Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

<i>"I feel inclined to explain about this piece, but I also believe that explanations are just apologies in disguise, and that an artist should never have to apologize for what he's done -- does the explorer apologize for discovering something nasty?
Perhaps the fact that I am inclined to explain/apologize means that I should keep this piece to myself. I don't know.

But, at any rate, I will give this explanation:
It's all true. I know, because I was there.
It was a dream, sure, but it was real, at least within itself, and I was there. This is my report."</i>

The air is thick and metallic. It leaves a cold, burning slicing sensation in the back of your nasal cavity, and it tastes like aluminum in the back of your mouth. The mine dust coats your tongue and palate so you wash it down with acrid water and joke that the lead gives it flavour.
You don’t get used to it. You just go on anyway.

Fifty stories above, you would be able to see the ceiling of stone girded in steel, if it weren’t for the impenetrable haze that starts about thirty stories up. From the cracks that ceiling, water perpetually drips a slow faucet leak, filled with the minerals leached from the soil above. The arsenic leaves thin layers of white crust where the water dries.

The streets are lit by yellow electric lamps hung from poles or from the steel support columns that stretch up into the smoky oblivion or just from long black cables strung between them. Night and day do not exist, so the lights are always on. Except when the power fails in your district. Then it’s all matches and cigarette lighters and battery-powered lanterns and prayers that the batteries don’t die before the lights come back. There are no atheists in the blackouts.

Newspapers blow down the precise matrix of streets propelled by stale currents blown from rusted turbines, at least when the turbines haven’t been stopped so the cleanup crew can remove Johnny Factory-Worker’s entrails from its blades – in which case Johnny will be blowing down the street the next day somewhere in the back pages of the latest issue, somewhere next to the report of the Ministry of Repression’s latest efforts in subduing the latest revolt in the Mines.

A vampire cult sneers by shack containing a coven of DXM-heads, “Robo-trippers” (the term is derived from "Robitussin"), who are currently occupied with staring out at the world with a wide-eyed gaze of terror, while “Robo-walking” (staggering around like Frankenstein’s monster, only with less coordination) around in circles, slipping on empty cough syrup bottles and/or slick pools of their former contents. One tries to light a cigarette and yells in horror at the flash of the lighter.

Agents of the Ministry of Extermination perform ambush-tactic pyrethrum jobs on houses and tenements while the unsuspecting occupants sit down for dinner, surprised by the sudden presence of yellow powder on their wormsteaks. “It’s them centypedes and cock-a-roches, folks, don’ want them to go ‘n git arrogant now do we,” consoles one of the grey-coated gas-masked exterminators, while under cover of the commotion and the thick layer of powder on the floor, a six-foot centipede is able to carry off the baby unnoticed.

Ironclad constables strut down the street twirling their batons, or just feeling the notches on their pistol grips, looking around with expressions that say “I dare you to give me an excuse to crack your head open,” or “I dare you to think I <i>need</i> an excuse to crack your head open.”

People mill in and out of steel warehouse-like buildings serving as shopping-malls-cum-flea-markets-cum-bazaars, sporting sizzling neon signs reading ‼CAVEAT EMPTOR‼ which, in the illiteracy of the populace, had become not a warning but the term identifying such places. “What are you doin’ later, man?” “I dunno. Thinkin’ about goin’ to see the new atrocity flick down at the Arthroplex.” “Wanna go to the Caveat Emptor down on 33rd and C-M? I heard they’ve got a sale on automatic pistols.”

Guns are of course illegal to own unless you’re police or military, but not illegal to buy. Nothing is illegal to buy. Buying is good for the economy. What’s good for the economy is good for the Queen, what’s good for the Queen is good for you (“less’n yer one of them damned ungrateful anti-royalist Underground Underground sonumbitches, you sonumbitch”). So nothing is illegal to buy. That is, except nothing. Not buying is tantamount to treason. Hold on to your receipts to prove you’ve made purchases this week. Be a good citizen and spend your paycheck dutifully. Buy whatever the hell you want, just so you buy. But don’t get caught with it once you step out of your local Caveat Emptor.

Cage fighters duke it out with pipe wrenches and electric filet knives while wild-eyed spectators cheer and make their bets. A neophyte from the nearby Church of the Detonation walks by and shakes his head, sighing, “I thought we were <i>beyond</i> Thunder-Dome.”

Mutation fetishists, not quite satisfied with the ambient levels of radioactivity, walk out of body modification clinics, fondly clutching the bandaged arm that will, after three more operations, be a lobster claw, or affectionately rubbing the lump on the cranium where the horn will sprout.

