NARCOLEPTIC DOGS PRESS, IN ASSOCIATION WITH COHERENT COMICS UNINCORPORATED, PRESENTS... WARDEN: AN ASH UNIVERSE COMIC (ASH property of Dave Van Domelen. Warden property of Matt Rossi and Dave Van Domelen. All Rights Reserved.) ISSUE NUMBER TWO OF SEVEN: THRENODY IN BLUE (Cover: Very Reminiscent of the cover to WOLVERINE #3, Warden, with a gash in his ribs and his duster perforated by knife-cuts and other kinds of holes, is diving into a mass of paragangers, his bandana falling off to reveal his blank eyes, his bundi over his head trailing blood from one of the gangers.) While I plead the cause of truth and innocency against the bloody doctrine of persecution for cause of conscience, I judge it not unfit to give alarm to myself, and all men to prepare to be persecuted or hunted for cause of conscience. (Roger Willams, THE BLOODY TENET OF PERSECUTION) January 4th, 2023 3:32 AM Paul Mahler, MetaPsych specialist, never saw him move. One second he had been telepathicially conversing with Thomas Malfeas, who now went by the name of Warden and had made himself a scourge to the paragangs of NYC, and then they were surrounded by members of one of those gangs. They wore old Army Surplus jackets (their 'Colors' if you will) and called themselves Razors. Now Thomas was in the air, very high in the air, possibly twenty yards off of the rooftop they had been 'talking' on. From inside his long black duster came the wide blade from India that had become his trademark, a bundi, which transformed his fist into an edge extending his reach almost the length of his hand again. Knives flew, several of them perforating the black denim of the jacket, one tearing a rip in the skin stretched drumhead taut over his ribs, carnelian dripping down the raised bone. A jet of onyx and midnight blue crackled past, arcing in a static burst that filled the air with the tang of ozone. ++They can't aim, Kelly. He's doing something to their eye- hand coordination.++ --Thanks for the play by play, Mr. Cosell.-- Thomas came down, a whirling bomb of kicks and slashes, and three of the Razors were down before the rest could react. Snake Escutia with his nose crushed and a case of assisted vertigo. Dalia Boyle with a deep cut across his chest that hurt far more than even such a serious wound should, his shock shut down so he felt all the pain. Matthew Willams vomiting without so much as having been touched, nausea coming from a heightened squeamishness. "Get pinchin! He's skurbat trainny! Range him!" The largest of the Razors, a man with a huge wrestler's build and a small head that hid predator intellect, barked out orders. Paul realized that even with the element of surprise and a savage attack, Thomas couldn't win against these odds without help. ++LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU!++ The huge man/boy whirled, helpless to defy such a strong telepathic yell. Kelly used his microwave taser, set to maximum charge, to set the muscles in his target to spasming. --Good idea, taking the leader out of the fight.-- ++Looks like we both had that idea.++ Thomas delivered a Muay Thai low kick to the legs of a green- haired woman with a baseball bat, also painted green, and in one smooth slippery motion caught the bat before it fell and threw it into the head of David Morris, a telekinetic. Unfortunately, Morris still managed to get off his mental blow. The impact of kinetic force drove Thomas down onto one knee. The two standing Razors, Paula Carbary and Random, swept in. Random had no other name but the thin man was expert knife fighter and his sound-manipulator lover Paula was even more dangerous. Random drove a knife into Thomas before he could react, buried it up to the hilt in his forearm. Thomas did not so much as twitch. Random felt the pain that Thomas should have as it swept up his own arm. He screamed and dropped his other knife. Kelly tasered him just to shut him up. That left Paula and Thomas, facing each other. Thomas grimaced as he pulled the knife out of the flesh between the bones of his forearms, the sucking sound loud in the air. Paula pointed, and a wave of sound liquefied the rooftop where Thomas would have been standing, except that he warped her perception so she aimed low and to the left. Meanwhile, the holes in Thomas began to close up. They scarred over. Kelly gaped. Mahler understood. ++He can manipulate his bodily processes. That's how he moves so fast...he just accelerates his refexes. Same with the healing. That HAS to be a strain on him.++ --Look, that woman's about to liquefy him, and my Taser is out of charges...you have a plan here? He doesn't look like he's up to a fight.-- ++Hold on. I have an idea.++ Mahler concentrated, slipped in past her defense (Someone put up a shield...Thomas has been sidestepping it by attacking their nerves, I have to get past it) and simply turned her off. While not an easy thing to do, which is why he hadn't been doing it when there were more of them, it was effective. She crumpled. "Get some of those doctors up here!" Kelly barked into his collar- mounted radio. Mahler looked at Thomas/Warden, who never looked at anyone. ++Thomas, we would like to help you, but we can't until you tell us what's going on.