My name's Kartoffelkopf. Hans Kartoffelkopf. And yes, I know what it means. I've even got a notch on my brandy flask for every guy I've slugged for making an issue of it, so I wouldn't advise you to start making puns, or I might be forced to rearrange your face. Great, now I'm doing it. It must be the locale. L.A.'s my stomping grounds, although some of my acquaintances...I have no friends...have told me I should go to Bob City instead. Most just tell me to go to Hell(TM), though. But much as I love this random collection of suburbs and ghettoes calling itself a city, I stay clear of Chinatown. A guy can get in a lot of trouble in Chinatown if he's got brown hair and green eyes. And even though I have black hair and grey eyes, the principle still holds. People don't like to answer questions down there, and if you ask the wrong questions you could wake up with your head shaved bald, straws in your nose, about to be lowered head first into a vat of boiling monosodium glutamate. Asking the wrong questions is part of my job. I'm a private detective. So what was I even doing in Chinatown tonight, so on edge that I was making puns on my own name? Maybe I liked the idea of being dipped head first into boiling MSG. But enough about my neuroses. I was here because it was a job, and I did my job and didn't ask questions. Wait, that came out wrong. I didn't ask my employer too many questions...I asked everyone else enough questions to make Ignorantman sound disinterested. It was earlier today, I was sitting in my office trying to convince myself that my income was at least as much as my outgo and having about as much success as a one-legged man trying to push an incontinent camel through a revolving door in a monsoon, when she walked in. She had long red hair to die for and legs to die from. Her legs looked like they could be used to crack a man's head like a rotten egg, and her face told me she'd done just that more than once. She was not someone to treat lightly, so of course I mouthed off at her. "So, babe, who's suicidal enough ta be cheatin' on you?" I asked, trying to look like I wasn't following every curve of her well-toned body with my woman-starved eyes. Messy divorces-to-be may not be glamorous, but they paid the bills. Or, as I looked back down at the flaming train wreck that was my account sheet, almost paid the bills. She reached into the pocket of her slacks, which were tight enough to let everyone know her legs were all muscle but not so tight that a guy could get too many ideas, and tossed a small wad of tens onto my desk. By the thump it made, I guessed it was about $430. Although one of the bills sounded like a fiver. "I want a man followed, discreetly," she said, a hint of an Irish accent creeping from her lips. Lips that said this guy wasn't a husband or lover, at least not anymore. Lips that were pursed in a hard line that told me she wanted to seriously harm this man when she found him. I'd seen that look on two of my ex-wives, I know it pretty well. "This'll cover a normal tail job for a couple of days, who's the poor slob?" "His name's Jack, I dinnae know his last name. He's a stuntman, working in Chinatown on the Jimmy Rip movie. Chinaman, well-built. May be a superguy," she said, in short, clipped sentences, as if she could bite the man himself in half by biting the sentences short. I'd heard of the movie, and this Rip character. Lightweight local pop star with delusions of talent and enough money behind him to get a really bad movie made. Then I rewound my brain and caught the last word. "Whoa, superguys are extra. Even bein' near one can get you in a bad way," I said, rummaging around on the desk for the paper I was looking for. Hanging around superguys can get a guy killed in strange and horrible ways that make MSG-dipping seem like a basic stab in ribs. Or worse, you could get caught up in their adventures and spend the rest of your painful and short life subjected to Author-knows-what sorts of angst-inducing events. I'd lost a few acquaintances that way. "How much?" she asked, skeptically. She must not be made of money. Then again, she seemed to be made of muscle instead. The only thing delicate about her was the silk scarf around her neck, which seemed to conceal a brace or bandage of some sort. I decided I REALLY didn't want to know how she spent her personal time, or how she and this Jack character had gotten on bad terms. I pulled out the forms. "You cover my insurance costs for Accidental Death, Dismemberment and Unsual/Horrible Happenings. If some demon sucks my brains out through a straw or this Jack guy drops a burning building on me, I want