Comic Book Mystery
A phone call from the military to investigate someone long dead. This was the second such phone call. This time an Andy Gonzales had died several decades ago under widely publicized mysterious circumstances. Possibly the name is misunderstood as two names and is really one.
. . .
A book being written. Do authors have special insight into the motivations of others? Am I Sherlock Holmes to solve these types of mysteries?
. . .
A girl is complaining about the unrealistic women in comic books. Several friends and I are outside a comic book convention. It is bright outside but no heat makes an impression. I formulate an explanation to her exclamation but am interrupted as something catches my eye.
A tall stately woman is seen walking down an intersection across our view from the right. The street we stand on is perpendicular to hers. The intersection has no traffic but a line of people stretching from the direction the woman walks. They all wait for entrance to the convention. Wearing a trench coat and sunglasses she still stands out. She is large in every proportion. Not fat but tall and improbably well proportioned like an Amazon. As I focus on her as a perfect example for our conversation I am again interrupted. Just before I mention her a man walks from behind us to the same intersection. He too is like a larger version of the common man. I start with the woman.
See that woman right there must be Julie Strain. A popular comic book model for her well proportioned physique. A human body is hard to draw. Especially so many times as a comic book artist must render it. It is easier to focus on a couple of things that make a character distinguishable than painstakingly draw a completely realistic person every time. In our comic culture rendering points that make a person obviously a man or a woman are seen as cornerstones of drawing. Emphasizing these points make the drawn woman more impossibly physically feminine than any other woman has a right to expect of her body. It is the same for the men. It is not done to engender jealousy, but for easy recognizability. That these improbable extremes are seen as easy on the eyes does not hurt matters, but it is not really the point. I have no idea who the man is but he must work in the same capacity as Julie.
After my speech I recognize the two people that were examples of my explanation match the wanted posters I had previously received. I call police assistance by yelling for them to apprehend the two suspects. Police spring out of nowhere. Possibly tailing me, confident that I would lead them to their answer. The woman is caught without difficulty, but the man runs a little ways before being taken down. A pile of policemen are struggling to restrain the man. From my vantage point standing a yard away observing this I see the side of the man's body come into view. His hand is going for a gun stuck in the back of his pants. I yell, "He has a gun", and leap forward to restrain him before he can free and use it.
Just as he pulls it free I grab the end of the gun from him. Before it slips completely from his hand he manages to pull the trigger. A bullet pierces my palm but leaves me otherwise unharmed. Pulling myself from the fray I tend to my hand with EMS assistance. No other mishaps happen and the man is successfully taken into custody. Going home I grab my typewriter from the table and fling it upon the ground. I proceed to stomp and kick it in anger at the world. I am broken and ruined. My writing hand is useless, so I will never be able to write again. Cooling down after destroying the typewriter I notice a woman sitting on the bed.
She entails me to not jump so drastically to the conclusion that I can never write again. In response I stare at her through the whole in my hand. I thought my point would be clear and unarguable. She replies that just because I can't write with my hands doesn't mean I am through. She will stay with me and type whatever I dictate. Together my writing will continue.
. . .
I am in a Corps bay. Just one big rectangular open room. I can picture two rows of beds going down the length of the bay. Their lengths would run from the center walkway of the bay to either wall. The beds would have 2 feet spaces between them, and the walkway would be 4 foot wide between the two rows. There are no beds but there is a sense of them belonging. It is empty except for a couple of other people. We are not freshman but upperclassmen in some capacity or another.
A person that pretends to normality but really we are ignoring each other. Their is some activity where minimal responses are issued to each other. Some running back and forth in the bay. A running game must be in progress, but I do not participate. I am resting against the back wall. The person is about to crash into the wall I lean upon. Acting quickly I catch the person before high speed contact with the wall is made. Offense is the only response. AT fields at full strength.
In the back of the bay where I stand there is a free standing wall that separates a small space from the rest of the bay. At either end of the free standing wall a small one person break allows entrance or exit to the area broken apart from the rest of the bay. The person and a friend talk in this area. My medicine cabinet is located by itself directly before the right hand walk through to this back area. Inspecting my cabinet I find all my stuff gone and replaced by possibly a roommate's stuff. I am remember that I put all my stuff in a plastic container. With my cabinet open the walk through is blocked.
There is a knocking at a door near where I am. The door is locked from the outside. I hear the friends exclaim that they will get it as they are leaving that way anyway. I observe them doing so to ensure the person is not forgotten. There must be another way from the separated area to the exit for them to have passed by without me needing to close my medicine cabinet.
