from...
OTHERMAN & THE ORAKULOIDS #1: “THE FINAL ENIGMA”
(written by Jason Squamata/ illustrated by Owen Hunter)
OTHERMAN & THE ORAKULOIDS #1: “THE FINAL ENIGMA”
(written by Jason Squamata/ illustrated by Owen Hunter)
PAGE ONE (five panels):
PANEL 1:
A long vertical panel on the left-hand side of the page. An almost diagonal, sprawling cityscape of Paris at dusk. The Eiffel tower in the distance. An obvious sunset. Somewhere amongst the gables and roofs and turrets and cupolas, the Lautreamont Asylum is visible...tiny but distinct. (see below).
Caption:
PARIS. 1930. BETWEEN THE WARS.
Caption:
THE CITY OF LIGHT WAS STILL SHELL-SHOCKED.
Caption:
WE LOVED AND WE HATED, WE CREATED AND DESTROYED
WITH A DESPERATE ENERGY...
Caption:
HALF TO FORGET AND HALF TO REMEMBER WHAT WE'D
LEARNED IN THE TRENCHES...
PANEL TWO:
Establishing shot of the Lautreamont Asylum, a massive mental institution on the Boulevard St.
Marcel. Use the infamous Pitie-Salpetriere as a reference, but warp it to your heart's content.
the major change: on its uppermost floor, in the central wing, there's a huge circular window (think Ditko's sanctum sanctorum window in "Dr. Strange", or the spiderweb window in Eisner's
"Spirit"). Its stained glass and its frame suggest a gaping, bloodshot eyeball. What sky we
see is still dusky.
Caption:
THAT THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD IS A MADHOUSE.
Caption:
SOME HOUSES, OF COURSE, ARE MORE MAD THAN OTHERS...
PANEL 3:
In the main common area/rec room of the hysteria ward at the Lautreamont asylum, Dr. Andre Charcot (Andre Breton circa 1930), in a sharp suit and a period white lab coat, is leading a team of doctors and medical students amongst a throng of beautiful madwomen, some of whom are playing snakes and ladders or working on chaotic watercolors or gyrating in ecstatic convulsions or clutching at the gowns of nurses who are dispensing their medications. This is his kingdom, and he struts around like he owns the place. He dispenses diagnoses like manifestos and
treats his students like apostles. Burly orderlies flank them like secret service agents.
Caption:
TAKE THE LAUTREAMONT ASYLUM FOR THE CRIMINALLY INTERESTING...
DR. ANDRE CHARCOT:
...BUT, GENTLEMEN, WHO ARE WE TO JUDGE?
DR. ANDRE CHARCOT:
DESPITE OUR SCIENCE, CAN WE BE SO SURE THAT THESE SO-CALLED LUNATICS ARE NOT IN TOUCH WITH SOME STRANGE WISDOM THAT DWARFS OUR OWN?
PANEL 4:
Closer shot on Charcot and one of the painting hysterics, a young woman barely out of her teens.
She'd obviously be a great beauty if her face and fingers weren't smeared with the mess of her
compulsive art-making. She's clutching at Charcot's lapels. He dotes on his patients, but
there's a distance. He appreciates them aesthetically more than he appreciates their humanity. The whole hospital is like his personal gallery of vibrant and lurid case histories. He addresses his entourage as she clutches at him.
HYSTERIC #1 (IN A LOOPY FONT):
FISHMUCKEN MICKLEWHITE BABNABBIT HEXUM!
DR. ANDRE CHARCOT :
BEHOLD! A KIND OF POETRY BLOOMS IN THE RUINS OF REASON!
Caption:
...TAKE DOCTOR ANDRE CHARCOT...
PANEL FIVE:
Orderlies have pounced on the hysteric. They're wrapping her up in a straitjacket and she
struggles, howling more desperate nonsense at Charcot, who seems suddenly bored with making the rounds. He's checking the pocketwatch chained to his waistcoat. If there are fellow doctors
visible, we'll see them taking notes, perhaps gazing admiringly at Charcot the great theorist
and healer.
DR. ANDRE CHARCOT:
BEDTIME FOR THESE WRETCHES, I THINK.
DR. ANDRE CHARCOT:
I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT WITH THAT TRAGIC CASE IN THE SPECIAL WARD, UPSTAIRS.