++ ++I must see the mentor. She will know what to do.++ He stepped over to the edge of the roof and slid his weapon, silver with drying crimson, into a sheath hidden somewhere inside the duster he wore. Kelly saw him heading to the roof, and began to run after him. "Hold it! Mahler, stop him!" Before Mahler could say anything, Warden simply drifted off of the roof, a controlled, almost delicate leap. Letter from James Willot to his sister Beth Dated January 7th, 2023 Bethie, How's my little brat? Things taking off for you in Chi-Town? I m'self am involved in some heavy things, and since I can't talk to mom and dad about it, I thought I'd try you. Since you're a paranormal and all, I figured you'd be able to help me figure it out. Are you still slated to go to the Academy? Are you sure about that? Well, if it's what you want... I had a point to this. Anyway, it's about my new roommate. Yeah, I know I told you he was weird, but he seems mostly a nice kid. But there are a lot of things about him you don't know. Things I didn't want to tell mom or dad about, so I left them out of the last letter. DON'T SHOW THIS ONE TO ANYBODY. Tommy is a paranormal. Maybe more. I'm not sure. I met him in August. He was in a dumpster behind the dojo, digging for scraps, and I felt bad for him. Especially when I found out he didn't have any eyes. So, after a few tense minutes, I managed to convince him to come in. The funny thing was, at first his English was lousy. Half the time he'd talk to me in a sing-song chant, the other half he sounded like the Captain in that golden oldie film you like, the Russian guy. But within ten minutes, he talked just like me. Then I asked him who he was, got his name. He told me he was in a hospital where he'd been awake but asleep, whatever that means, and that his 'mentor' had saved him. Now he had to go fight crime. Paragangs, stuff like that. Yeah, I thought he was nuts. I tried to show him how easy they'd stomp him by throwing a quick arm-bar on him, but he reacted instantly, faster than I could with a leg-sweep. It was like he knew what I was going to do, and exactly how to counter it. I was impressed, and I felt bad for him, so I offered him a job in the dojo. At first, he was just teaching Tai Ch'i-Ch'uan, and I'll tell you, he was every bit my equal in it, but after we went to that tournament in Boston, he's somehow learned all sorts of styles. I've seen him use Muay Thai, Bak Mon, Pakua, flowing from one to the other. Unreal technique. Plus, he's faster than he has the right to be. And he can sort of see, even without eyes. That's why I think he's a paranormal. I don't know what to do. He's determined to go on this anti-gang crusade, and as good as he is I can't see it ending well. I could use some advice. Love, Jimmy January 16th, 2023 8:29 PM The rooftops were silent as he leapt from building to building, his red bandana replaced by a black one that kept him from being spotted as easily as the red. His movements were swift and smooth, held at bay so that any anxiety or tension did not show. The Bronx gave way to the Battery as he ran. The neighborhoods of New York were cleaner now, better maintained. The people don't care. Not enough energy, not enough time. But the Paragangs keep rolling along, and on this night, he hunted for answers. Barnes was a minor figure in the Oblivious. He mainly dealt in the more obvious vandalism and the occasional smash and grab. Still, the lanky blond was a member, and members are sometimes standing around when plans are being made. Barnes leaned against the alley wall and swore lightly. Armstrong and Phipps were supposed to meet him for some Organlegging thirty minutes ago (Barnes had the paranormal ability to tell who is a Universal Donor, making him useful for these types of excursions) but they hadn't arrived yet. "Waiting for someone?" Barnes had heard that voice once before, the last time he'd had the courage to go Organlegging. That voice had belonged to the man who'd shut down his hangcrew, sent everybody but him to the hospital. He opened his eyes and looked up. Standing on the dumpster was the man in the black duster. He was wearing a black bandana, and his hair had grown out a lot. He'd gotten somewhat of a tan, too. But it was him, same black jeans, same no shirt, and in a striking motion the same frebbin' blade slid out of the duster. He stood there, a moon smile underneath the black cloth over his eyeless spot...Barnes had been the first ganger to see that space of white. "I need to talk to you. You can spare a few minutes for an old friend." "Yyyyy-you took care of Phipps and Armstrong? But they're...they can... they're BIG TIME." "You'd be amazed how easily Phipps superstrength can be offset if he can't stand up. But the legs should heal. And Armstrong accidentally threw one of those axes into a transformer. Even his fur burnt. Now, we talk." Barnes saw a patch of white shift, and then the black mass of the jacket was in the air, draped on its wearer. Warden landed next to Barnes and hoisted him easily into the air. "Where do the Oblivious hang out? And who's been putting the fuzz over your thoughts?" "Are you groppy? I can't peach