The Ministry of Mortality clamps down on unauthorized abortions while the Ministry of Population Control clamps down on unauthorized pregnancies and the Ministry of Foreign Trade imposes a heavy tariff on latex products.

Every fifteen hours, workers released from their shifts drag themselves home to their apartment complexes (consisting of stacks seven-by-seven-by-seven plastic cubes with a door in each face), hoping that the tremor they felt earlier at work hasn’t induced their room on the top floor to fall off the pile again.

An orderly from one of the hospitals carts out a terminal cancer patient in a wheelbarrow to the collection truck. The truck drops off its cargo at the Cancer Farm to be harvested.

This is Undercity.
The Metropolis Beneath.
The Queen’s Subterraneum.


-----
(edits: added line "There are no atheists in the blackouts" to the end of the bit about blackouts; changed the exterminators' coats to grey instead of white; fixed some italics)

I could call this something limited like Postmodern Gothic Dystopian Cyberpunked Kafkainflected Nightmare OutofBody Memoirism.

But let it suffice to say that it's simply damn good and I admire it.

I may be seized with the desire to illustrate it in comix-style panels.

Yes, I can feel my loins girding now, my pen and brush at the ready.


Zlatko

Say, that's a good idea there! I'd love to see what you come up with!

I accidentally left of the "to be continued" at the end of this, but it is to be continued. There's still plenty to be put down, plenty of further episodes to be written (and, if'n you feel like it, illustrated)

Thanks, zlat, I'm really glad you like it

Dear M'sman45:


This piece is moderately reminiscent of "The Poet in Exile", the tatterdemailion scrofulated ends of the science-fiction novel I wrote about 3 or 4 years ago.

In that book, the whole world was turned into corridors of ruin through a process called "Gearing", a way to let you see what you want to see all the time-- a little like an ipod ( see LR's latest column) implanted in your mastoid bone.

While "The Matrix" may sound similar, it lacks the hairmatted , sticky unpleasantness of my confined corridors, which have floors and walls like a housefly's sandwiches, open-faced.

There are other nice doodads in it, to the degree of rapture that your story is filled with fear.

I'm currently working on two graphic novels ( one due and printed by December), and a daily comic strip for the Web.

I like your imagery so much, however, that I'll probably ink it a bit like Enrique Breccia's (penwork) pustulous ballrooms and leave it at that, letting you see if you can applique the text anywhere.


http://breccia.redsectorart.com/forsale ... ssue01.htm


( click on "swth101"-- the first link on this page. Treat yourself to the other Breccia pages here, too . . .)




I can even show you some fonts, on Blambot, where you can download them if you wish to make a mini-comic.


(Blambot-- look for "free fonts"-- and follow their directions)

http://www.blambot.com/




--Z

I can´t avoid thinking in which of the ministries fits our Education Ministry.

Breccia: I know the father, not the son. Good link!

A grey van marked <i>COLLECTION</i> pulls up in front of a small one-room house. Two men dressed in long white jackets and matching fedoras step out of the vehicle from either side simultaneously. Their grey faces, although structurally different, share a fundamental sameness. Pinned to their lapels are nametags reading Schecter and Case. Mr. Case carries a large black bag.

They walk up to the door. Mr. Schecter knocks. The door opens just wide enough to reveal a distraught-looking woman.
“Ma’am,” Mr. Schecter says in a remarkably unremarkable voice, tipping his hat humourlessly, “I am Mr. Schecter and my associate here is Mr. Case. We are with the Ministry of Mortality, Collections Bureau. We understand that an occupant of this domicile, one Mr. Bitterson, is, as of two hours ago, deceased. Are you Mrs. Bitterson?”
The woman nods nervously. She does not open the door any further.
“We will require your papers and the papers of the deceased, ma’am.” Mrs. Bitterson thought at first that it was Mr. Schecter who was speaking at this time, but his lips were still. Mr. Case was speaking. Their voices were identically toneless.

Mrs. Bitterson retreats into the house and returns a moment later with her papers and her husband’s. Mr. Schecter looks them over. “Mm-hm. Mm-hm. Mm—hmm? Ma’am, are you aware that your husband’s death license expired some two months ago?”
Mrs. Bitterson’s eyes widen.
Mr. Schecter continues, “As I am certain you are aware, dying without a license is a serious offense. Mr. Case, please apprehend the suspect.”
“You aren’t coming into my house,” Mrs. Bitterson states firmly.
“Ma’am, I must insist that you allow us to arrest your husband’s felonious corpse. Might I remind you that you are already at best an accessory, and further resistance will place you firmly under the category of accomplice. Mr. Case, if you would.”
“<i>You aren’t coming into my house</i>.”

