secret comics

Now Entering Mellocreme City, Population: Delicious

A knock came at Woodrow Lemmo’s front door. Woodrow could see a young girl on the doorstep next to the jack-o-lantern and some kids in a blue station wagon behind her. Mom behind the wheel waved.

“Good evening.”

“Hiya. I’m Isidra. That’s my mom and friends out there. We read about your house, but they’re a little weirded out. Me too, but I love Halloween.”

“Come on in.”

Isidra waved to her mom, who waved back.

Inside was an entire Halloween city constructed of Mellocreme Fall Festival mix: orange pumpkins, ears of corn, maple walnuts, and the three corns: cinnamon, Indian, and traditional candy. Isidra was awe-struck.

“Gotta keep it cold, otherwise the Mellocremes melt. Sorry. But I reckon you better get back in a sec. I’ll leave you with this—you conquered your nervousness and saw what you came to see. That’s a true strength, Isidra. Happy Halloween!”

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Love,

150 Words Or Less

Mandatory Costume Day

“I have no more questions. Mr. Kloberdanz, what about you?”

“Nope.”

“Then off the record at… 11:19 a.m.”

Before Delbert Kloberdanz could get back to his office amidst the post-deposition pandemonium, opposing counsel Robin LoCascio pulled him aside and asked, “So what’s up with the outfit?”

“It’s Halloween, Robin. Also… Myron and about ten other partners convinced me the associates were wearing costumes today. Said it was… was mandatory.”

“Really?”

“No, not really. I just made that up—pretty good, huh? I guess was just into Halloween and the idea of being a hero, so I came as the Green Lantern. Definitely not something you usually see at a law firm—we’ll see where it leads. But thanks for being a good sport.”

“Not a problem. You doing the puppet show at Downtown Grounds this weekend?”

“Yeah, Saturday ten-ish.”

“Maybe I’ll come check it out.”

“That would be great.”

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Love,

150 Words Or Less

Rob... S.o...

Sunset dripped through afternoon’s embers like slow-thickening gold and orange candle wax. An unassuming storefront on Mulberry Street displayed its wares with a faded neon sign flashing “Rob... S.o...”

Abel Knoch pushed open Rob... S.o...’s front door. Inside, he was barely able to make out a man dwarfed behind an enormous pair of spectacles.

“Welcome, sir. Call me Ismael.”

“Hey.”

Ismael asked, “Like robots, do you?”

“I was actually walking home, but sure.”

“Exactly.” Ismael ducked in the back.

Abel thought about leaving, but Ismael was back quickly with a silver-painted robot mask.

“Finest I’ve ever made.”

“It’s great.” Abel admired his giant robot head in the mirror, realizing he actually liked it. A lot.

“I want you to have it.”

“Really?”

“You work with robots as long as I have, Abel, you develop a sixth sense about these sorts of things.”

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Love,

150 Words Or Less

The Bad News Bears Is Not For Squares

The bus dropped off Roman Dematteis off a block away class. He sweated up Calavera Hall’s stairs and made his way to the front of his class.

Dr. Nuckels arrived shortly, and cleared his throat to signal that class had begun.

“What do you have for us today, Mr. Dematteis?”

“I’m presenting 1976’s The Bad News Bears, directed by Michael Ritchie.”

A look of dark concern crossed Dr. Nuckles’ face.

“Mr. Dematteis, I don’t think we’ll be able to, ah, squeeze The Bad New Whatevers into our syllabus.”

“But it’s one of the greatest American comedies of its generation. I’ve also got significant positive secondary sources.”

“Be that as it may, it was a teeny-bopper film shown primarily at drive-ins.”

“It’s a movie about people, not dum-dum stereotypes or filmmaker neuroses.”

“What I care about, Mr. Dematteis, is art. Films. Please have another selection for next class. Thank you.”

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Love,

150 Words Or Less

Dedicated to Jesse, and to making smashing successes of things in each of our new (and not-so-new) places.

Phantom Bears

“You see anything?”

“Snow and dark, same as always.”

“Right.”

Santa would be leaving soon. Not that it was any of their concern this Christmas Eve. Aubrey Housholder and Elijah Saile were on guard duty.

So they huddled together in their shelter. Both held nasty looking rifles, for the polar bears.

“Bloody rather be inside making toys,” Aubrey muttered.

“Goes without saying, doesn’t it?”

Both peered out into the permanent winter night. Phantom bears formed and disintegrated as the wind and snow swirled wildly.

