear,” said Princess Chocolate Buttercream Gumdrop as she stepped from behind nothing in particular, “I’d best get some pixie dust on you right this second. I’ve missed you, my most lovely husband.”


Obviously not the end,


Princess Chocolate Buttercream Gumdrop is copyright benjamin sTone and Carrie Matras Polli

benchilada: (Bird People)

So, you know [livejournal.com profile] fairyarmadillo , right? She and her husband [livejournal.com profile] dr_beep ? The ones who changed their married names to Robot?

Nadja sent me one of the best things ever in the history of ever ever.


Here is a video--poorly lit, as usual, since it's just being filmed with a digital camera--video that she requested, namely of me opening the box.

I was having a weird Tourette's night, so that should also be fun for you. Maybe a seven out of ten intensity? Six?



You see what I mean now?

I have the best friends that ever was best friends.


I don't know who Ryan Estrada is.

I've never even heard of [livejournal.com profile] ryanestrada .


You've been seeing his stuff everywhere today?


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... )

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