Zeros 2 Heroes - The People's Publisher

So, since I botched simplicity, I'm going to try my hand at complexity and figuring out what role it should and shouldn't play in plot, character, setting and everything in between.

I'm starting again with Pixar. I'm watching Ratatouille now, and sure enough, it has the same sense of simplicity driving the plot as "Up!" But that doesn't mean that complexity is lost completely - watching Remy scurry about the kitchen like a furry Sam Fisher is an extremely complicated - and worthwhile - sequence.

But at the core, it's still the story about a rat who desperately dreams of being a Paris cook.

Compare this with the other movie I saw -- Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen. You've probably heard a lot about this movie in the last couple days. I'll try to sum it up as best I can.

It's long (150 minutes).

It's loud (It's directed by Michael Bay)

It's confusing (again, Michael Bay)

In spite of all of this, I really enjoyed the film. It wasn't a masterpiece by any means - the "critical praise" the TV spots show for Transformers 2 is kind of laughable how much it's been lampooned. And to be fair, it's filled to the brim with throwaway characters, unexplained mythos and plot holes so large they put the pot holes along my native Illinois roads to shame.

But I still found it entertaining. I still liked following the action. I still plan on buying the DVD.

This has lead me to re-think my conclusions on simplicity, because at the end of the day, both Transformers 2 and Ratatouille have the same goal to entertain.

Pretentiousness occurs when intent to entertain becomes insufficient. This isn't to say entertainment can't be multi-purposed. Some movies educate. Others satirize. And still others ponder. But when the aim of entertainment is seen as insufficient or entirely unnecessary, that's when pretentiousness sets in.

Pretensiousness is the deathblow - whether in works simple or complex.

PS - On a totally unrelated note, please check out my One Page Challege Pinch! I need some feedback!

Here's my One Page Challenge entry. I collaborated with my pal Luke Perks on this - he should be showing up in the Z2H-verse soon. For now, enjoy and let me know what you think.

Pinch

By Richard Pulfer and Luke Perks

 

Page One

 

1:1

 

A henchman stands in a row with several other henchmen, similarly dressed and similarly armed. They are dressed in generic stormtrooper fashion - helmets and goggles covering all but their mouths, and not-too-distant-future body armor covering everything else. They are standing along a ledge firing at a dashing-clad tuxedo-clad super-spy - a James Bond-figure (Connery, not Craig), leaping towards them with a confident smile spread across his face.

 

Caption (PINCH): Here we go AGAIN...

 

1:2

 

The super-spy hits them with the full force of a linebacker. The opposing henchmen are scattered in every direction like bowling pins from the force of the impact. Only Pinch - the introduced henchman, remains in an upright standing position. He is still firing his pistol from a couple feet away. The super-spy doesn't have a scratch on him.

 

Caption (PINCH): Some call it the CURSE. Others call it STORMTROOPER SYNDOME. And still others just call it BLIND DUMB LUCK.

 

Caption (PINCH): For whatever reason, we can't hit the broad side of a barn.

 

Caption (PINCH): Then again, who in their right mind would want to shoot a barn anyway?

 

1:3

 

Pinch is the only henchman standing - the rest of them are lying at his feet unconscious. The faces we see of the henchmen on the ground have the cartoonish swirly line to indicate unconsciousness. The super-spy is running away in the opposite direction. Pinch is throwing his left hand up to his goggles in disgust, his gun pointed up as it fires pitifully in the air.

 

Pinch:   This is so HUMILIATING.

 

1:4

 

High angle shot from the ceiling looking down at Pinch and the super-spy charging away from him. Pinch's gunfire has blasted off a light fixture from the ceiling, which is now falling down towards the super-spy.

 

SFX: KA-POW!

 

SFX: KA-CHING!

 

1:5

 

Over-the-shoulder shot from Pinch as he watches the light nails the super-spy right in the head. Pinch's posture should show he is utterly surprised. Put a lot of force and mass behind the light posture as it smashes into the spy's head.

 

SFX: KA-RAACK!

 

1:6

 

The super-spy turns around. He has a nasty expression lining his face. There's an ugly bump on his head, and his eyes are grotesquely swollen. Suffice to say, Pinch just inadvertently ruined his good looks. He looks down the hallway towards Pinch with murder on his mind - and face.

 

SUPER SPY: My hair!

 

CAPTION (PINCH): OH SHIT! I didn't mean to do that!

 

PINCH: OH SHOOT, I didn't mean to do that!

 

1:7

 

Dynamic shot of the super spy lunging at Pinch. This shot should be from the heel of the super spy's foot which is pushing off, his entire body taking up much of the panel. Towards the lower left hand corner of the panel we should see Pinch frozen with fear as he attempts to shoot the super spy coming at him. His gun jams however.

 

SFX: CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK

 

PINCH: AHHHHHHHH!

 

SUPER SPY: YAAAAH! 

 

1:8

 

A profile shot as Pinch chucks the pistol squarely at super-spy's forehead in sheer desperation. The gun catches the super-spy right in the brow, and goes off - with a miniature explosion at the barrel's tip showing a bullet trail catching the super-spy in the foot. The super-spy jerks in a fit of shock and pain.