DR. ANDRE CHARCOT
TOMORROW'S LECTURE BEGINS AT NOON, GENTLEMEN. SAVOR EVERY ILLNESS BEFORE YOU ATTEMPT ITS CURE.
PAGE TWO (six panels):
PANEL 1:
Dr. Charcot in an ascending cage elevator. He's straightening his tie, composing himself with a
gravitas unusual for a doctor en route to a consultation with a patient. It's more like he's
on his way to a conference with his boss. The cross-hatched shadows flow over him.
Caption:
STAY SENSITIVE AND MUTABLE IN A MENTAL HOSPITAL AND YOU WILL COME TO KNOW THE TASTE OF EVERY KIND OF CRAZY.
Caption:
EVEN DR.CHARCOT HOSTS HIS OWN FREQUENCY OF LUNACY.
Caption:
CHARCOT. MY DOCTOR. MY HIGH PRIEST.
PANEL 2:
A large panel establishing the attic lair of Jacques Vache (a.k.a. Otherman). The north wall
farthest from us is taken up mostly by the circular stained glass eyeball window we saw from
outside. A slightly warped and bevelled Paris is visible through its fragmentation. The exotic
clutter of the study reflects the headspace of its occupant: rich but chaotic. We see various pieces
of enigmatic Orakuloid technology: the lobster telephone (under glass, like the red phone on the
batman tv show). A furry tea set, wherein some strange brew is steaming end emitting little
musical notes. There's an antique dissecting table upon which a strange steam-powered sewing
machine and a folded umbrella (which, if opened, would reveal a circular Buddhist diorama, a
meditating god dreaming gods dreaming gods, etc.) are perched. Bits of some inscrutable animal
glisten on the table itself, residue of some angelic autopsy. We can see mannequins in various
extravagant Erte-esque evening dresses, voodoo-dolled with sigilized daggers and nasty
needles and monogrammed pins. There's a modified Dzogchen Buddhist altar that might be visible. Another diorama. A mirror framed with leering demon skulls and temple guardian death-faces. Flickering candles. Bottles of Haitian rum, votive cigars, a black velvet glove and lacy black panties on a silver platter. Filigreed Tantric tulpa generators. Smoking urns and incense
dispensers. A small brass gong engraved with the symbol of Dzogchen (upside down), a glyph that looks curiously like a distorted tribal "M" embedded in a rippling "O". A moonstone soaking
in a jar of bubbling milk. Maybe a chemistry set in sanctifying proximity to the altar. There may
be many mirrors in this room, positioned at strange angles, seeming to give the room eerie,
unfolding measurements. the east wall is obscured by the machineries of the cage elevator, which has risen to the top floor, bearing Dr. Charcot. The doors have just opened. At the center of the
room, there's a Buddhist bathtub full of steaming herbalized water. It has the clawed feet of
demons. It seems to be made out of solid stone. Vache himself is in the bathtub. He has his back
to us. His face is obscured. Nurse Corday is administering his specially treated spongebath.
She's wearing a gasmask. Alongside her is a medical tray, various chemicals, unguents, and
instruments. The walls are papered with an art nouveau fleur di lis print, peeling at the edges,
revealing a more Escheresque pattern underneath.
JACQUES VACHE:
MY HIEROPHANT.
DR. ANDRE CHARCOT
YOU FLATTER ME, JACQUES. I AM MERELY A SEEKER. YOU'VE SHOWN ME THINGS I CAN'T EXPLAIN.
PANEL 3:
Dr. Charcot is in the background, keeping a respectful distance. In the foreground, Vache has
risen from the bath. The nurse is about to swaddle him with towels.
DR. ANDRE CHARCOT
FOR THAT I'M IN YOUR DEBT...AND AT YOUR SERVICE.
JACQUES VACHE:
THE GUESTLIST HAS BEEN CONFIRMED, I TAKE IT?
PANEL 4:
Nurse Corday (still in the gasmask) is dressing Vache, whose face is still hidden from us.
Dressing him in the tailored suit of an elegant gangster.
DR. ANDRE CHARCOT:
THE CRIMINAL CREME DE LA CREME, IT SEEMS.
DANGEROUS DREAMS. SECOND THOUGHTS?
JACQUES VACHE:
AU CONTRAIRE. I JUST NEEDED TO BE SURE IT'S A PARTY WORTH CRASHING.
PANEL 5:
Vache is dressed in everything but his jacket. He wears a shoulder holster and a vest with many
pockets. Nurse Corday is tricking him out with various accessories, holstering his gun and
planting little hopi dream-fetishes in the pockets of his vest. He has his arms aloft to allow her
maximum access.
