Anointed in Blood

I like this image for two reasons.

One: it – and the next few pages – help set the mood and motivation for everything that will be happening in this comic from now on.

– and –

Two:  (on a lighter note) I can totally identify.

Oh, I’ve never been involved in a violent confrontation, thank goodness.  Hell, I even worked for six months as a bouncer in a punk rock nightclub, and I never once had to do more than help drunken patrons get safely down the stairs and out into a cab.  Road House it wasn’t.

However, this image (minus a couple of bodies) is a pretty good representation of myself after trying to, say, assemble a piece of Ikea furniture, or replace a kitchen garbage disposal, or fix a ceiling lamp.  No matter how mundane the home-repair project is, I never seem to be able to complete it without leaving a chunk or two of myself in the works somewhere.

And yes, I do routinely deal with things that go bang or burn vigorously, but you see, I know those are dangerous and so I take precautions.  It’s the other things, the little humdrum household chores, that always end up taking their pound of flesh.

For instance, I recently decided to touch up a painted wall that had suffered a chair mark.  Now this was a simple job.  The mark was small, and maybe at waist height.  We had the leftover paint can in the garage.  We had spare brushes.  I would not even need to stand on a ladder.  Not even a stool.  Would take less than ten minutes.

So I went out to the garage.  There was the paint can, on a shelf.  I grabbed it and pulled it down.  Without noticing that my wife had decided to store her mother’s old sewing machine on the shelf above, and since it was too big to fit securely, had propped it up from below with that selfsame paint can.  I ended up causing a veritable avalanche of shelves, paint cans, and a sewing machine down onto my knees and shins, resulting in a scene of blood loss not entirely unlike the one displayed above.

Another time, I had the bright idea of cutting firewood with my chop saw.  I still have scars across the back of my hand.

My ability to do myself damage via home projects has become such an accepted norm that the whole family just assumes I’m going to hurt myself, no matter what.  The boys, if they see me doing something obviously Fraught With Danger, – such as taking out the trash – will insist upon taking over, or at least putting 911 on speed-dial.  And when I recently installed a new pet door while my wife was at work, I informed her via text message.  This was how the exchange went:

ME:  New pet door arrived today, I just put it in.


Admittedly I was texting slow because of the splinters in my fingers, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.  Man’s gotta keep some pride.

Bob out.

Artist’s Notes:  Love me some splash pages!  But this is the last one for a while.  Had to cram in a bunch in this first episode to really emphasize the… y’know, dying.  You can see Wisnowski cropped at the top of the frame, he’s all gutshot and shit.  I can tell you that abdominal bleeding is crazy painful but not in the way you might expect.  Your internal organs aren’t exactly crawling with nerve endings.  It hurts to breathe more than anything.  He’s curled into a fetal position and probably thinking of his mom.  Dude at the bottom got no body language at all- he’s gone.  Poor Sophie… Shot in the heart.  How poetic.  And Max shot in the neck… still kicking, though.  All of a sudden I want to go watch Reservoir Dogs again 🙂  -Max