on them!" "And if you don't..." Warden didn't complete the threat. Pain shot up Barnes' jaw, the kind of pain that comes from having all those nerves active at once. After a thirty second tour of hell, the pain stopped. "I can do this all night. I can turn different parts on and off, or all of them on at once. I can make you sick, weak, blind. And I leave no marks. Now, the mentor has told me I must know this...so you had best tell me." After another twenty minutes, Barnes broke. "They're in the Threnody...an old club on Fifth Ave. It's all blue, y'can't miss't. We scrim there, and that's where Bathory lays the chak down. Bathory did the rezz on our brainboxes. That's all I can peach t'ya." His breath escaped his mouth in ragged blasts. "Good. Now, run along and play. And, you might want to think about going back to school. You could be very useful in the medical profession." Warden simply tossed Barnes over his shoulder. As the ganger clanged into the metal lid of the black, rusting dumpster, Warden leapt up to a fire escape and was gone. January 16th, 2023 10:37 PM Warden had never read a book in his life. He couldn't. But imprinted in his mind were all sorts of images from life that he'd never seen. He didn't know where they came from. But one of them was a dictionary. In it, he looked up the word Threnody. Threnody/Thren-oh-dee: 1) Death Song. SHE SANG THE THRENODY AT HER OWN WAKE. He didn't need the rest of the definition. That one suited the burnt out place that he was watching. Painted blue thirty or more years ago, the once-prosperous club had been deserted as the elite moved on to better and brighter places. Wageslaves weren't going to go clubbing. And so the Threnody died. But the gangers had brought it back. Thomas pointed his head at the icepick of light that was the Empire State Building, feeling it. Wondering what light looked like. What is sight like? Is it different than the sense of place that he had? Dismissing those daydreams (They would not please the mentor) he sat and waited. Finally two women and a man approached the place. The fuzz was on their thoughts, but he could hear their names...Antoon, Milan, and Hardy. They were members. He knew that much, and as he felt them enter the building, he moved. Leaping the twenty foot space required a slight boost, but not much, and he cleared it easily. His landing was soft. He increased his sense of hearing as he tried to discern the patterns beneath him. "...he's got to be killed. The Razors tried it, but no dice, and I hear the Tongs are thinking about moving in on us if this keeps up." "Could he be a Tong boy?" "Mizzen. No gluugin way that was a Tong boy. He cut me in half before I could move! He BLINDED us!" "I agree." Smooth voice. Deep, feminine, easily in control. Must be Bathory. Warden filed that away in his head. "No Tong, something...did anyone hear that?" "Hear what?" She was on to him. Somehow. Must be a telepath. Warden drew his bundi and prepared himself, counting to three and raising all his physical abilities. Then he moved, whirling to the heating vent on the roof and popping it open. He slid down the metal just as he heard the door to the roof open. He kicked the grill off and dropped into what was the manager's office a lifetime ago. There was nobody there, but any minute the gangers on the roof would see that the grate was open. They probably couldn't follow, but they'd alert the others. Warden thought, wondered what the mentor would say. HIT THEM FIRST. The door opened softly as well. No noise escaped him as Warden walked around the lip, crouching low. Most of the gang was on the old dance floor, which had been converted to a gym and living quarters. There was some kind of seat raised up on a central platform. There was a woman on that seat. Warden sensed that she was almost locked in on him, and so he moved. Standing, he pulled the Chinese Throwing Coin off of his neck and leapt off of the upper rim. The gang, about twenty members, were not aware until he had almost landed. The woman that Warden had identified as Bathory screamed "He's HERE!" and then the coin flew. It missed her. He was impressed. "Raoul! Take him!" The bundi was out, and as he landed he swung in a left handed arc, drawing his hook sword with his right hand. The speed was the thing...had to disable them. Before they could disable him. A blur of growling meat leapt at him, nearly faster than he could track it. He managed to drop below it, sensed fangs and rage and blood as the shape hurtled by. The rest of the gang ran. Warden picked up surface thoughts. --..Raoul'll chop him inta grizzik.-- --Get the bagget, Raoul!-- --The mistress commands...blood feast, weakling!