JACQUES VACHE:
YOU KNOW HOW I LOVE THE CRASHING.
JACQUES VACHE:
BUT ANYTHING WORTH KILLING IS WORTH KILLING WELL. AND DEATH SAYS "BE PREPARED".
JACQUES VACHE:
...ENOUGH WITH THE CHIT-CHAT. CREEPY BUSINESS TO ATTEND TO. LET ME OUT.
PANEL 6:
The front steps of the Lautreamont asylum. Vache is walking down the steps, towards an idling
period luxury car in the foreground. The hat he's wearing is emblazoned with the glyph of a
bloodshot eyeball, emanating energy. The fellow behind the wheel is dressed like a chauffeur.
Model him on Rene Crevel, the babyfaced poet and co-star of the surrealist season of the mediums. The great Surrealist suicide driving the great Dada suicide from crime to crime. Charcot is holding open the asylum door. He has just escorted and unceremoniously freed his most dangerous patient.
DR. ANDRE CHARCOT
OF COURSE. GOOD HUNTING, OTHERMAN. EVIL DREAMING.
BE BACK BEFORE DAWN.
Caption:
GOOD ADVICE FOR ANY OLD MONSTER.
PAGE THREE (six panels):
PANEL 1:
A long horizontal panel of the canary sedan in the foreground, racing towards us. The Lautreamont Asylum for the Criminally Interesting sprawling in the background. Maybe a sign at the gate.
Caption:
ESPECIALLY A DREAM DISEASE LIKE ME.
Caption:
TO THE ORIFLAMME HOTEL AS TWILIGHT CURDLES INTO NIGHT.
PANEL 2:
A large panel. The five-star private rumpus room at the Oriflamme hotel. There are gangsters here, gathered at a big conference table. There's Francis Picabia, a stocky, vicious criminal
entrepeneur. Fritz Arp, a Swiss terrorist with connections to the Dada crime family. There's
Jean-Pierre Belmondo, a child of the street who's grown up to be a brutal bank-robber. Various
lieutenants and thugs. Wine and champagne and drugs and a bevy of elegant, expensive
prostitutes. A smattering of fashionable people who are taking a walk on the wild side, including
Melinda Lee, photographer and world-famous fashion model, who dates Belmondo from time to time.
Caption:
THE ORIFLAMME IS HOST TO A DEN OF PARASITES.
ALL THEY TALK ABOUT IS SEX AND DEATH.
PICABIA:
THE LIBERTINE IS DEAD.
PICABIA:
HIS DEMON DAUGHTER IS MISSING, ALLEGEDLY DISMEMBERED,
PRESUMED DEAD.
PICABIA:
THE NOWHERE MAN IS DEAD...THE TOREADOR IS DEAD...FANTOMAS IS DEAD!
PICABIA:
MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES...DANGEROUS PEOPLE
DYING IN THEIR SLEEP...IN THEIR DREAMS.
ARP:
IT AIN'T NATURAL, FRANCIS.
BELMONDO:
IT'S OTHERMAN. THIS IS A GANG WAR.
PANEL 3:
Closer on Picabia and Belmondo.
PICABIA:
IT'S A MAD DOG ON A RAMPAGE. SO WE HOLE UP HERE. ALL OF US.
WE WHO HAVE SURVIVED.
PICABIA:
OUR DETECTIVE FRIENDS ARE CLOSE TO KNOWING WHO HE REALLY IS. THEY WANT HIM WORSE THAN WE DO.
BELMONDO:
I GET IT. WE LAY LOW IN LUXURY UNTIL THE COPPERS KILL HIM. HER. IT.
PANEL 4:
Closer on the leering men at the conference table in the heat of negotiation.
ARP:
YEAH. YEAH. THEN WE DIVVY UP THE SPOILS. MAKE SOME NEW MAPS. EVENLY DISTRIBUTE SOME CONFISCATED WEALTH.
BELMONDO:
I HATE THE WAY YOU PUT THINGS, FRITZ.
YOU SOUND LIKE A FUCKING SOCIALIST.
PICABIA:
BUT WE WILL GET PAID. OUR OPERATION WILL LIVE ON. MY FRIENDS, WE ARE THE UNDERWORLD IN PARIS...AND BEYOND.