Mr. Case advances. Mrs. Bitterson pulls a pistol from under her blouse and shoots him twice in the chest, then shuts and bars the door.

Mr. Shecter looks down at his partner, prodding him with the toe of his shoe. He's unconcsious and will probably be dead within minutes. Luckily, the van is equipped to accommodate up to fifteen corpses without discomfort to the driver. Mr. Shecter walks to the van and turns on the radio. “This is Collection Van 114-G. We have a code C-735 at 20.56 T-E Avenue. Requesting backup.”


The call comes in at the nearest police station.
“Code C-735, eh?” muses Police Constable Spiker. “I’ll take it. Feeling a bit bored.” He puts on his jacket, which does not feature the usual layers of steel and Kevlar between plies of fabric, and his helmet, then begins checking his gun and extending baton.
“Tell me, Percy,” he says smugly, “How’s my Brutality Quota coming along this week?”
“At the moment, you sit at fifteen points below, Constable Spiker, sir.”
“Well well, I hope I’m not losing my touch,” he hisses, smirking wryly.
He leaves the room, careful not to catch his stinger in the automatic door.


<i>[edits: changed "Collection Department" to "Collections Bureau," added a line re: Mr. Case's death, changed the mention of Spiker's "tail" to the more apt "stinger"]</i>

Zlatko:
That Breccia stuff is pretty cool
Was he the one who drew Swamp Thing when Alan Moore was writing it?
I recently read "Watchmen" and "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen." Alan Moore is absolutely brilliant

I've been writing and compiling my existing works for a series of chapbooks called "Tales from Nowhere." I plan to put this stuff about the Undercity in it, plus any illustrations you might come up with, along with several other continuing stories.
(One of them is going to be a comic, "The Fantastickal Adventures of Mushroom Gehera." I haven't got much of it done, including any art aside from concept sketches, 'cause it's hard work for me to draw consistently enough for comics, but it's gonna be really cool when I'm done with it. Think Edward Gorey meets Hayao Miyazaki)

I'd be glad to include any illustrations of the Undercity that you end up cooking up. The covers of "Tales" will be in color, but for printing costs the pages will be in black-and-white.
Arranging the text will be no problem. For every single thing in "Tales," I will be printing out the text, then cutting it up with an exacto blade, to build the layout by hand with paste and scotch tape.
Undercity will not be featured in the first issue, and probably not the second either, so don't feel that I'd expect you to come up with anything for any sort of deadline. Take your time, and attend to your projects


Arcadia:
Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for future horrors

Great stuff, Marksman.... comix illustrations would be great for these pieces, though hard-pressed to capture all of their grim detail. I did get the feeling of moving through a bizarre dream; like a dark cartoon of sorts, yet with close-up physical details noted throughout to make it seem uncomfortably real, at times. Thanks for posting.

Truly, as Mnaz says, a bizarre dream, albeit it's haunting in that it could be reality, perhaps already is reality for some.
I see this as a great series, the Undercity.

ll be reading the excerpts as you post them.
They are scary, but perhaps a good preparation for things to come?
Yikes!
And Bravo's too...

H

Thanks, mnaz & hester

hester: "yikes & bravos," that's wonderful. THat's what I'm going for here :)

Keep an eye out for further episodes

Dear Marksman:


Below please find my first effort at an "Undercity" image. I think I continually envisage some sort of insidious steerage for your nightmare-- not simply grass-roots chaos. So I've pictured, perhaps somewhat familiarly for some-- an "administration."

I've also taken a line of yours.

I'm sure you will witness immediately that this is not a "translation" of the prose into an illustration. Just an image that grabbed me and which I tried to put on paper.

More-- eventually. This has been a busy week already.


(paste of illustration below)


(click to enlarge)











--Z

WOW that's weird and cool

and there's definitely an administration. I haven't talked much about the government, except a few of the ministries. It's led by a queen who lives secured in her impregnable palace, which she never leaves; she communicates with the outside world via electronic communication with the Prime Minister, Mr. Murray/Mr. Corvin. But I'll get to that eventually

After I had the dream this is based on, the image of Police Constable Spiker was so stuck in my head that I drew a picture of him. I'll have to find it and show it to you -- but I wouldn't expect you to draw him just like I did, and in fact I'd be rather disappointed if you did.