[The cover is in black and white, in an obviously "1980s British comics" style, showing the White Hat facing off against some shambling figures that look like zombies covered in prairie grass tufts.] ____________________________________________________________________________ .|, COHERENT An ASHistory Series --+------------------------------------------------------------------------- '|` SUPER STORIES #25 - The Sod Men Featuring White Hat copyright 2011 by Dave Van Domelen ____________________________________________________________________________ From johnnyt@aol.com Thu Nov 11 20:40:41 PST 1993 Article: 24124 of rec.arts.comics.misc Path: nntp.aol.com!news.aol.com From: Johnny T Gerald Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.misc Subject: Re: Missing Moore? Date: 11 Nov 1993 19:48:00 -0800 Organization: America Online Inc. Lines: 198 Sender: johnnyt@aol.com Message-ID: <5auuim$lnt@news.aol.com> jnevins@bgsu.edu (Basho) writes: > > I found another place where some early Moore might have been printed, >although I can't get my hands on it in person. In the early 80s, when >people mistakenly thought the White Hat had fallen into public domain, one >of the short-lived weekly publishers in Britain launched a series of comics >and text stories featuring him. All the stories in White Hat Weekly were >written by one "Bart Stone," a pseudonym for a bunch of different authors >doing work-for-hire. Rumors are that Alan Moore was one of the Barts, >although I can't find any reference to him confirming or denying this. >Maybe someday I can go to England and spend a month just rummaging through >their old comics and pulps. What? A guy can dream. > >Basho Hey! Maybe I have some early Moore work on my hands! When I was a kid, my family went to England on vacation, and dad bought me some comics at one of the stores there because I was bored by all the culture stuff. Wow, was I stupid back then! Anyway, I dug up the issue of White Hat Weekly I got, it's still in readable shape. If I can get access to a scanner, I can email someone the scans to post to an alt.binaries group (AOL doesn't carry the hierarchy, or if they do I can't get their crappy newsreader to access it). For now, though, I can type in the text piece about White Hat. Dude, prairie zombies? Weird. Johnny T. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- "THE SOD MEN" by Bartholomew "Bart" Stone Abilene Kansas was a small prairie community that was perched on the edge of its seat, waiting. Quiet now, within weeks it would be a riotous hub of activity as the cattle drives of the Chisholm Trail arrived at the rail head, sending beef to the Eastern cities and money to the cattle barons like Conrad Lebold. Once the herds arrived, the population of the town would swell by hundreds of people and tens of thousands of cattle. But now, in the late summer of 1899, Dirk Landon's arrival in town was actually notable. "Hullo, stranger. Lose yer way?" U.S. Marshall Clem Johnson tipped his hat back as he watched Dirk tie his horse to the hitching post outside the Marshall's office. He was a bit on edge, but hiding it well. He wouldn't have been hiding it at all if he were able to see Dirk's spectral companion, the ghost of his murdered uncle Abe. "Hullo, Marshall. If this is Abilene, then I'm in the right place," he tipped his white hat back a bit in greeting. "That 'tis. A mite early for the cattle, though," Clem eyed the hat warily. It was uncannily bright and clean, considering the trail dust that covered the rest of the newcomer's outfit. "What might Abilene be the right place for?" "I'm looking for a killer, Marshall. Rough sort by the name of Harry Jackson...do you recognise the name?" "Can't say as it stands out. But speaking of names, what's yours?" "Dirk Landon. And I heard that Jackson took up with one of the Red River roundups after fleeing Arizona, I thought I might find out where he's likely to go once he hits town. And wait for him." Marshall Johnson's eyes narrowed. "Look. This isn't the 1870s. I don't want any 'Wild Bill' incidents. You looking for justice? Fine. I can bring this Harry Jackson in for questioning when he gets to town. But I don't want to hear that you're waiting around for him with a gun." Abe snorted dismissively at the Marshall. "Citified pansy. Farther East we get, the less I like it." Dirk was well-used to ignoring his uncle's ghost when they were in public, and he smiled genially to the lawman. "I'll try to make sure you don't hear about any such thing, don't worry," Dirk unhitched his horse and moved to remount. Just then, a child of perhaps nine or ten years dashed around the corner, calling for the Marshall. "It's the Sod Men! They took my pa!" the child shouted, skidding to a stop in front of Marshall Johnson in a cloud of dust and a smattering of tears. "Now, Dwight, those 'Sod Men' you're always on about aren't real," the Marshall chided. "You were probably napping and dreamed it, your pa just stepped out while you were asleep." Dirk paused at the side of his horse. "Sod men? That sounds like the sort of thing that shouldn't be happening in a nice town like this." The Marshall blinked, then chuckled. "No, sod as in chunks of turf. Young Dwight here claims to have seen men who looked like they were either made of or covered in chunks of dirt and grass, and moved like walking dead might