there ta be an estate for my wives to fight over." So, she signed the forms and here I am in Chinatown, looking for a guy who can probably rip my spleen out with his left pinky and twirl it around a few times before slam dunking it in my hollowed-out skull. But hey, it beats...well, I'm not sure if it beats anything, actually. But it's what I do. Aside from drinking, smoking and getting sued for palimony. Coherent Comics UnInc. Presents: ___ __ __ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ _ _ CRAZY GUY #9 / '/ | / | / \/ / ' / / \/ "Cutting Room Floor Blues" / /--' /--| / / / __ / / / copyright 1996 Dave Van Domelen `___ / | / |/__ _/ `__/ \__/ _/ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Los Angeles has a surprisingly small Chinatown for a city of its size and location. The official New Chinatown area on the maps would fit in Dodger Stadium (which is, coincidentally, less than a mile north of New Chinatown). Koreatown to the west is much larger, although to many tourists it seems like just more Chinatown. Just don't call it Chinatown to the face of one of the residents...people tend to get irked when you mistake their nationality. What does this have to do with anything? Well, not a whole lot, except to point out really how little turf the Triads are fighting over here, and why the Tong didn't really bother to maintain a presence. And after the events of the first few episodes of this title, it's slightly astounding that there's any "official" Chinatown left. The moral of this little digression? If you want to write a story in a location you've never visited, be sure to find a decent map of it BEFORE you start blowing up large chunks of the place...pace yourself, so you don't need to stop the story for a few months while everyone rebuilds. Fortunately, the Author only needs to do one short scene before fast- forwarding over the month or so of post-production work. Oh, and here's that scene. * * * * As Jack rolled onto the set on his slightly (okay, very) dinged up motorcycle, Steve tossed a cellphone to him. "Shen called while you were on the road," he said as Jack deftly plucked the phone out of the air and snapped it open. "I programmed his number into the speed dialer, number 6. Call him." Jack then proceeded to puzzle out the phone in a slightly less deft manner. After a few false starts and one call to Bunzai's Pizza, he got the right number. "Hello, Shen Imports," droned the voice of a receptionist. "Ah, yes. I need to talk to Mr. Shen." "Who may I say is calling?" "Jack." "And your last name is...?" "Ahh...just tell him it's Jack. He'll know." "Very well," replied the receptionist in a somewhat "Well, I never!" tone. "Hello, Jack," came "Slow" Moe Shen's voice over the phone. "There's easier ways to take the train, you know." Jack did a doubletake. "You know about that?" "Jack, half the country knows about that. The feed made it onto the cable news services. Anyway, I called to tell you that I'm pretty sure the person who sabotaged your motorcycle was Vector, a sort of telekinetic superguy. But since you were in his car, you probably know that by now." "Yeah. He ambushed me on the highway. Know who hired him?" "No, and that's the funny part. From what I hear, Li Ning tried to hire Vector, but failed...couldn't afford the price. I even hear that Vector mocked Li, made him lose face." "Well, that explains why those guys who thought I was Vector were attacking, but not why Vector attacked me." "Sounds like you have a new enemy, Jack...one who can afford Vector's price." "Great," Jack sighed. * * * * [To the tune of "Unpack Your Adjectives", School House Rock] The Editing Room Ballad Got finished filming in spring. Shot people, places and things. We'd barely called a wrap, And the film looked like crap, It needed something, and here is that thing... So we started our editing. We cut out scene twenty first. Agreed it wouldn't be worse. Then we moved thirty-five, And shot a new scene live, Then we were ready to work up the tale, 'Cause we'd started our editing. Editing is what you use to really repair things. Handy thing if you have the time. Days are sunny, or they're rainy, If it changes, it's a pain-y, Editing can keep it all straight. Editing is often used to help us arrange things, To say what time a scene falls in the plot. Fights which are long get longer, Scenes which are strong get stronger, 'Til the fights are longest and the plot is strongest of all! We edited without hitch. Then we ran into a glitch! It was a hairy glitch, It was a scary glitch, We knew that it would be really a pain. And we fixed it with editing! Boy! That was one