by Damon Suede
C’mon. C’mon, man.
“And these are for the fingers.” Trip picked up the little firm silicone thimbles. “They aren’t sharp.”
“Naw. It’s just for the look. They go over your fingertips to cover your nail beds and give you his talons.”
“So I wouldn’t be able to draw or sign or anything.”
Silas grinned. “I didn’t say they were for you.”
Trip’s mouth opened into a little shocked ring.
“If you wanted a set, I’d cast ’em special.” He pressed the silicone against Trip’s forehead firmly so the translucent horns sprouted there.
Trip beamed. “Awesome.”
“They’ll fit and angle better if I cast a set for your face.”
Trip laughed. “Like a spell?”
He snickered. “No, Mr. Spector, like foam latex.”
Trip hugged himself. “I couldn’t.”
“Then what about some help? A couple minions to work the convention hall. I could call in favors.”
Trip shook his head. “It’s not that easy, though.”
“You don’t have to be a one-man band. You have a support team, right?”
“In theory.”
“For the artwork?” Silas knew the answer to this, but he wanted to sit and listen to Trip, watch his mouth move and his eyes stare past the wall into wherever his ideas lived.
Trip’s nerves appeared to have settled; covering familiar turf seemed to put the full weight of his attention directly on Silas. “Well, I’m not the real honcho. But Big Dog only hires me for pencils and ink… and sometimes not even for the whole book. I thumbnail the artwork and then render it in blacks so it can be colored.”
“So someone else decides what the colors are?” Again Silas knew the answer but pretended he didn’t so he could hear that angular voice gently explain things.
Trip shrugged. “Well, there’s a script. The writer sometimes tells you. And when it’s an existing brand, like the Mighty Mites, the uniforms have preset designs. Editors get involved. Color can wreck a great pencil, or it can save a shitty one. After a while, you get to know the folks you work best with. It can get….”
Complicated. “Yeah.”
“Complicated.”
Somehow, knowing Trip’s next word before he spoke… delicious, like the crunch of fresh-baked bread and peach preserves.
“So… script, then thumb, then pencil, then ink, then color. Right?” Silas used shears to clean the seams of the cowl while he enjoyed Trip’s happy attention on him and the calm that lapped between them. “It all sounds pretty complicated. Do these colorists live in the city?”
“I wish!” Trip’s laugh burst from him, clean and sharp as scissors. “No. Two brothers in Vancouver. And Wavenna in Turin for more natural stuff. But Dolores is my favorite. She’s in Uruguay. I swear she can read my mind. I don’t even speak Spanish and sometimes she feels like one of my closest friends.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, to have that kind of connection. I get called out to work shoots, and I have folks I work with pretty regular, but I don’t belong to a team. Or I haven’t gotten successful enough that I can even have a team to belong to. FX is pretty clique-y.”
Trip gave him an awesome squeeze. Silas didn’t move, hoping the hand would stay.
“Hell, all I do is glue and paint shit on people. Dream up boogeymen I can’t afford to build.” Silas knocked on his skull. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still doodling naked werewolves on my algebra notebook.”
Trip squeezed the fake horns again, like oversized nipples. “Did you really draw naked werewolves—?”
“Duh! With boners.” The dimple reappeared in Silas’s cheek. “Wild and woolly, man. At Savini, I got to build a naked werewolf with a hairy penis, but when my teacher found out, he trashed the photos.”
Trip closed his eyes and pretended to scold him. “Silas.”
“Well, I had a blast designing and building him. And the class loved it.”
“D’ja get in trouble?”
“I had to pay for some of the supplies.” Silas shrugged.
“And I’ll bet you dated the model.”
“Hey!” Silas laughed. “I did not.”
“Because he was straight?”
The jealousy still bugged Silas. He heard the spidery suspicion in Trip’s voice.
“C’mere.” Silas took Trip’s hand and led him to the battered couch at the side of the trailer. Actors had left a scatter of unfinished crosswords and folded sides from scenes they’d shot this week. “Siddown a second.”