move." "The walking dead?" Abe frowned. "I'm not liking the sound of that." "You might want to take the child seriously," Dirk started leading his horse into the street, in the general direction of a nearby hotel. "I've... heard tales of Indians covering themselves in grasses and dirt so they can blend in and ambush people." "Maybe you still have injun problems back in Arizona, Mister Landon, but Kansas is civilised. Hm...but you might have a point, could be some regular old rustlers taking a trick from the injuns and getting ready for some mischief once the herds come in. Maybe they decided they needed an engineer and nabbed Mr. Eisenhower," Marshall Johnson pondered. "Well, I wish you luck. I need to get settled in, I'll leave the law in your hands, Marshall," Dirk resumed heading for the hotel. Once Dwight had led the Marshall away, Abe sighed. "Yer gonna stick yer nose in, ain' ya?" Dirk smirked. "If it's just rustlers, no. As the Marshall pointed out, this isn't Arizona. Or Wyoming. If I want to get Jackson here, I need the law on my side. So I'll keep my nose clean if I can. But if the boy's right, and it really is something unnatural...well, I don't want Jackson scared off by news reports of weird things killing people, do I?" "Yeh, keep tellin' yerself that. I suppose ya want me ta sniff around for spirits?" Abe asked. "I'd appreciate it muchly," Dirk nodded, not adding that it would also be appreciated to have his ghostly uncle away from his side for at least a little while. Over the years, Abe had become grimmer and his demands more insistent. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ "Not where I'd expect to find sod men," Dirk shrugged as Abe led him to a fairly new-looking building. "Wasa-Tusa" read the sign on the front, which Dirk recognised as being a native word for health. "A medicine manufactory? Some sort of mad science run amok, perhaps?" Abe shook his head. "Definitely magic. Somethin's wrong with the feel of this part of town. Somethin' dead that decided not ta stay that way." "Fancy meeting you here," Marshall Johnson emerged from the main doorway of the medicine factory. "Following me, or just seeing the sights? The Lebold Mansion's a bit more of an attraction, if you are." "I'm surprised to see you here too, Marshall. Many cattle rustlers come for patent medicine?" Dirk replied from horseback. The Marshall shook his head. "Mr. Eisenhower has been doing some work at the factory here, I was checking to see if he'd come in after hours," he inclined his head towards the setting sun. "But no one's seen him since he clocked out for the day." "SOD MAN!" Dwight shouted. He'd emerged behind the Marshall, and was now pointing to a corner of the factory, where Dirk was just able to glimpse a figure darting out of view. Without a second thought, and ignoring the shouts from the Marshall, Dirk spurred his horse to motion and followed the purported creature. He could just see it, shambling at an incredible pace over the dried mud of the trails that led into town, heading for the prairie grass. The setting Sun threw long shadows that distorted everything, but even allowing for that the loping figure couldn't be human. A few minutes later, the Sun was dipping below the horizon and Dirk was deep within the tall grass. "You feel it, Abe?" The hovering spectre nodded. "Slow down, boy. I don't need yer horse hitting a gopher hole and sending you to the other side. I need ya alive. The thing's close, anyway. We're in its territory." Dirk dismounted and started to lead the horse, which was blowing and foaming from the brief chase. Almost as soon as his feet touched the ground, figures rose up all around him. They were human...or once had been. Withered men with blackened skin and tufts of dirt and grass clinging to their bodies, they looked like the "bog mummies" he'd once seen in a traveling circus freak show. Their motions were stiff but sure, and while they shambled slowly now, he knew they could move as fast as a horse could run, should they need to. "Trapped," Abe snarled. "A fine mess ya got yerself in, boy." "Hullo?" called a voice from outside the circle. "Mr. Eisenhower?" Dirk called back, guessing at the identity of the man. "Yes...how do you know my name?" "Your son saw you captured by these sod men," Dirk replied, craning his neck to try to see past the shambling figures. He suspected they wouldn't react well to him getting back in the saddle. "Oh, no...it's all a misunderstanding. I think. I'm trying to communicate with these...people...but they don't seem to warm up quickly to newcomers." Finally, the face behind the voice pushed through the throng, mostly hidden by the long shadows. "What are they?" Dirk gestured at the sod men. "Preserved corpses, from centuries or even millennia ago, reanimated by some process that I have been endeavouring to determine. I believe that it might have been a result of some of the chemicals from the Wasa-Tusa manufactory. We have been experimenting with certain sedatives derived from Haitian folk remedies, which the superstitious believe are involved in the creation of zombies." "So you made zombies by mistake?" Dirk asked. Before Mr. Eisenhower could stammer out a reply, Abe shook his head. "These are restless ghosts. Trust me, I know that sort of thing. Any quack medicine they were messin' with was just a coincidence. Or