 

1:9

 

Same shot as the previous panel but the Spy is now totally out of the panel and Pinch is now looking down scratching his head. A look of bewilderment cast over his face.

 

CAPTION (PINCH): When you work for the other side, you get a bit used to your luck. I don't think this guy has ever felt pain.

 

SUPER SPY (OFF PANEL): MY FOOT! YOU SHOT MY FOOT! AHHHH! GAWWD!

 

SUPER SPY (OFF PANEL) (in small whimpering letters): oooowwweeee...

 

1:10

 

A close profile shot of Pinch looming over the super-spy - we should only be able to see the super-spy's head in this panel since he is on the ground cradling his foot in the fetal position. The super-spy's hair is a ruffled, and he should look pale. But unlike what most guys would be like in this situation, Pinch isn't gloating. Instead, he's a consummate professional - very serious, very confident.

 

PINCH: Let's TALK.

 

CAPTION: THE END . . . FOR NOW.

Sorry for my lack of posting on either here or the Undeliverables yesterday. I was at work. Very early. And sick to my stomach - not a good combination.

So - to all the artists on the site - I have a dilemma I'm hoping you guys can help me with. And yes, there is money involved.

I've been playing this little X-Men RPG over on Yahoo! Groups for some time now - at least four years to be exact. I thought it would be cool to find an artist to illustrate our characters and commemorate the experience.

The opportunity presented itself last spring when an artist I was working on asked I knew anyone that needed any commissions. I told him I'd hire him myself to give him something to do. So I paid him some money and he said he'd have it done in a week.

I told the people on my X-group I'd have a surprise for them.

But then a week turned into two. And then three. I wanted to be patient, because I know this artist had other - better - things to do than carter to my own egotistical whims.

Now it's been three months and he hasn't returned any of my e-mails for about the past two months. He might finish the commission. He might not. Regardless, I've decided to take another hit (I've got the money anyway )and find a new artist.

Here's the specs for anyone who is interested.

The Job: A pin-up of a team of five X-Men-style characters in a cover pose. I have reference images on most of them, as well as a description of their powers. Pencils and inks - possibly colors if budget or artist allows..

The Pay: Negotiable. I'll work with your rates. Payment will probably be made through Paypal.

The Deadline: I'd like it to be done within a month - if this seems fair and realistic. If not, no biggie - just keep me posted so I'm not holding the bag.

What To Do Next: If you are interested (or you know someone who is) post a link to their samples below and how to get in touch with them. If I like what I see, I'll contact you with the specs on the job.

Well, that's my pitch for the day. Have at it artists! Hopefully tomorrow I'll be feeling less gloomy.

As promised, you can now find the pitch for Bat & Wolf Issue #2 in the pitch doctor. Of course, right now it's just the pitch and tagline. I'm going to be adding a new element to the pitch every month through October. Here's the schedule I have worked out:

July 26th - The returning Characters.

August 15th - Three new additions to the Characters List.

September 15th - A new addition to the World's page

October 9th through 31st - A new script page is added every day until the pitch is completed on the anniversary of its release.

In other news, I'm working on my One Page Challenge but since I'm collaborating with someone, I don't think I'll be finished until the absolute deadline of July 1st. I hate cutting it so close, but between work and Undeliverables, it was the only way.

Anyway, hope you guys like the pitch and I'll see ya next week!

I saw "Up!" Wednesday during a belated Father's Day outing. Like most Pixar films, it was great (see it if you haven't already in 3-D . . . and bring lots of tissues.) But seeing it also drove home a writing point I've been wrestling with over the past couple weeks.

Simplicity.

This past week, I had the pleasure of talking to a young man fresh out of high school who wanted to break into the comic book industry as a creator. He told me about a comic book he was working on - a manga-inspired tale about angels, demons and a broken soul. It was very good. It was also very, very complicated - it took him at least a half hour or so to tell the tale.

I mention this because I did the exact same thing when I was his age. I would run up the phone bill with my friends and collaborator just telling each other one story for hours at a time. This is because, in our view, stories had to be complex in order to be mature.

Thus, in our drive to become mature storytellers, simplicity is often the first casualty.

Translated from Latin, simple means literally "without doubling or fold." There are several different meanings, ranging from "single; consisting of one thing; uncompounded" to the less politically correct "weak in intellect: not wise of sagacious; silly."

The one definition which stuck out the most was sincere or without duplicity. There is unquestioning integrity in simplicity: it's the same sincerity by which Russell, the young wilderness scout of "Up!", finds himself in a house into the sky by 10,000 balloons. He doesn't ask why an old man is piloting a house-turned-airship to somewhere in South America. He doesn't even ask where or how he got 10,000 balloons filled up anyway. He merely accepts it is, much to owner Carl Frederickson's chagrin.

Obviously not every story can be without "doubling or fold", and in truth, neither is "Up!". There are still twists and turns along the way, ranging from a fast-moving mythical bird to a supposedly empty photo album.