-- Then the shape had landed, and Warden turned. Apparently, the Oblivious had orders not to interfere in this fight. He sensed the outlines of what was attacking him. A hugely muscled man, with hair all over his body, fangs and a smell of blood strong on him. The words rumbled from a barrel chest. "I'll crush you and drink your blood from your own skull." Warden simply gestured in an Bak Mon sword move, hook sword held out and askew in front of him. "Nothing to say?" Raoul crouched and jumped, so as to come down on his prey and tear it apart in front of his mistress. But his prey was not there when he landed. As he attempted to figure out what went wrong, a foot slammed into the side of his head, breaking his jaw and sending him reeling. Warden couldn't quite affect this one as well as he could others...the fuzz was strong in his head. So as Raoul staggered back he swept in with the hook sword leading. Raoul did as Warden expected he would and swept his clawed hand, tearing the weapon out of his grasp. Warden ignored the red welling up in his palm and swept the bundi in from the other side, sliding it into Raoul's furry ribcage all the way to the grip. "HURRRRRRRARGRR!" Warden yanked the blade, slick with a greenish liquid, out of Raoul. Raoul tore at Warden with his claws, managing to rip the bandana off his face and cut his cheek. Then as Raoul realized that he was fatally wounded, Warden smashed his now empty right hand into the beast-man's face. Raoul fell. Bathory gasped. For one thing, her chosen one was dead. For another, she was the first one there to see the eyeless face. This distraction probably saved Warden's life, as it gave him time to fling his last Throwing Coin into the breaker box, throwing the room into blackness. Chaos reigned. The gang, most of whom could not see in the dark, went berserk. Those that COULD sense in the dark felt something shutting off those senses. None of them saw Warden running out the front door and leaping back to the rooftops to make his way home. January 17th, 2023 3:37 AM Jimmy Willot sat in the kitchenette of his apartment and waited for his roommate to come in. Jimmy knew that he had a good life: He came from a wealthy family, and in New York a Martial Arts instructor can make good money, especially if he knows what he's doing. And Jimmy did. Nevertheless, he felt crummy. His new roommate was definitely a mixed blessing. On the one hand, he's a really nice guy, a talented teacher of the arts, an amazingly quick study. And he manages, between what Jimmy pays him and odd jobs he gets, to always pay his half of the rent. And he's insanely tidy. On the other hand, he goes out and fights paragangs at least four times a week, while dodging cops and the feds. Which is not a good thing. He's going to get nabbed sooner or later. When Thomas finally came in the window, Jimmy was already asleep. But Thomas realized that Jimmy wanted to lecture him, and so he woke him. "Huh? Wuzza...Tommy?" "Hello, James. You were waiting for me." "Yuh, guess I was...what happened to your face?" "A beast-man of some kind was attempting to rip it off. He did not know that he was too late. It is only a scratch." "Oh, lordie. Tommy, we gotta talk." NEXT ISSUE: WARDEN vs. THE ONYX EYE TONG! BATHORY GETS INTERESTED. WRITERS NOTES: Getting it out of my soul(s). Lately, a few people have pointed out to me that I'm a mite prolific. Which is a slight exaggeration...I mean, compared to guys like Dvandom and Drizzt, I really haven't written all that much. But I did want to touch upon some of the factors behind the comics I write, why I write it, and what it all really means. Because I'm Masochistic. 1) WHY DO I DO IT? Well, there are a few reasons. One is that I'm fairly compulsive about writing. If I don't write SOMETHING, be it comic book style or my realistic fiction (Which is exceptionally grim, mordant writing), I get all cranky. So I tend to write a few poems, and then I work on some net.fiction, and then I write some of my post-naturalist stuff. I spend about three hours or so a day on it every day, even if I don't want to keep any of it. I've spent far LONGER, of course, but those are during bursts of creativity. I really just have to write. 2) WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO IN THE COMICS? Here's where it gets a bit dicey. It really depends on the book. In SWORDMASTER, I go for massively zany, over the top humor, purging all the non- sequitors and nonsensical ramblings. In WARDEN, there is comedy (Naming all the gang members after LNH writers) but it stays low- key and in the shadows, so as not to distract from the story. TEMPEST is my attempt to play with the Myth of the Magus, the continuous repetition throughout history of this particular type of hero (Special Birth, Destiny, Death, Rebirth) and his place in the modern world. PULSE is my take on teenager-based superheroes. Or more accurately, on teenager-based nonheroes. CRUXADIER is about that old Acton saw, corruption of power. It is also about the wrong man being chosen for a tough job. Each of these books is different, and speak to something different in me. If you go through the influence list I published in TEMPEST 3, if you read that, you'll be able to tell where each of my influences fit here, and where I go off on my own. 3) WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? In the words of Joel Hodgson, "Bite me, it's FUN!" In other words, it don't really mean jack, Jake. I write because it is what I do. I'd like to work in comics some day, or maybe I'll publish a dark, brooding book of my post-naturalist stuff. Or maybe I'll become a poet. It doesn't really MEAN anything. That's the best part of it. See you around!