“I’m okay.”
“Well, I’m fucking whipped, so sit with me a second.” Silas tugged at his hand until Trip sat down and leaned into him.
For a few moments, the only sounds were their breathing and the hum of the little refrigerator.
“Mr. Goolsby….” Trip sat back and opened his hands. “What would you do?”
“With Scratch?”
“Yeah. I mean, what if you had the start of a book and weren’t sure what to do with it?”
Silas shrugged and spoke with complete candor. “You don’t want someone giving it away or fucking it up. So you keep hold of the rights. That’d be my number one priority.”
Trip wrung his knuckles like a rag. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“From Scratch.” Silas shoulder-bumped him. “What publishers handle erotic content? Who would dig the occult angle? Class Comics? Prism? You must know people.”
“I dunno. Cliff handles all that shit.”
“So do a little research. Me, I’d go to a comic convention and pitch it to companies with a solid track record with sexy titles.”
“Go public?” Trip scrunched up his face, his mouth warped with misgivings.
“Well, he ain’t a shy critter.” Silas held the horns near his hairline. “It’s a gay title. And there are a few gay-friendly publishers that know their way around a bare demon dick.”
“Come out proud.” Trip twisted his hands together.
“If you want.” Silas spoke gently. “I mean, we already talked about you taking him to a con.”
“I thought you meant just to ask advice.” Trip looked fretful. “Sounds like a huge gamble to me.”
“Sure. But where’s the harm?” Silas crossed his arms: stubborn farmboy. Trip liked his chest, and if he had to flirt Trip into making a bold move… he’d had tougher jobs.
“I don’t even have all the interiors done. I’ve only had the Judge a month.” He smiled at Silas.
“Who says you gotta have it finished?” Silas drew a shape with his blunt fingers midair. “You just want to connect as many of the dots for them as you can. The story is in the spaces. ’S’like comics. Any story really. Give them sexy gaps to fill.”
“Gross!”
“Not that. But you gotta seduce ’em a little.” Silas brushed Trip’s cheek with a thumb. “So maybe a little, yeah.”
“You think I can sell an unfinished project?” Trip rested his arms on his knees. “Scratch, I mean.”
“It’s not that unfinished, Trip. Look, if I see two drawings, a full glass and an empty glass, the order tells me what happened. The action happens between the panels, in the gutters. If the full glass comes first, then the glass pours out in that space. But if the empty comes first and then the full, then in between those panels someone filled it.”
“I love that.” Trip grinned and pressed his arm.
“Film’s the same way. It’s just a whole string of pictures. They run through a projector so it tricks your eye into thinking they’re moving, but they’re static. The moving is something that happens in the gaps.”
“Big Dog does that all the time. Actually, I think I do that—”
Cliff, he means.
“Everyone. We all do. That’s art, man. Make good dots and help folks connect ’em. Help them see the whole package. The real juice runs in the gutters.”
“It’s
a mess, still. Nothing polished. My flats are rough.” Trip ran a hand over the hair on Silas’s head and smoothed it down again.
Silas considered him. “You don’t have to stay a solo act your whole life.”
“Like Dolores would ever color a gay romance.” Trip’s face clouded.
“Why not? Your publisher would set up a team. It’s a gig. She digs you. How long you got left penciling Issue 1?”
“Couple weeks? Maybe three. I owe Big Dog interiors and that slows me down.”
“Well….” Silas turned to face him squarely. “You got character models for Scratch, Isaac, and the Judge. A sheaf of panel pages. All the thumbnails. A couple cover alternates waiting for you to squirt your magical eye jizz. That’s enough of a package to show to friendly publishers.”
“Behind Cliff’s back.”
“What back? Trip, he knows you’re drawing it. He also knows that other folks wanna work with you. He could’ve signed you to an exclusive on that Campus whatsit and he didn’t… just to save a buck. He’s relied on your loyalty for the past four years to keep you dickless and shackled to Hero High. You’re his star.”
“Twinkle, twinkle.”
“For whatever reason, you gave him permission. If he won’t hire you, then someone else should.”