Twist and turns make our stories fresh and vital, but they cannot comprise our story completely. If they do, our stories often fold so much they collapse upon themselves, folding like a house of cards.

I remember hearing a story about the scholar Del Tackett observing a post-modern house - a house built devoid of any architectural rules or principals. He was proudly told by his guide that no part of the house actually hinged on architectural purpose to keep it standing. "Really?" Tackett replied. "What about the foundation?"

Simplicity cannot be underestimated, because we need something primal, real and often sincere at the core of our stories, keeping us firm and floating. This is marrow which fills our pitches and blood which drives our tag lines. Without it, our stories really are like the a flying house without a foundation - one which will crumble the moment we touch the ground.

What about you? How are your stories and pitches "without doubling or fold?"

First off, thanks for everyone who weighed in my work-for-hire situation - your words of encouragement really helped put everything into context and get me back on track.

I was hoping to borrow some more brains for another conundrum rolling around my noggin at the moment - I'm trying to find the proper non-Twitter format for Undeliverables.

While I'm going to keep posting on Twitter, I don't want you guys to miss out. However, I've decided posting at the end of each chapter is too unwieldy - posting eight single-spaced pages on Z2H is just too much to read.

So what would you be interested in reading? Would it be . . .

- A weekly update, posted at the end of every updating week

or

- Some sort of daily and/or weekly newsletter, send out at the end of each update and/or week.

or

- Something else entirely.

I'd like Undeliverables to be a spring-board for new standalone comic book ideas for Bat & Wolf, but I don't think that will happen until I can build a following both on and off of Twitter.

I am going to post something for the One Page Challenge, though it probably won't be until next week, right before or on July 1st. The reason being is I'm working on something special for Bat & Wolf - something I mentioned a while back - which will be posted Saturday.

But more on that later . . .

Your feedback is much appreciated.

I also found a good blog site here

http://www.blogrankings.com/literature/

About a week ago, I had a surprise waiting for me in the mailbox. One of my comics - Hard Driving Heroes - had been published, and I was holding the first issue in my hand.

This was not the surprise.

Instead, the surprise was on the last page, where I saw another name next to mine in the "Scripter" credits. And upon looking through the comic, I saw many of the scenes I had written had been switched around, with the dialogue edited. There was also several pages of text now included, and the ones I had previously written had been completely omitted.

Now, to back up, I'm not the creator of this comic. It's a work-for-hire project I've been working on for quite some time - longer than Bat & Wolf. I initially wrote the project as a webcomic, where I finished over a hundred pages of script. Once illustrated, the creator decided to collect these pages in a comic book format instead of a webcomic one, and I didn't hear back from him for several months - until he asked me for my address to send me an advanced copy of the comic.

Honestly, the comic itself rocks. The cover looks great, it's in color, and the entire thing looks pretty professional. Some of the other writer's touches are better than mine, but for the most part, they are just different directions than what I intended. Neither better nor worse - just different, though I will admit he's certainly a good, solid writer overall.

It's not so much the shock of seeing my scripts in someone else's hands  . . . it's the shock of seeing it without warning. It's left a lot of painful, lingering questions. Was the client happy with my work? Did I do something wrong? He paid me quite a bit of money over the course of the project, and he seemed pleased - if not thrilled - with my work in general . . . so why the change?

Admittedly, this is my first work-for-hire project, well, ever. I've got a lot to learn - and I've learned a lot on this project alone. But even though this wound is starting to scab and heal, I'm still reeling with the implications.

Is this something I should be upset about . . .

. . .  or is this just business?

Good books take you to far-off places you've never seen before. Great books take you home.

I'm never should have called BDStevens a softie, because this blog is going to be the softie-est of 'em of all.

When I look at the books I like, and the authors I repeatedly come back to, I'm stuck by how big of chord family plays in the proceeding. It's a conclusion difficult to argue with in a comic books - most superheroes have a family of some sort crucial to their well-being. Superman has the Kents. Spider-Man Aunt May. The X-Men are a family, as are the Justice Society of America. Even Batman has a family - often dubbed the Bat-Family - even if he (and DC) like to pretend otherwise.

For my part, Bat & Wolf certainly have a family - the Shepherds. As the story progresses - and Carla becomes aware of their existence - she comes to see Montague and Campbell as the weird uncles we're all probably well-acquainted with one way or another.

Strong ties - family ties - keeps your character fresh and appealing. These ties must be strengthened - by adversity and struggle - to prevent a stagnancy - but be warned: merely cutting family ties won't always prevent this. Sometimes quite the opposite happens.

One of the reasons I kept coming back to the Star Wars books was that - no matter who was writing - the story was, at its core, about family. It entertained me for years. But then, for lack of a better phrase, the characters have started dropping like flies in recent years. Major character after major character died, and while there was mourning and resolution, there was never any rejuvenation.

Family should be ultimately about rejuvenation, but with a title like "The Fate of the Jedi", I don't think that's the intention of this franchise.