big, ugly glitch! You can even use editing to create other plots or opening credits. All you have to do is tack on a scene like this, or add new vocals. For example: This scene can be made to be a new fight, but still not need any new film. This is a second camera shot, and with some editing, like so, it becomes the whole new scene. Get it? Next time you go to the flicks, Remember it's all been fixed. The minute it's a wrap, We'll cut out all the crap, Or at least move some of the old crap around. Simply apply some editing. You can do it with editing. They will not doubt it with editing. You can tout it with editing. * * * * Meanwhile, two months later at the more or less gala premier of the "Crazy Guy" movie at a theater in Koreatown.... But before we start, a bit of a digression. Long-time readers will know that most people in the real world (or 000REALLIFE if you prefer) have counterparts in 000SUPERGUY. In fact, many Authors have counterparts that figure in their stories, be they superguys (Scholarman, Spectrum, Crash, etc) or just normal people caught up in this whole mess (Chris Meadows, Amy Borden, etc). Some have more than one counterpart, what with all the wacky alien races out there that happen to look remarkably human. On the other hand, with the exception of a handful who mostly fall under the "friends of the Author" category, few superguys have counterparts in 000REALLIFE. As a result, there would seem to be a lot more people in the Superguy Altiverse than in Real Life. In fact, some scientists speculate that without some sort of balancing mechanism, the mass of extra characters alone would be enough to overclose the universe and account for all the dark matter you could hope to need to make your equations work. Of course, fortunately for the universe, there is a balancing mechanism. Simply put, not everyone from 000REALLIFE has a counterpart in 000SUPERGUY. To use an example immediately at hand, the Author of this piece does not have a counterpart. Nope. Nuh-uh. No way. If you want to abuse him in a story, it'll have to be Authors' Altiverse. None of this Road Race From Hell(TM) abuse for Dave. [Snap out of it! - Ed.] Oh yeah, sorry. Anyway, the net result is that there's usually about as many humans or human-like-things in each Altiverse, barring temporary fluctuations caused by blackouts, wars and planets falling inexplicably and suddenly into the Sun. A more permanent imbalance can be created by inter- altiversal travel that results in visitors coming to stay. Normally nothing drastic happens when altiversal counterparts end up in the same area [For a definition of "drastic," think "Radian and Shadebeam" - Ed]. However, because reality doesn't really like this sort of imbalance in the cosmic accounts book, it does tend to throw minor fits in response. In other words, when counterparts meet, things get...weird. If you don't believe me, look at: CalForce Radian and Shadebeam The Grand Tour [Flee! - Ed.] The Team Formerly Known As The Hero Patrol etc. This is not to say this is necessarily a causal thing, since all of the aforementioned events also involved Authors, who are guaranteed to make things get...weird. Why am I going to such length to expound on cosmic stuff in a relatively down-to-earth series (which will probably never go to Ohio, making the point of whether the Author has a counterpart kinda moot)? Well, guess who's agreed to be a guest of honor at the premier showing of the Crazy Guy movie? OKAY, WHO'S AGREED TO BE A GUEST OF HONOR? WHY HASN'T JACK HARDLY EVEN APPEARED THIS EPISODE? WHO'S THAT HANS KARTOFFELKOPF PERSON? AND WHO HIRED HIM? AND WHO HIRED VECTOR? AND WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD HIRE THE AUTHOR FOR ANYTHING AFTER READING THIS EPISODE? Answers to some of these (except the Hans bit, which I'll get to in a second), on the next...SUPERGUY! =========================================================================== Author's Notes: Hans Kartoffelkopf (German for "Potatohead") is a creation of Jason Skiles. He and I wrote a lot of his purple prose on a local university conference board back in 1990-1 in undergrad as part of an add-on story somewhat more insane than the LNH. Okay, a LOT more insane. Picture this. Now picture you're in Europe in 1913 on the cusp of WWI...wait, that's someone else's catchphrase. Anyway, I've toned ol' Hans way down for the moment, for a couple of reasons. 1) He bordered on the offensive, and usually from the other side of the border. 2) I want something to build up to. You haven't seen a true run-on sentence (outside of Certain Gestalts, anyway) until you've seen Hans in full swing.