A Survival Guide to Westeros

Recently, I saw an online poll asking people which fantasy world they’d most like to visit. And despite so many voters expressing their desire to travel through the fictional lands of their favourite books, films and television shows, I didn’t see much personal appeal. Neverland? Nah. Too many eternally youthful juvenile delinquents up to no good. Oz? No way. Flying monkeys are creepy as hell. Narnia? Pass. Allegorical anthropomorphic Christ-lion messiahs aren’t my scene.

Nobody chose Westeros, home of George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones machinations and mayhem, because it’s too violent and dangerous. I think they’re missing the forest for the trees. The thing about Westeros, the real selling point, is that EVERYBODY gets laid. There is so much fucking going on in the seven kingdoms, it’s amazing anyone finds any time to get some beheading and backstabbing in.

Dwarf? Doesn’t matter, you’re a pussy magnet. Vow of celibacy? A ginger savage will still bang your brains out. Have to pay for it? Totally worth it! Westeros prostitutes are universally gorgeous and disease-free. Even most of the eunuchs in the land are hunks and could easily get some if they were so inclined (and rented the appropriate prosthetic). You can pretty much trip, fall and find yourself intimately entwined with a total hottie before you even hit the ground.

Okay, granted, the entire book/TV-show world is a death trap. Life expectancy is low, main characters die off so fast it sometimes feels like the entire cast must have contracted Ebola, but what a way to go! If you want to risk it and join the fantasy fuckfest, here’s a simple guideline to surviving in the lands of Westeros and Essos:

Be an outcast, either too tiny or too enormous. If you weren’t lucky enough to be born a freak, try being disfigured or maimed. Terrible scars may be your ticket to a long life. Losing a limb is golden. Don’t forget, cock and balls count. Think you’ll miss them? Well would you rather be dead? Trim those boys off while there’s still time. Don’t want to have your body all cut to pieces? Fine. Become a cripple.

Fat is good, stupid is better. Hedge your bets and try being fat and stupid. DO NOT be handsome or beautiful because one day you’re going to pay for that shit. If you’re at all good-looking, try getting maimed as soon as possible. Whatever you do, don’t be popular and well-liked. That’s an instant death sentence.

As predictable as this formula is, however, all bets are off when enormous versus disfigured in a fight to the death. That’s like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. Oh, right. Spoiler alert. Sorry, but you’ve had a whole week to get up to date with your PVR.

This insight comes from having watched the entirety of Game of Thrones in a very short period of time. I’m not one for binge watching but, having said that, I did watch the first thirty hours of the show in three days flat shortly before season four began airing. After such an overdose, it was painful to have to wait a whole week between episodes. Now that the current season is done, I’m probably going to lose my shit waiting for season five to premiere in April 2015. This past Sunday marks the first I’ve had to endure without a new episode. I’m not looking forward to the many more that will follow.

Now I know what all the fuss is about. Game of Thrones is the best thing currently on TV, even if I have cracked the life-or-death code. It’s not my favourite thing (that’s still Sherlock), but it’s a close second.

As we all keep vigil for the return months down the road, let us remember one thing: In the game of thrones, you either win or you die. Regardless, you’ll get a piece.

At least on The Walking Dead, when they kill off a character, the actor usually gets up to take a bow.

At least on The Walking Dead, when they kill off a character, the actor usually gets up to take a bow.

The Spare

Another 700 words of my flash fiction is up on Shotgun Honey today. The Spare allows you, the reader, to enjoy the hardboiled-noir experience firsthand by placing you right in the middle of the action. And the pain. It’s just like virtual reality, except with words on a page, and without the hefty expense of an Oculus Rift and all the associated motion sickness that goes along with it.

Stomach-turning nausea may result regardless.

Book (patent pending) A new high-tech device that allows the user to immerse him or herself in a whole other world, fully realized and stimulating to the imagination. System requirements: enough energy to turn a 2.3 gram page.

Book (patent pending) A new high-tech device that allows the user to immerse him or herself in a whole other world, fully realized and stimulating to the imagination. System requirements: enough energy to turn a 2.3 gram page.

Black Chaos

One of my old short stories has just been reprinted in a new anthology of zombie yarns from Big Pulp. Carrion Luggage originally appeared in the collection, Island Dreams: Montreal Writers of the Fantastic in 2003. Usually I’m happy to use this website as a dumping ground for past material, but when I heard about the upcoming untitled anthology (now named Black Chaos: Tales of the Zombie) I thought this might tickle their fancy and offered them the rights. Everyone’s so eager to write new flesh-eating undead stories, the traditional voodoo zombie has become sadly neglected over the years. I figured this story might help fill a void.

blackchaoscoverblackchaosbackBlack Chaos is available in both print and e-book formats from outlets like Amazon. And if this puts you in the mood for a zombie movie or three, why not give the Romero derivatives a break and visit voodoo classics like White Zombie, I Walked with a Zombie, and The Serpent and the Rainbow for a change. I wish there were more entries in the meagre voodoo-zombie sub-genre to recommend, but after those three I’m already stumped. Okay, maybe, just maybe, Live and Let Die, but now I’m really stretching. Comment below if you know of any more.

Twenty Years Ago Tonight

Sometime in the wee hours of June 4, 1994, following yet another local comic jam at Gallery Stornaway, I stepped outside into the streets of downtown Montreal and began my long night-bus commute home to the west island. It had been an unusually successful evening. I’d finished one entire page of comic art, contributed to a handful of others, sold some minicomics for quick cash, and scored some girl’s phone number. Not bad, considering I nearly didn’t go.

I’d been to many comic jams before, but no one had officially invited me to this one that Friday evening. Nevertheless, I read I would be in attendance in one of the free weekly papers, so my reaction was to shrug and conclude, “I guess I’m going.” The jam was only a few hours away. Luckily, I was already in the city.

A picture of that evening ran the following week in The Montreal Mirror. Faces visible, left to right: Leanne Franson, Bernie Mireault, Rick Gagnon, Mike Stamm, Shane Simmons

A picture of that evening ran the following week in The Montreal Mirror. Faces visible, left to right: Leanne Franson, Bernie Mireault, Rick Gagnon, Mike Stamm, Shane Simmons

My solo page that night concerned one of my favourite topics: dead celebrities. Kurt Cobain had blown his head off only a couple of months earlier, so I thought it would be funny to pair him with fellow self-inflicted head-wound celebrity, Del Shannon, who had committed suicide in similar fashion in 1990. Was this in questionable taste? Of course. But it’s never “too soon” in gallows-humour land. The final panel referred to the deaths of Jimi Hendrix, from choking on his own vomit during a drug overdose, and Mama Cass, from choking on a ham sandwich (actually a long-standing urban myth, she died of a heart attack).

GPMConverIt was while I was inking this affront to both music and basic human empathy that I encountered a fan of my work. I let her see the page-in-progress. She didn’t know who Del Shannon was, but I took her phone number when she offered it anyway.

Five years to the day later, I married her.

Twenty years later, we’re still married.

Comic book artists don’t get nearly as many groupies as musicians, so we have to make them count.