I'm reading the Codex Alera series by Jim Butcher. It's a traditional swords-and-sorcery fantasy set in a Rome-like world of elementals and centurions, but I'm amazed how big of chord family strikes throughout the story. Even when the characters are seperated by time and distance, they still think of another, still reference one another and ultimately, still emulate one another. It's a brillant, fast-paced and often hilarious read which has kept me up late at night for the past week or so - and at the center of it all, is family.

Of course, not all families are the same. Not all families express themselves in the same way. Not all families work the same way. Not all families even look remotely the same. Some families are defined by blood, others by action and many somewhere in between. I'll stop saying any more on the subject to avoid generalizing any more than I already have.

But I will ask this - where is family in your own creation, and how do their presence or absence drive your character forward or backward?

With Father's Day becoming a distant memory as the week toils on, it's something worth thinking about.

The Undeliverables is once again updating in it's second storyline, which offers a sneak peak at the most feared vampire hunting institution of them all - the United States Postal Service!

Hopefully the Tweets will be a little more spaced out this time around. I'm trying another Tweet scheduler - TweetLater - which should let me schedule Tweets more conveniently throughout the day. Having looked the services this free app provides, so far I'm pretty impressed - though I'm still crossing my fingers that the two one hundred and forty character updates will appear on my Twitter page when they're supposed to.

My goal is to have one hundred Twitter followers by the end of the second storyline. I really should clarify Twitter followers though - I want Twitter readers. I want people like mariathedreamer, jmcleod and bigredzero - who are interested in reading my Tweets every once and a while just as I am theirs. Unfortunately, as I learned during the first time around, Twitter is, like anywhere on the web, subject to much in the way of spam.

So if you know anyone who likes vampires, the post office or the 70's, be sure to tell them about Undeliverables. I'm in the process of working up a few cool prizes for both members and recruiters, but more on that later . . .

And lastly, if you're still not sure about this Twitter thing, I've set up a small personal page here for the more social aspects of Twitter. Consider it the kiddie pool of Twitter if you just want to chat or see the inside of a Twitter page with very, very few follwers.

That's all for now - onto another day of work!

When I reflect on the week as a whole, I have to say things didn't go as planned on my vacation. In fact, I'd go so far to say it didn't just rain on my vacation . . . it poured.

One of my comics was published, but it just didn't turn out the way I thought it would. I'll give you more details next week - it's still a bit of a fresh wound right now.

So I'm little bit down on my luck at this point, and looking for some inspiration before I dive back into my writing.

I can tell you I find anyone remotely engaging in the creative process to be very exciting. It can anything from listening to an audio commentary on a DVD to watching a show like "Mythbusters" or "American Choppers on TV. It doesn't even have to be writing-related, as this trailer aptly shows.

So whether it's people overcoming enormous obstacles or people just wrestling with the creative spark, it doesn't matter - I get a boost just from watching it.

Writing is a tough business no matter what genre or what medium you work in. They are up's and down's (and right now I'm definitely in a down.)

So what do you do when you hit a down? How do you find inspiration in your own corner of the world?

This is going to be brief since I'm just covering another shift at work, but today I'm technically giving thought to plotting more of the Undeliverables, and I was hoping some of you plotting preferred people could give me some tips.

The plot of the first chapter of Undeliverables was pretty loose - it was just Montague, Madison and Campbell fighting a grisly vampire in a drive-in theater, to the beat of the 1979 Dracula with Frank Langella in a popped collar.

The entire storyline revolved around setting up and resolving that plotline, and it was meant with some success and some failure. On one hand, it was really open-ended, but on the other, it was really easy to get stuck between plot points.

For the storyline starting next week, I'd like to keep the open-ended nature of the first storyline with a couple more plot points to give the story it's necessary steam. I'm also planning to include a little more exposition to give new readers a better grasp of the basics of the Bat & Wolf universe.

Since I'm a character guy, what do all your master plotters recommend? How do you keep the plot fresh and interesting and full of new possibilities to explore without prematurealy cutting your lifeline and ending up the creek without a paddle?

So, if you haven't heard already, Steve Rogers is coming back from the dead. Let the collective eye-rolling begin.

First off, I really recommend clicking the above link and reading through the article. It's not completely as bad as its sound. It's written by Ed Brubaker - the mastermind of Cap's death from the start. It's been in the cards since the beginning, but it's still one of Marvel's best books and I don't see that changing. Still, a few details in Marvel's press release rub me the wrong way.

Namely - "We've been planning the story of Cap's return virtually from the moment that he died," reiterates editor Tom Brevoort.

In the long term, this makes sense. Steve Rogers is Captain America. He's the household name. He's the guy people remember. He's the one Hollywood is going to make a movie about. Keeping him dead permanently just isn't realistic.

In the short term, however, this is strikes me as very irresponsible storytelling.

Brevoort goes on to mention how they embraced Bucky as Captain America and "events natually elongated." But I really don't care that the editorial staff embraced Bucky as Captain America - what I care about is how the reader embraced Bucky. At the end of the day, that's what matters.

