Meet the Knaves

The Baconeater

It began on a dark and stormy night. I was sitting in front of the computer stoned and alone with some cybergal on my lap when the idea came to me. Bing! A comic strip about three potheaded superheroes who were too lazy to get much done besides getting blazed on the mootie. Wonder! I started immediately in crafting a storyline.

But oh! A problem. No one has stepped forth to take responsibility for the artwork! And I can’t draw for shit. Oh well. We can’t just sit back and let it hang. We must press on! And so I, the great “The Baconeator”, will post the scripts on this very page upon completion (of the scripts) so that they may be gazed upon with ardor and envy! Please be aware that these comic scripts are for the mature minded only – juvenile minds: Stay Away! Strong language is present in the pages that follow. And some drug references. And sexual situations. And probably some other stuff that juveniles and sissies shouldn’t bother with … You are forewarned!

Of course, the great “The Baconeator” will not stop there. My mind is in constant flux. Ideas for additional shitty first drafts continually blast about, slaughtering all my best neurons. Within a few days my brain will be hot soup, chunks of grey matter in a creamy grey sauce. But! There will be a million brilliant ideas for all you knaves to gape at and fawn over. Yes, my devastated brain will be your sustenance … Read on! Grow fat! And Layz …

Adriann P. Manlee

Time travel is not all you could wish for. I spent the Battle of Agincourt pissing myself a river underneath a bag of pots. As a slave, I was forced to a number of male-only gatherings amongst Alexander the Great’ court in India – a duty I performed with due curiosity-tinged ambivalence – and I have been abducted by aliens of at least two breeds on multiple occasions. Great Gizan knows why, but the greasy buggers seem drawn to my otherworldliness.

On the other hand, I have spent an Earthly Summer lounging on a terra-formed Io, sold hummus at the Passion (to little profit, I might add), and scribed quatrains for Nostradumus – his hand shook, you know. I have lounged in the baths of Pompeii and shared a bed with Boudicca – not a beauty, I admit, but skilled.

No matter how ambitious your travels, you cannot escape the physical ravages of time itself. I drink myself silly now, whiling away the hours, years, to my demise. In that endeavor, for my enjoyment as well as your own, I intend to share of my adventures what I can before lucidity escapes me.

Now, where’s that Scotch?