We saw the introductory section of my proposed novel Lazarus Lives here. The novel is told from the point of view of a middle-aged man named Steve, looking back on the short life and self-inflicted death of his best friend John decades ago. Memories of their 1970s teen efforts to write original comics together are central to the story, so it occurs to me that I have to try to conjure some semblance of what Steve and John were attempting to create.
Tell us about it, Steve....
We didn't know how to write comics. One could say we didn't know how to write at all, but no matter. We pooled our ideas, our concepts, our passion, our ambition into an outline for our character's introductory chapter.
THE DEATH AND LIFE OF LAZARUS
At the outskirts of a dark and foreboding urban sprawl stands a billboard, bidding cheery welcome to its denizens, its visitors, and its would-be tourists:
The sign had been graffitied years ago. "Don't listen to snakes!" "Try an apple! What's the worst that could happen?" "Don't blame Eve--it was Adam's fault!" And in big, bright, blood-red letters:
ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE
The billboard was in disrepair. No one in city government cared enough to bother maintaining it, nor even to clean up the vulgar epithets and swear words that had been spray-painted upon it. Eden wasn't Paradise. The vast, foul-smelling Eden River might as well have been the River Styx.
Welcome to Paradise? No. Eden was Hell on Earth.
One evening, at he stroke of Midnight, a broken man climbed his way to the top of the billboard. He knew the city's promise of paradise was a lie. And it was a lie he would no longer live.
The man took one last swig from the bottle at his hip, and spit upon the dirty water below. His name was of no importance. He was of no importance. His tale of misfortune, defeat, and despair was his own, and not ours to share. Tears ran down the crags of his face. No one would miss him. No one would mourn. No one would care. He stepped off the billboard, ready for his final fall...
...And paused in mid-air.
Confused. Frightened. Suddenly sober, aware that whatever was happening to him could not possibly be happening to anyone. He kicked and flailed, an airborne performative dance lacking the joy of art or expression, a Spandau ballet somehow divorced from the finality of death.
And death was all this poor soul had sought.
He descended to the ground, slowly, almost delicately, his hysteria frozen inside him, his misery contained by walls of his own design. His tears stopped. His demeanor calmed. He stood straighter, taller.
And he faced two towering beings not of this Earthly coil.
An angel. A demon. Both female, both emanating power beyond human comprehension. The angel's face was kind, if sad. The demon scowled.
"Mortal," they spoke in unison. "You have attempted to forfeit your life. This capital sin should consign you to the fiery pits for all eternity.
"We have saved you instead. Heaven and Hell have other plans for you."
The angel spoke alone. "I am Becca, this is my sister Toxina. We come to you as emissaries of a pact between the Divine Presence's decree and the Satanic Majesty's request..."
Toxina interrupted. "Her lord God, my liege Lucifer."
Becca continued. "The judgement of your ultimate fate has been deferred. You shall serve as an Earthly agent of both eternal realms, Heaven and Hell, charged with a mission to determine other mortals' paths to salvation or damnation. You shall be judge. You shall be jury."
"And," Toxina hissed, smiling without warmth, "you shall be executioner when that task arises."
The angel and the demon spoke again as one. "You are no longer your own. You belong to us now."
A flash of...something? Not fire and brimstone, not an aura of halos and light, but something with elements of each. It lit the dismal area at the feet of Eden City's billboard. In that flash, the lost soul was transformed.
In his place stood a figure clad in red cloak, black hood, and white mask, his dark tunic emblazoned with an image of flame rendered in deepest scarlet, the flame's icon crowned with gold. The angel and the demon heralded his appearance by chanting:
LAZARUS!
With that, the angel and demon look at each other. "The pact is sealed with a kiss." Becca's celestial lips brushed the mask of Lazarus. Lazarus could feel the sting of Toxina's teeth against his face. Then Becca and Toxina's mouths met, a kiss that lingered beyond sisterly affection.
"Judge not, mortal," Toxina growled.
Another flash. And the scene was empty, leaving only a unique sight behind: A patch of scorched dirt, a rainbow hovering above it. Heaven, Hell, and their agent of judgement...
...LAZARUS!
Lazarus.
I snapped out of my reverie.
It was embarrassing to recall. More than fifty years since John and I put our mutant heads together to hash this out, the memory was still fresh, still vivid, still real, or at least as real as fantasy can be. Such purple prose, such preposterous concepts, all so damned wordy for a freakin' comic book. But we meant it. We were teenagers on a mission to revolutionize comic books. We meant it. By God, we meant it....
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I compiled a various-artists tribute album called Make Something Happen! A Tribute To The Flashcubes, and it's pretty damned good; you can read about it here and order it here. My new book The Greatest Record Ever Made! (Volume 1) is now available, and you can order an autographed copy here. You can still get my previous book Gabba Gabba Hey! A Conversation With The Ramones from publisher Rare Bird Books, OR an autographed copy here. If you like the books, please consider leaving a rating and/or review at the usual online resources.
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