In this framework, Bucky never had a shot. Honestly, he had just as much chance as staying Captain America as Stephen Colbert had of keeping Captain America's shield. The whole point of this exercise was to bring Cap back after killing him off.

I think that's pretty much the opposite of everything we agreed upon in our last discussion on this subject.

To be honest, there is power in this storytelling. It's a hero's descent and return from the underworld. It's a core theme of hero narratives anyway. And what's more - Brubaker's story sounds captivating, as Bucky must not only save Steve Rogers physically, but also emotionally, and perhaps, spiritually. And even if he does save Steve, he has to figure out his place in the world.

The problem with this development is it leaves no room for experimentation, for the unexpected or the uncanny. Think about it. If you write a story hoping to get A, B and C and you get A, B and G, what do you do? As writers, I think the craft compells us to explore G - to follow it to its logical conclusion, wherever that may be. But here, Marvel is just rubbing the eraser over G to make it look like a C.

So, though this story sounds interesting in and of itself, it's the principle of what Marvel's doing (and not doing) that I cannot abide by.

This is not storytelling. This is paint by the numbers. 

Here's my dilemma - I've decided I have to hit the ground running to build some marketing momentum around The Undeliverables. Unfortunately, it's going to cut my supposed writing vacation a bit short. And I'm working a lot of extra hours in the next couple weeks, further extending my busy-ness.
 
Here's my question - when you only have a couple days for a break, how do you make the most of the time you have? How do you recharge your batteries effectively? How do you avoid burnout or a bullseye for writer's block?

Here's my solutions - so far.

1) Pay extra attention to distractions. In a world of cell phones, iPods and Hulu, we are more distracted than ever. As writers, we have to triumph over these distractions to make the deadline and get the job done. But anyone whose read Chris Baty's book "No Plot, No Problem" knows this a battle fought, won (and often lost) day after day. When you're on a vacation though, I recommend giving the distractions a free pass - for a limited time only.

I got my PS3 months ago, but I didn't actually play it until I finished Staff of Ezekiel. Now that my goal is accomplished though, all bets are off. Now I'm knee-deep into Metal Gear Solid 4. I'll give into the distraction. I'll play MGS4 until I beat it (which will take at least a couple weeks) and then I'll go back to the routine - I probably won't play another video game for six months.

Distractions have power - but only if you let them.

2. No Writing Day. I'm picking a day sometime this week - probably Wednesday - that I'm not writing. At all. You won't even see a blog from me. The only writing I'll conduct all day will be limited to e-mail - and even that will be brief.

I know, I know - writers write everyday. But taking just one day off reminds you of the power of the craft. I'm (arguably) no fool - I know I can't not write for very long. In fact, for all I know, I might not even make it through one day - I might only get away for twelve hours, or even less. But I have a feeling I won't actually be kicking or screaming to return to the craft at the end of 24 hours.

Of course, this system only really works if you're the type which writes everyday in the first place. If you're not up to writing everyday yet, this will be more of a cheat than a real break.

3. Selective Reading. Read as far away from your work as possible. I don't know about you, but ideas start flowing like crazy when I'm reading anything remotely similar to "Bat & Wolf. It doesn't matter if I'm watching shlock like "The Lost Boys 2: The Tribe" - my left brain is saying "You know what would be really cool is . . . "

So I actually turned down watching the first season of "True Blood" or reading the supernatural police procedural "Last Watch" - and instead opted to read the high fantasy series "Codex Alera" from Jim Butcher.

This isn't an endorsement of ignoring big developments in your genre - you have to know what's going on, especially in a genre as done to death as the vampires. But you also need distance - not a lot - but just enough to keep things interesting.

4. Rinse and Repeat. Don't be afraid to repeat this process in this order or any other order. There's good practical wisdom in the 2:27 of the Gospel of Mark, which states "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath." Breaks are a natural part of work, and to be effective, people of all professions need a break every once and while - and yes, that includes people with the hardest easist job around - comic book writers. So don't be afraid to take a break when you need it.

5. Pace yourself. I disagree with the contension that writer's block is the writer's worst enemy. Writer's block is temporary - but burnout lingers in the air forever like burnt popcorn.

The year "Bat & Wolf" was published was one comic book project after another. I still think the reason I won D2D in the first place was because I was a hardened veteran by then - I had competed in at least two comic book contests in rapid succession before D2D with no breaks in-between. Then Bat & Wolf was published. Then the next day I started Nanowrimo. And by New Years, I was sputtering across the finish eyes - out of gas and leaking oil.

Push yourself too hard and you'll wind up in haze. Every direction will seem as lackluster as the last, and worst of all, so will your writing. So be proactive and always look for ways to recharge your batteries at the next pit-stop. Writer's block is just what the name implies - a stumbling block - but burnout is like hitting a brick wall in the middle of a marathon. It hurts mind, body and soul a lot, so do what you can to avoid it and take a break when you need it.

Sorry for the length post - they seem to be my calling card nowadays - how about the rest of you? What do you do to take a break and how do you get the most out of it?