“Every comic is a criticism of every other comic.” Trip sighed with certainty. “Scratch reads like a fuck-you to Big Dog.”
Silas grinned. “Which is why you want a company who doesn’t have suit-itis. You wanna keep the new book separate, or else they’ll spend all their time trying to make it into a cliché.”
He watched Trip turn the possibilities over in his head. Silas imagined his anxiety about unveiling the big demon at a con, but a miniscandal could launch a “very graphic novel” toward the right audience in a major way.
“Y’know….” Trip hugged himself. “I have a fanbase.”
“From Hero High. Those are not the same folks that want a big homo-hocus-pocus title from Trip Spector.”
Frown.
“But hear what I’m saying. If you’re throwing a black-tie dinner party, you want to invite the guys who own a tux. Scratch already has a fandom, even if they don’t know it yet. We just have to invite the folks who have the right itch.”
“It feels wrong. Too soon.”
Silas dropped his arms and put his feet square on the ground so he could lean forward and use his hands to make his case. “Trip, if you want people to buy the book, they have to know it exists. What about C2E2 in Chicago?”
Trip dropped his chin. “In a month? There’s not enough time to plan. We don’t have any swag. No printer will—”
“Hey!” Silas laughed and drew a finger across his throat. “Hey. Hey. It’s not Iwo Jima. I didn’t suggest this to wig you out.”
Trip shifted in his seat, obviously hating the idea of putting his racier work on display. Even with his pride in the project, Scratch’s frank eroticism was new turf, and he likely had anxiety about fan reactions. He sucked on his lower lip. “Ugh. I hate this part.”
Silas wondered if he meant the business part or the erotic part or the demon part or the gay part. He took a breath and let it out, wanting to help. “Are you nervous because of Big Dog or because of your audience?”
Trip squeezed his skull and sighed. “There are plenty of cons that could launch Scratch. When he’s ready.”
And when will that be?
Trip elaborated. “There’s this Bent-con thing for LGBT comics, but that isn’t till December. Maybe we wait until then.”
“You’re gonna sit on Scratch for nine months?”
Trip pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just wanted to do something new.”
“And you did. Awesome.” Silas spoke slowly. “So… what if you and I pooled our know-how.”
Trip laughed, and a little puff of anxiety escaped. He wiped his face. “Howzat?”
“Easy, I could build a couple badass incubus makeups, and we could Scratch-bomb a comic con.” Silas held up the fabricated horns again and eyed Trip. I double-dog dare you. “Even if we couldn’t afford models, I know plenty of buff actors who’d help out.”
Trip looked at him sharply, an odd expression on his face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It’d sure get attention.”
“Only Marvel and DC really know how to do that kind of promo at a con. Booth babes and all. They’re owned by movie studios. Otherwise it comes off like craft-project creepytimes.” He scowled.
“But I’m the guy they hire. Y’see? It’s just a great way to get people talking about the book.”
Makeover.
If he could get a couple of fellas made up as Scratch, the rest would be gravy. He wanted to find his new audience, right? Trip’s sexy anti-hero walking around a big event was bound to rustle up publishers and a legion of eager fans.
“I think Scratch sells his own book better than anybody. Turn him loose on a convention and see what shakes loose.”
“’S’too much. Too fast.” Trip sneezed and sniffled.
“The thing is, most of what you did is so elegant. I’ll paint, but the character is pretty clean effect-wise. I’d run a brow piece. Hands. A plug to erase their navels.”
Trip hugged himself. Silas wavered. This wasn’t landing the way it was supposed to.
Silas shrugged. “Hell, I’d do it. It helps that he’s got my face and body.”
“No.” Trip’s forehead creased.
“But why? I love dressing up.”
“Well, for one thing, for all of Issue 1 Scratch is balls-naked.”
“Twist my arm.” Silas grinned.
Trip flushed.
Wrong tack. “We can easily come up with some kind of demonic fig leaf that covers my bojangles.” Silas kissed him.