PANEL 5:
PICABIA proposing a toast, rising from the table, raising his glass.
PICABIA:
GENTLEMEN...SCOUNDRELS, I PROPOSE A TOAST...
PICABIA:
DEAR OTHERMAN, WHEREVER YOU ARE, WHATEVER YOU ARE...TO HELL WITH YOUR VOODOO LUNATIC KUNG-FU BULLSHIT. THANK YOU FOR FREEING US FROM OUR DEALINGS WITH THOSE MONSTERS.
PICABIA:
MONSTERS LIKE YOU.
PANEL SIX:
Closer on PICABIA proposing a toast. If the other gangsters are visible, they're also raising their
glasses and laughing.
PICABIA:
MAY THE POLICE WE EMPLOY FIND YOU AND TORTURE YOU AND KILL YOU. TONIGHT. WE WILL PISS ON YOUR REMAINS AND THE REMAINS OF YOUR VICTIMS
AND WE WILL RESTORE REASON TO OUR ENTERPRISE.
PICABIA:
NO MORE MYSTICS. NO MORE ANARCHISTS. NO MORE MAGICIANS. THIS THING THAT WE DO IS NOT AN ART. IT IS NOT A SCIENCE. IT'S A FUCKING BUSINESS.
PICABIA:
SO HERE'S TO BUSINESS...AND FUCKING.
MELINDA (OFF-PANEL):
I THINK THAT'S MY CUE TO EXIT, YOU HORRIBLE MEN.
PAGE FOUR (five panels):
PANEL ONE:
The crimelords rising from their seats instinctively. Vulgar as they may be, some genetic gallantry is triggered at the approach of Melinda Lee, a chic American in her early twenties, willowy and cool with sad blue eyes. She has her things (a camera bag and a small fur
and a small Chanel purse). She has an air of kidding cruelty. She pokes fun at beasts and gets
away with it.
MELINDA:
I'VE DONE ENOUGH SLUMMING FOR ONE EVENING.
BELMONDO:
BUT MELINDA, THE PARTY'S JUST GETTING STARTED.
PICABIA:
I TOLD YOU, BELMONDO. SEE HOW THE GREAT BEAUTY SHRINKS FROM THE BRUTALITY OF BUSINESS? SHE'S NOT FOR YOU. SHE'S AN ARTIST. AND A WORK OF ART HERSELF.
PANEL 2:
Melinda making model faces, rolling her eyes a bit at Picabia, putting Belmondo in his place like
he's a mama's boy making bold claims of courage.
MELINDA:
BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME. I'M GOING HOME.
BELMONDO:
MELINDA, GO HOME WITH ME.
MELINDA:
IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU'VE BEEN GROUNDED, MY DASHING HOOLIGAN. AND THIS PLACE IS TACKY. I HAVE WORK TO DO.
PANEL 3:
Belmondo almost begging. He's pretending to be kidding. Acting a bit melodramatically as the
rough romantic lead, but actually wanting to be with her for a few more hours.
BELMONDO:
MELINDA. I'D GIVE UP CRIME FOR YOU.
MELINDA:
THEN THERE'D BE NOTHING INTERESTING ABOUT YOU, JEAN-PIERRE.
BELMONDO:
YOU WOUND ME AND THEN YOU LAUGH.
PANEL 4:
Melinda exits the den of iniquity, in the foreground, smirking and walking towards us.
strutting out of a room of ill repute like a coquettishly disgusted aristocrat. In the
background, Picabia has escorted a pretty girl over to the suddenly single Belmondo.
MELINDA:
I PICTURE YOU GETTING OVER IT.
MELINDA:
GOOD NIGHT, GORILLAS. IT'S BEEN A KICK.
PICABIA:
AU REVOIR, PRINCESSE DE GLACE.
ARP:
CALL ME!
PANEL 5:
The Lautreamont luxury car pulling up in front of the Oriflamme Hotel.
Caption:
ORDINARY KILLERS CAN EXHAUST THEIR PASSION FOR THE TASK AT HAND BY CASING THE JOINT, STUDYING MAPS, AND ISOLATING VANTAGE POINTS FOR THE
CLEANEST KILL.
PAGE FIVE (eight panels):
PANEL 1:
Vache in his slouch hat and fur-lined overcoat, entering the luxurious lobby of the Oriflamme.
Caption:
BUT I'M NOT JUST A HITMAN. I'M OTHERMAN.
Caption:
I WAS BORN EXHAUSTED.