maybe the spirits didn't like their fake hoodoo." "I was trying to determine how the bodies we found while working on the foundation could be so well-preserved, actually. If anything seeped into the ground from the manufactory to cause this, it was before I was engaged to work here. They're astonishingly like the 'bog men' I've read about being found in England. Yet, as you can see, this is a plains area, no forests or forest bogs to be found." At this, one of the sod men raised a hand, and Dirk could hear its spectral voice echo in his very soul. "There were forests here once, across the whole of the world. Do not be so arrogant, Americans, to think you are the only ones who can despoil a land. We felled the trees, tilled the soil, grew our crops from horizon to horizon. The last of the forest was where we stand, and I was among the last to be buried in its bogs. My children's children felled the trees, and then there were no more. One day, the crops failed. The people died, or left. And all that remained was the bare land, a few grasses clinging to it." "What's happening?" Mr. Eisenhower asked. "I see his mouth moving, but nothing's coming out." "Now you Americans come, before the land can heal, and destroy it again. I see death and dust for your children. We did not learn, and we died. You will not learn, and you will die. But we could not return to our rest until we at least warned one who could hear. The other could not hear, cannot hear, but you can." With that, the sod men seemed to melt into the ground, as if it were quicksand. As the last rays of the Sun vanished, only Dirk, Eisenhower and Dirk's horse remained visible in the brief skyglow after sunset. "A warning," Dirk mounted his horse and offered Mr. Eisenhower a hand up. "Of what? Are we building on sacred grounds, and they're going to come after us like revenants in a penny dreadful?" "No, they're not after vengeance. Pity, maybe. Atonement, I guess. And you're not totally wrong about the sacred grounds...they wanted us to know that this is ALL sacred, and we're treating it like, well, like dirt." ============================================================================ Author's Notes: "Basho" is the handle Jess Nevins went under in 1993 and early 1994, his ASH-verse counterpart used with permission of the real world version. I imagine his later career as a pulp historian would be rather complicated in the ASH-verse, given the difficulty in telling which stories were based on true events and which ones were made up out of whole cloth in order to fill pages. Johnny T. Gerald is a reference to Johnny Twelveyearold, a fictional letterhack during the RPG sessions of the Raiders in 1993-4 (the advancement system had players writting lettercol entries justifying their characters checking off various progress points, and Blitzkrieg's player Chris Tatro wrote as Johnny Twelveyearold). Some of the historical details in this story are...well, wrong. Abilene stopped being the rail head for the Chisholm Trail in 1871 as the railroad pushed westward. But when you're writing cheap pulp as work-for-hire in the 1980s, there's not a whole lot of incentive to research beyond what's in your desk encyclopedia (and I name-dropped a bunch of stuff that would likely be in a short 1980s encyclopedia entry on Abilene). Of course, even these days when a quick trip to Wikipedia could show the inaccuracies, a lot of piecework writers aren't going to bother. ;) Also, I deliberately misspelled "marshal" as "marshall" throughout, and tried to consistently use British spelling. And, of course, I had to throw in a bit of misanthropy and a dig at Modern Society (and Americans in particular) and how we're destroying the planet, to make it feel more like an early 80s British comic. :) However, I did not make any particular effort to write like Moore in particular. Even assuming his style had gelled by the early 80s, there's always the possibility that he didn't write any Bart Stone pieces at all. It's just a fandom rumour, after all.... "Sod" is a rather ruder word in Britain than it is generally used in America, being shortened from "sodomy" or "sodomize". I'm sure many a British schoolboy has snickered at references to American pioneers referred to as "sod-busters". As a final historical note, recent archaeological evidence suggests that the Kansas prairie is the result of man-made ecological disaster that played out maybe a thousand years ago, overfarming in the region that left things pretty messed up, and they'd only recovered as far as grasslands by the time European explorers arrived. But I don't recall any evidence of fens, I made that up for the story. ============================================================================ For all the back issues, plus additional background information, art, and more, go to http://www.eyrie.org/~dvandom/ASH ! To discuss this issue or any others, either just hit "followup" to this post, or check out our Yahoo discussion group, which can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ash_stories/ ! There's also a LiveJournal interest group for ASH, check it out at http://www.livejournal.com/interests.bml?int=academy+of+super-heroes (if you're on Facebook instead, there's an Academy of Super-Heroes group there too). ============================================================================