“Ummm. Y’don’t need to get your junk out to sell my graphic novel.” Trip held up a hand like a traffic cop.
“My daddy would say you gotta play to your strength. Scratch is a big, bold character and that means a big, bold move.” Silas opened his palm, weighed the air. “If that’s what you want.”
“I want to. That’s the sick bit. Part of me wants to unleash Scratch on the whole goddamned world. When in doubt, freak ’em out.”
“Is there anything else you wanna be drawing? Anything that gets you juiced?”
Trip frowned, and then he blinked like a starving dog. “No. Fuck.”
“Then let’s figure out a way to keep your Hero High gig safe and also let Scratch loose.” Silas held the horns up to his head.
Trip relaxed a little and a breath escaped him, as if pursued. “You’re awesome. And crazy. And gorgeous. But no.”
“Crazy?”
“You’re a lunatic.”
“Maybe.” Silas kissed the side of Trip’s head. “But if I gotta draw the moon, I wanna give it a mustache.”
Trip leaned into him and sighed. “You have this way of making anything seem reasonable.”
“Yeah?”
“You make everyone brave. You don’t even know, but you do.”
Silas thought of Leigh Ann and Benita in this trailer, not ten feet from where they sat. The ladies had said something similar. Maybe that was his superpower. “So I’m like a spiritual jockstrap.”
“Fuck off.” But Trip was smiling as he pushed Silas away. “You’re the hottest, smartest dork in the multiverse, and you know it.”
“Just think about it.” Silas looked him straight in the eye. “My opinion, I think Scratch is more than ready, and you should launch as soon as possible.”
Trip stifled another sneeze and wiped his nose. “In Chicago.”
“If you want. Somewhere. That doesn’t matter.” Silas frowned. “I think this book could be bigger than you can imagine. Kurt always says that all markets are driven by hideous ideas. Crazy risks.”
“Or career suicide.”
“What?”
Trip ground his teeth. “Nothing. Kurt gives you an awful lot of advice.”
/> “Well, what do I know? He runs his own company. I just glue shit on people’s faces and go to the gym three days a week.”
“H’yeah.”
“I’m saying. Kurt’s just right more than he’s wrong. He’s my friend.”
Trip muttered at the floor. “—oyfriend.”
“C’mon. He’s not my boyfriend.”
“He’s your fucking unboyfriend.” Trip crossed his arms.
“What does—?” Silas turned. “Are you still jealous of Kurt?”
Trip picked at the cushion on his lap. “Let’s see: he’s rich, smart, handsome, and he comes up in every conversation we have because you idolize him.”
“I don’t.”
“Respect him, then.” Trip shrugged but wouldn’t lift his gaze. “I get it.”
“Sorry.” Silas blanched. Did he talk about Kurt that much? “But I have no interest in Kurt.”
“F’you say so.” Trip then sat silently, scowling at his smudgy hands.
Silas squinted but let it drop. Kurt might’ve done something or said something? No. Trip had never met him. He’d put it off each time Silas offered.
“I get it, though. Annoying as hell.” Trip winced in slow motion. “I never understood what they meant.”
“Sorry. Who?”
“Not you, the unboyfriend thing.”
Unboyfriend? This wasn’t about Kurt. Silas knew there was some kind of relationship calculus he needed to untangle, but fuck if he knew how it worked.
“I think I have a headache.” Trip ground his temple with the pads of his hands, petting himself firmly.
“It’s your call. This is a risk and you shouldn’t take it till you’re ready.” Where did that come from? For the first time in his life, Silas was trying to see the situation from the other guy’s perspective. Usually he just made messes first and apologized after, but Trip didn’t need more complication and bullshit.
Then again, maybe Trip didn’t want to share Scratch with anyone just yet. Maybe he was too dirty, too scary, too personal. Silas didn’t want to headfuck his boyfriend, but he didn’t want the opportunity to be put off forever. Different tack.
“You’re right.”
“Whuh?”
Silas leaned forward carefully. “Maybe this is all too much. You’d be better off waiting until everything was in place.”