PANEL 2:
Orgy in the gangster rumpus room. Belmondo is drinking champagne from the bottle as a prostitute loosens his tie and Picabia looms over his shoulder.
PICABIA:
MODELS COME AND GO, JEAN-PIERRE. BEAUTY IS A BUSINESS. PLEASURE IS A BUSINESS.
PANEL 3:
Vache walking purposefully to a plush red velvet armchair in the lobby. A concierge calls out to
him.
CONCIERGE:
CAN I BE OF ASSISTANCE, SIR?
VACHE:
NO. WAITING FOR SOMEONE. I'M SITTING DOWN
OVER HERE.
Caption:
I JUST FIND A NICE PLACE TO TAKE A NAP.
PANEL 4:
Belmondo wiping tears from his eyes as he has angry sex with the prostitute. Picabia is exiting
with a cigar, a champagne bottle, and two other prostitutes.
PICABIA:
...LOVE IS A BUSINESS...
PANEL 5:
Vache in his fancy chair, in a casually meditative posture, hat slouched over his eyes.
Caption:
ONCE I GO UNDER, I CAN FIND THE REST OF ME AND EXTEND SERRATED TENDRILS INTO EVERY DREAM I CAN REACH.
PANEL 6:
Melinda walking down the sprawling staircase. checking her camera.
Caption:
DREAMING ISN'T A BUSINESS. DREAMING IS BEYOND BUSINESS. DREAMING IS AN ECOLOGY.
PANEL 7:
Unconscious revellers in the gangster orgy room. Gangsters and harlots. Opium pipes. Half-empty glasses.
Caption:
SO MANY CONTIGUOUS BUBBLES OF TRANCE AND DELIRIUM.
Caption:
EVERY SLEEPING HEAD IS A READY VECTOR MY RAZOR-LACED TENTACLES CAN SLITHER THROUGH.
PANEL 8:
Bigger frame of the lobby. Vache in the foreground, in the chair, sleeping. Concierge in
the middle distance. assorted nouveau riche gangster and moll types. Distantly, Melinda
coming down the staircase.
Caption:
MY SHADOW FALLS ACROSS YOUR THOUGHTS.
Caption:
I DO MY BEST WORK WHEN I'M UNCONSCIOUS.
Caption:
I WONDER...
Caption:
HOW MANY HEADS CAN I VIOLATE AT ONCE?
PAGE SIX:
PANEL 1:
The cemetery at Montparnasse, submerged in the toxic depths of a dead ocean, deep in the dreams of Arp, the freelance terrorist. Tea party in an underwater graveyard. Otherman approaches in the background, floating and malevolent, parting curtains of algae, a halo of pale, angular fire flickering around his head, the Otherman icon on his head throbbing with infinitely receding orifices and doorways. Arp looks bewildered. He's holding a tea cup. Tea is splashing out of it in a cloud. He seems unsure as to whether he should worry about drowning or not.
Caption:
I'LL START WITH ONE. FRITZ ARP. SWISS, LIKE THE CHEESE. FREELANCE TERRORIST. FORMER OPERATIVE OF THE NOWHERE MAN. ASSOCIATED WITH
THE DADA CRIME FAMILY. NIHILIST. DIFFICULT TO REASON WITH.
Caption:
DEATH BY DREAM OF DROWNING.
PANEL 2:
A vast subterranean dream-room that combines the features and functions of dance club and bowling alley. Chandaliers bloom from stalactites. The gangster, FILTHY JAVIER (visible at the conference on page 3), is trying to impress a famous actress who's headed for the dance floor. Otherman, hunched and conspiratorial like the devil jimself, is offering Javier a pair of magic red bowling shoes emblazoned with the Otherman insignia and delicate machineries. Javier is smiling, knowing that these shoes will allow him to dance gracefully for days and days.
Caption:
TWO, A NEW DREAM TO INFEST AND INFECT EVEN AS FRITZ INHALES AN IMAGINARY OCEAN. SUDDENLY LUCID AND DOOMED. THIS DREAM BELONGS TO FILTHY JAVIER.
Caption:
A TOOL AS OPPOSED TO AN INSTRUMENT. JAVIER KILLS FOR MONEY. HE LOVES THE NIGHTLIFE, BUT HE CAN'T DANCE. THIS DREAM ALWAYS ENDS IN
SHAME. I CAN TELL BY THE STINK OF IT.