"Ow!" Montague cooed. He had pricked his thumb on a wooden stake for the third time today. Campbell rolled his eyes and fetched a bandage.

The mousy young man affixed the bandage to his thumb. "I wanted to see how sharp it was!" he said, though his hand was covered in bandages.

Campbell replied, "Sharp enough to piece a vamp's heart, not sharp enough to put a dent in Madison's thick skull." The two began to laugh.

"No," a voice cut though the night. "To do that, you'd need one of these." Madison revealed a stone mallet.

He looked at the two others with cat-like intensity. "Or how were you planning to get through the vamp's rib cage? With your fingernails?"

"Fingernails?" Campbell boasted dismissively. "Nah. I'll use my teeth. Who needs a stake when you got a silver filling!"

The challenge was sounded. Madison moved within inches of Campbell's face, gazing into his blue eyes. He then said, "I'll use my toenails!"

Campbell's face quivered and trembled. "Ewww . . . that's . . . yuck!" he wrinkled his nose. "Not to mention that wouldn't work at all!"

Montague sighed, ignoring his battling buddies as he took in his surroundings - a bus stop next to a diner next to the middle of nowhere.

Montague wouldn't be surprised if he heard dueling banjos. In fact, it would have been a comfort. The boredom brought tensions along with it.

Instead, the only sound for miles was his friends. "These feet are like Grizzly Adams. I don't even touch 'em in the shower they're so sharp!"

Two headlights stretched through the desert dust. "Something's coming!" Montague exclaimed, peering at the approaching mail truck.

The mail truck pushed to a halt. A rail-thin man with long black hair emerged from the truck, his blue uniform messy and unbuttoned.

"I need your signatures," the mail man said as he dropped a large box, which seemed to thump and bump with a strange and languid rhythm.

"Madison Shepherd," the mail man said, pushing a clipboard into the burly youth's hand. Madison accepted the clipboard like a prize ribbon.

"Jonathan Campbell." the mail man called. 

"It takes two people to sign for a single box?" Campbell asked, snatching the clipboard.

"Technically three," the mail man replied, "Terry Montague."

Montague kept his eyes on the box. "Why does this box smell like . . . garlic?"

"Don't forget the date," the lanky mail man urged. Not taking his eyes of the strange crate, Montague dated it - April 13th, 1979.

Madison and Campbell followed every step the mail man took. "What are we supposed to do with this?" they cried in unison.

The mail man regarded them stiffly as he returned to the driver's seat. "If you have to ask, I guess you're not cut out for this life, huh?"

As they pondered his meaning, a glint of sunlight caught their eyes. Montague's pocket knife shimmered as it cut through the box's tape.

They mistook it for the hiss of dry ice, with mist rolling gingerly off the box. Then they saw the fangs pointed towards Montague's throat. Its chalky white head emerged crinkling from the packaging peanuts, its red eyes opening. Lithe white hands reached for Montague's throat.

Something between a high pitched screech and a blood-curdling scream rang through the desert. But in Nevada, no one can hear you scream.

Campbell stopped screaming as he gasped for breath. By then the creature had lifted itself out of the box, pinning Montague to the ground.

Montague lay petrified, not by elegiac beauty or a hypnotic gaze, but by impossible gauntness to a face once human, now hungry for blood.

Madison picked up two sticks, crossing them together. With the joined sticks, he hammered the creature's emaciated backside like a nail.

Madison expected the ghoulish figure to shriek in agony, like in the movies. But it wasn't frightened of the makeshift cross. It was angry.

The gaunt form rose from Montague with the indignant glare of a cat cut from its meal. It made a sinewy step towards Madison - its new toy.

The creature's jaws dropped to reveal white fangs, and a boiling shriek fell from its lips. Madison clinched in anticipation of the blow.

Small white shoulders turned to Madison. By the time Madison thought of sliding a stake between the thing's shoulder blades, it was gone.

As he lay prone on the desert floor, Montague twisted the cap back on to the Holy Water he had poured on the pale, writhing creature's feet.

Campbell looked less than amused at the wry grin on the mail man's face. "What the hell are we supposed to do with that thing?" he barked

"The same thing you do when your refrigerator is running," the mail man said as he slipped his truck into gear. "You better go catch it."

As the three youths watched the mail truck depart, they shrugged and started to collect their gear. "You coming?" Madison asked Campbell.

"I'll stay here." Campbell said. "You do that." Madison said. "Just scream if you see anything." 

"Screw you!" Campbell snapped as they left.

*   *   *

"Where's Campbell?" Montague asked as they crossed into the trees. Madison shrugged, "Probably went home. Maybe you should do the same."

"I'm a little old for the orphanage." Montague snorted. 

"Doesn't matter," Madison replied. "You still have people who care. I don't."

"I thought I made it clear at boot camp I'm in it for the long haul," Montague retorted. "And how about some thanks for saving your life?"

Madison pulled out his knife. 

Montague stiffened. "Of course, there's no rush." He swallowed. "What's that for?" 