Elijah asked, “Have I shown you a picture of my little one yet?”

“Not yet.”

Elijah took out a small locket and opened it to show Aubrey a picture of a tiny grinning elf with a shock of red hair.

“That’s Otto there. Nights like this, helps remind me what I’m working for.”

“Right.” Aubrey caught himself grinning.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully.

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Love,

150 Words Or Less

Who Really Wins The Lottery

I’m hoping someone will find this letter and deliver it to my wife in Austin, Texas. I’ve been living on a farm on the outskirts of San Rio Blanco in Mexico, but recently they found me. So I’m running again.

My name is Cosmo Vanochten. I wrote for a newspaper back in Texas. My big story was the lottery explosion. It led me to Mexico—and to them.

Since I don’t expect to live, “they” are a deadly cadre of ultra-evolved (possibly alien) hairless cats who have been controlling the world’s lottery winnings since 1994.

Laugh if you’d like. Everyone who wins the lottery? They’re all under these cats’ mind-control. All the money eventually gets funneled down here, where they’re building a hairless cat civilization.

Tell my wife I love her, and to get rid of the cat. Damn thing’s always been evil, like that dog in The Omen.

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Love,

150 Words Or Less

Lion Armor

“I’m not going to the zoo today. Zoos are stupid.”

“Zoos are what?”

“Stupid, Mommy. Rice Krispies are stupid, too.”

“Really.”

A pause.

“Charles, have you been crying?”

“No.”

But tears were welling up in Charles Cummings’ eyes. Everything seemed unfair. This field trip was stupid.

“I don’t care about cages,” Charles sniffed, “I hate the lions!” He sobbed some more.

Charles’ mom mulled things over for a bit.

“Charles, will you fetch me the laundry marker?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thank you. And a spare undershirt?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Charles, I’m making you something special: Lion Armor.”

“Lion Armor?”

“See, I’m inscribing ‘Lion Armor’ on your shirt. You wear this special armor-shirt, lions can tell—they'll leave you alone. I’ve never had any lion problems, have I?”

“No.”

"So now you're lion-proof."

"Really?"

"Really truly."

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Love,

150 Words Or Less

Dedicated to Johnny Ramone, who always got the job done.

God bless, Johnny

Johnny Ramone died yesterday after a five-year battle with prostate cancer. He was a jerk-ass control freak at times, a Yankees fan, a brilliant guitar player without peer, and a Ramone. What an epitath.

(Johnny Ramone and Mike Watt, Hollywood, 2003 -- photo taken from Watt's hootpage)

Freeway Molehills

“Hey Darren, whaddya doing?”

“Thinking, Phillip, just thinking…”

“Riiiiight.”

Like you’d know, Darren Drago thought. Like you’d know thinking if it showed up at your front door and kicked you in the balls three times.

“I’m taking off, Phillip.”

Darren hurried out of the library and walked up to the bus stop. What slightly great thing have I done today? Nothing. What is there to actually do? Let’s give that one some room to breathe.

Time passed. Shadows grew. As the Number 5 bus lurched left onto Broadway, an idea crept into Darren Drago’s brain. He pulled the cord in front of the Butter Krust bakery and slowly, stealthily got to work.

An hour later, Darren stared up at his handiwork: the golden neon “Butt Krust” sign shining bright, a hand-made constellation lovingly located among the dusty, faded stars of the San Antonio skyline and its freeway molehills.

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Love,

150 Words Or Less

Dedicated to Nik Sokol, my brother-in-arms

The New Braunfels P.D. Will Refuse To Understand

The white truck flew through the night like a wet bar of soap someone stepped on while getting into the shower. Salvatore gripped the wheel tight.

In Love, you want to do crazy, stupid things. Salvatore was definitely in Love and doing stupid things. So there he was at 4 a.m., heading to New Braunfels.

He exited, pulling around the building to see what he came for: a fiberglass Ronald McDonald on a bench. Only a few bolts to unbolt, he thought to himself, and we’re gone.

It’s not often the case in Love, but everything was smooth sailing. At his beloved Genoveva’s house, he put Ronald on the porch, a bouquet of tulips under one arm, and a note on his chest:

Dearest Genoveva:

Please take me inside a.s.a.p. I fear the New Braunfels P.D. will refuse to understand a love as beautiful as ours.

Love always,

Ronald

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Love,

150 Words Or Less