. . .
A book being written. Do authors have special insight into the motivations of others? Am I Sherlock Holmes to solve these types of mysteries?
. . .
A girl is complaining about the unrealistic women in comic books. Several friends and I are outside a comic book convention. It is bright outside but no heat makes an impression. I formulate an explanation to her exclamation but am interrupted as something catches my eye.
A tall stately woman is seen walking down an intersection across our view from the right. The street we stand on is perpendicular to hers. The intersection has no traffic but a line of people stretching from the direction the woman walks. They all wait for entrance to the convention. Wearing a trench coat and sunglasses she still stands out. She is large in every proportion. Not fat but tall and improbably well proportioned like an Amazon. As I focus on her as a perfect example for our conversation I am again interrupted. Just before I mention her a man walks from behind us to the same intersection. He too is like a larger version of the common man. I start with the woman.
See that woman right there must be Julie Strain. A popular comic book model for her well proportioned physique. A human body is hard to draw. Especially so many times as a comic book artist must render it. It is easier to focus on a couple of things that make a character distinguishable than painstakingly draw a completely realistic person every time. In our comic culture rendering points that make a person obviously a man or a woman are seen as cornerstones of drawing. Emphasizing these points make the drawn woman more impossibly physically feminine than any other woman has a right to expect of her body. It is the same for the men. It is not done to engender jealousy, but for easy recognizability. That these improbable extremes are seen as easy on the eyes does not hurt matters, but it is not really the point. I have no idea who the man is but he must work in the same capacity as Julie.
After my speech I recognize the two people that were examples of my explanation match the wanted posters I had previously received. I call police assistance by yelling for them to apprehend the two suspects. Police spring out of nowhere. Possibly tailing me, confident that I would lead them to their answer. The woman is caught without difficulty, but the man runs a little ways before being taken down. A pile of policemen are struggling to restrain the man. From my vantage point standing a yard away observing this I see the side of the man's body come into view. His hand is going for a gun stuck in the back of his pants. I yell, "He has a gun", and leap forward to restrain him before he can free and use it.
Just as he pulls it free I grab the end of the gun from him. Before it slips completely from his hand he manages to pull the trigger. A bullet pierces my palm but leaves me otherwise unharmed. Pulling myself from the fray I tend to my hand with EMS assistance. No other mishaps happen and the man is successfully taken into custody. Going home I grab my typewriter from the table and fling it upon the ground. I proceed to stomp and kick it in anger at the world. I am broken and ruined. My writing hand is useless, so I will never be able to write again. Cooling down after destroying the typewriter I notice a woman sitting on the bed.
She entails me to not jump so drastically to the conclusion that I can never write again. In response I stare at her through the whole in my hand. I thought my point would be clear and unarguable. She replies that just because I can't write with my hands doesn't mean I am through. She will stay with me and type whatever I dictate. Together my writing will continue.
. . .
I am in a Corps bay. Just one big rectangular open room. I can picture two rows of beds going down the length of the bay. Their lengths would run from the center walkway of the bay to either wall. The beds would have 2 feet spaces between them, and the walkway would be 4 foot wide between the two rows. There are no beds but there is a sense of them belonging. It is empty except for a couple of other people. We are not freshman but upperclassmen in some capacity or another.
A person that pretends to normality but really we are ignoring each other. Their is some activity where minimal responses are issued to each other. Some running back and forth in the bay. A running game must be in progress, but I do not participate. I am resting against the back wall. The person is about to crash into the wall I lean upon. Acting quickly I catch the person before high speed contact with the wall is made. Offense is the only response. AT fields at full strength.
In the back of the bay where I stand there is a free standing wall that separates a small space from the rest of the bay. At either end of the free standing wall a small one person break allows entrance or exit to the area broken apart from the rest of the bay. The person and a friend talk in this area. My medicine cabinet is located by itself directly before the right hand walk through to this back area. Inspecting my cabinet I find all my stuff gone and replaced by possibly a roommate's stuff. I am remember that I put all my stuff in a plastic container. With my cabinet open the walk through is blocked.
There is a knocking at a door near where I am. The door is locked from the outside. I hear the friends exclaim that they will get it as they are leaving that way anyway. I observe them doing so to ensure the person is not forgotten. There must be another way from the separated area to the exit for them to have passed by without me needing to close my medicine cabinet.
<< Home