"Bait." Madison smiled.

Madison ran the knife down his bicep, drawing a steady stream of blood down his arm. Though relieved it wasn't his blood, Montague was pale.

"You don't like blood, do you?" Madison said. "You're a vampire hunter who doesn't like getting his hands wet?"

Montague just gulped.

"I thought there would be more poof and then dust and not . . . " There was another gulp as he looked at Mad's arm. "Blood." he said softly.

Madison thought the only thing his bloody arm was attracting was mosquitoes. Montague was pale. He knew too late it wasn't from the blood.

When Madison turned, its face was inches from his own. No twigs snapped, no grass broke beneath its weight. "Spray it." Madison yelled.

"The cap's on too tight!" Montague yelled, tightly clasping the Holy Water. For Madison, the world went cold as it held him in an embrace.

Montague resolved to bludgeon the creature with the flask as if they were in a bar room brawl. He ran forward, flask held above his head.

The thing twirled Madison away like ballroom dancer. Mad felt like a fly trapped in a web. He watched as Montague was tossed to the ground.

In its grip, Madison felt baby soft skin and breath as frigid as winter's night. He was bathed in light. He guessed death. He guessed wrong.

Madison expected a light at the end of the tunnel. He didn't expect the headlights of a Plymouth Road Runner breaking its cold grip off him.

All Madison saw a metallic sea-blue gleam. All he smelled was dusty cigarette ash. All he heard was Campbell's voice cackling like a jackal.

The car blasted past Madison like the wind, with the thing plastered to the bumper. Madison was alive, and he could kiss Campbell for it.

"I could kiss 'im." Mad said aloud.

"For almost hitting you with a car?" Montague asked.

Madison stiffened. "After I kill him!"

It thrashed on the hotwired hood of the Plymouth Road Runner. Campbell punched at it, but all he caught was a fistfull of broken glass.

Suddenly light poured through the broken windshield. And then, Campbell was face to face with a hundred foot tall vampire looming over him

*   *   *

Madison and Montague searched through the dusty plains and cascaded trees for signs of Campbell, the creature or the stolen Road Runner.

"I'm still gonna kill 'im if it hasn't done it already." Madison huffed, the anger holding his tears at bay. His fear still ran deep inside.

Montague grunted as he fell behind. "Maybe you should use your anger to get this damn cap off!" The Holy Water remained sealed tightly shut.

"Maybe you should swear some more. I bet God really likes that." Madison snapped back. His eyes fell past the treeline. "I see something!"

The Plymouth Road Runner was toppled over into a twisted sculpture of metal and glass. The windshield was gone. So was Campbell. So was the thing.

Every blot of red Madison saw raced his heart a little more. Campbell left the car bleeding bad. Either he left . . . or he was dragged out.

"We have to find him." Madison declared stolidly. "That might be a problem." Montague replied as sight and sound overwhelmed him.

Dracula coasted across the sky in a stylish popped collar. The moon cast sinister gothic reflections into the gleam of automobile hoods.

Madison and Montague walked slowly through the corridors of cars, guided by Frank Langella's voice. The drive-in movie "Dracula" continued.

"We should split up." Montague said, surprised he was the one saying it. 

"We better make it fast." Madison said, noting the blood on the ground.

Campbell limped along, warm blood trickling down his forehead. Dracula impaled Abraham Van Helsing on the big screen. Campbell stifled a laugh.

"Looks like he finally got ya, Abe." he said with a grin. The air went stiff and cold. Shivering, Campbell hoped life wouldn't imitate art.

It was no more than twenty yards away from Campbell, its wistful white form as frail as reed as it looked from side to side, car to car.

Crouched behind a car, Campbell knew it had his scent. He had left a trail of bloody bread crumbs. It looked right at him. It cocked its head at him.

Campbell starred at its blood red eyes, and a cold spell hit his spine like a hammer as he looked at the strange, skinny thing before him.

Campbell knew what it was. He slouched behind a car to brace for the approaching attack. He cautiously peered above the trunk. It was gone.

It was bored with its profusely bleeding toy, leaving in search of more, like a kid in a candy store. Exactly like a kid in a candy store.

Campbell watched thing continue on its way, peering through the car windows in search of a meal. For the most part, it went unnoticed.

A few car-bound moviegoers startled upon seeing it, but the thing moved so quickly it registered only a dart in the corner of their eyes.

Campbell could see its movement in the distant dark, but only because his eyes were adjusted to the night, and even then, he had to squint.

Campbell saw it for what it was. From its forlorn face to its trembling lips, it was lost. Alone. Young. Camp knew that look all too well.

"I need a drink." Campbell said to the night. Ask and ye shall receive, for the next thing Campbell saw was a beer sitting on a dashboard.

Campbell reached through the open car window and grabbed the beer, proceeding to guzzle down the cool liquid. The car rocked back and forth.

His presence wasn't unnoticed. In the shadows behind him, Campbell saw dirty blond hair falling on pale, supple shoulders

The owner of the slender bare shoulders muttered a four letter word. "Maybe later," Campbell said. "Just passing through." The car rattled.

A large man exited the car. "What the hell are you doing?" he grunted. 

"Just having a drink." Camp retorted.

"That's my beer." the man said.

"You caught me," Campbell said, facing the man on the other side of the car. "I really want to hit something, and you're the nearest tree."

Campbell still felt numb from seeing that thing all those moments ago. As the man's arm collided with his jaw, that was no longer the case.

Campbell dodged his tree trunk-sized arms where he could. As pain exploded from his jaw, he was comforted to know he wasn't still in shock.

Campbell expected the girl to say something like "Bill, don't hurt him!" but instead, all he got was "My baby's gonna eat you alive, hick!"

*  *  *

From across the lot, Montague heard sounds of bony fists pummeling soft pulpy flesh over the movie's roar. He also heard Campbell grunt.

Montague didn't know why Cambpell was fighting the man. For all he knew, he was Frankenstein's Monster. He just knew Campbell needed help.

Montague didn't even bother trying to open the holy water. Instead, he just broke the bottle over the man's huge head in a cackle of glass.

Campbell laid one blow before the man toppled over - not by virtue of his pounding, but instead because of the glass broken over his skull.

Montague still held the jagged remains of the broken bottle in his hand. "Was that guy a ghoul or vampire or a zombie?" he asked excitedly.

"Nah," Campbell nonchalantly shrugged. "I just took his beer."

Montague looked down at the fallen man and muttered a dismal "Oh."

Suddenly slender hands and bright finger nails fell onto Montague, grappling at his back while he shrieked. "Get it off me! Get it off me!"

Montague thrashed with the thing on his back. Campbell didn't have the heart to tell him it was the girlfriend, mad her boy just went down.

"Get it off! Get it off!" Montague whined. "I'm trying," Campbell jerked back his hand in pain. "But she bites."

"What do you mean she?"

"I mean . . . sheee-it...it bites!" Campbell said as he tried to dodge the girlfriend's razor-sharp finger nails and push her off.

*  *  *

While Montague and Campbell struggled against the angry girlfriend, Madison peered through the lot in search of the bloodthirsty thing two lots away.

He didn't know until it was too late that the thing was right on top of him . . . literally.

Madison felt its arms around him again, his breath reduced to a frost-ridden heave. "You're not what I'm looking for, Frosty." Madison spat.

He found what he was looking for. This place was old. Instead of using AM Radio, the drive-in used small speakers hanging from the cars.

Madison grabbed an unused speaker and shoved it in its face. A burst of trumpets signaled the climax. It screeched from the deafening sound.

"Sometimes heightened senses are a bitch." Madison said as he drew his stake. He was surprised how smoothly it slid through the rib cage.

The creature made grunts Madison almost confused for words. The last one sounded like "home." But Madison knew ghouls couldn't use words.

It fell apart not too long after that, not in a puff of smoke or burst of blood, but rather like a turkey that's been in the oven too long.

It turned black, and seemed to dissipate even as it puffed and peeled, rolling into dust. Soon it was dry and definitely dead once more.

Madison made a courteous bow to the blackened movie screen as the credits began to roll, before turning around and looking for his friends.

"Did we get it off? Did we lose it?" Montague asked as they ray away. Campbell could do little to stop the smile spreading across his face.

Campbell was just about to tell him "it" was an angry buck- ten blond who fell off Montague's back in a drunken haze, when Madison appeared.

"You lost it," Madison said with a swagger in his step. He was covered in dust, and he smelt like dry and overcooked turkey. "I found it."

"You killed it?" Campbell asked. Madison smiled. Campbell tried picturing its sharp teeth, but all he could see were the eyes of a child.

"You can kill the next one," Madison told Campbell. 

"There won't be a next one you hunt like that," the mailman said rising from the dark.

"You want a tip, mister?" Madison said. The postman glowered. 

"I'm not the one who needs a tip. You almost got your friends killed."

Madison's face darkened. "What are you saying? I just drove a sharp stick into its dirty heart. I think I deserve a medal or something."

The stranger threw a stake and mallet to the ground. "You dropped these. Could of killed that thing the moment it got out of the box."                                                    

The mailman sneered. "Instead you froze. Put everyone here in danger, including your friends. Sounds like you need a court martial, not a medal."

The mailman headed to his truck. "You've got a lot to learn and precious little time to live. If you want to change that, just follow me."

Montague's voice burst into spit. "Follow you? What the hell just happened? What the hell was that thing? And just who the hell are you?"

"One, the Night happened, two, six-year old kid Turned and locked up in a truck for six weeks, three, a representative of the Post Office."

Montague's confusion drove his face a dozen different directions. The postman smiled. "Come on, boys - on-the-job training starts tomorrow."

Madison was anxious to leave mistakes behind. Campbell thought of six years old. Montague dimly followed his friends deep into the night.

The mailman was twenty-five. The boys weren't even twenty. Afterward, none of them would be boys again. Two of them wouldn't even be human.