Caption:
NO SHAME TONIGHT, JAVIER. SHOW THEM WHAT YOU CAN DO. THIS CHARLESTON NEED NEVER END, JAVIER. DEATH BY DREAM OF DANCING.
PANEL 3:
A vast expanse of desert under a sky made of money. There are sportscars half-submerged in
sand. The sand is pock-marked by smouldering cigars, like the whole world is an ashtray.picabia
is in the foreground with his back to us, sweating profusely, crawling on his hands and knees. In
the distance, swathed by streaks of mirage, Otherman stands underneath a hovering parasol,
offering a bottle of frothing champagne.
Caption:
THREE DREAMS NOW. PICABIA. PICABIA. PICABIA.
SINCE THE WAR, CRUDE OPPORTUNISTS LIKE YOU HAVE BEEN EXPLOITING THE GENERAL AMBIENCE OF DESPERATION IN PARIS WITH A KIND OF REPULSIVE
FINESSE.
Caption:
LIKE SILKY PIGS WALLOWING IN THE SLOP OF HUMAN SUFFERING. DRIVEN BY MONEY. POSSESSED BY MONEY. MURDERED FOR NO GOOD REASON UNDER
UNFORGIVING CONSTELLATIONS OF CRUEL AND UNUSUAL CURRENCY. BLOOD MONEY BLOOD MONEY BLOOD.
Caption:
DEATH IS A BUSINESS, FRANCIS. DEATH BY DREAM OF THE DESERT.
PANEL 4:
Inside an old-school funhouse hall of mirrors. Belmondo stands in the midst of them, but every
mirror reflects Otherman,except for one, which reflects tittering Melinda Lee from page 4. The
mirrors are exploding. broken glass flying in all directions. He' shielding his eyes. He's wearing
brass knuckles on each fist.
Caption:
THREE KILLS AND COUNTING..UH-OH. BELMONDO. THIS ONE'S IN LOVE. ITS TRICKY TO ONEIRICALLY SUPPLANT AN ACTIVE OBJECT OF OBSESSION. BUT
IT'S WHAT I NEED TO DO TO TURN THIS THUG'S DREAM INTO HIS TORTURE CHAMBER.
Caption:
INSTEAD OF MY CRYPT.
Page 1
Caption:
I KNOW THE GIRL HE'D FILL THESE MIRRORS WITH. I KNOW EVERYBODY, BUT HER ESPECIALLY. I'VE BEEN IN HER DREAMS. SHE'S NOT MADE OF ICE.
PANEL 5:
An iconic stencil of Otherman's face in dreaming mode at the center of the preceding four frames.
PAGE SEVEN (seven panels):
PANEL 1:
Melinda sauntering down the stairs, taking pictures. Heads are turning to behold her.
gangsters are covering their faces so as not to be exposed in Melinda's portfolio.
Caption:
SHE'S ELECTRIC.
Caption:
A WOMAN FROM A FUTURE AGE, STRANDED HERE WITH US MONKEYS. MAKING THE MOST OF IT.
Caption:
I DON'T BLAME YOU A BIT, BELMONDO, BUT SHE WAS ALWAYS OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE.
PANEL 2:
Portion of sleeping Vache in the foreground. In the deep focus background, Melinda is terrorizing more bad men and their mistresses, slumming socialites and their gigolos, etc. (with her camera).
Caption:
AND YOU AND YOUR TERRIBLE FRIENDS ARE IN MY WAY AND YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE TO SUBMIT TO MY INFLUENCE AND NOW YOU HAVE TO DIE VIOLENTLY IN A DREAM OF LOVE.
Caption:
LOVE AND NARCISSISM. I'M THAT WAY, TOO. OTHER PEOPLE ARE JUST ACCESSORIES. SHOULD HAVE CHOSEN A SHARPER OUTFIT, BELMONDO.
PANEL 3:
Flash inside the dream that's happening. Otherman floating in an ocean of Belmondo's blood and bits of his features, shards of mirror that reflect him screaming.
Caption:
OR DULLER BITS OF MIRROR.
Caption:
LOOK AT YOU IN PIECES. LOOK AT ME, UNCUT. UNTOUCHABLE.
PANEL 4:
The flesh and blood Belmondo waking up screaming in the rumpus room, looking as if his body has been half-shredded by bits of broken mirror. Staring at his reflection, screaming more from
annihilated vanity than the physical agony. His scream is an asphyxiated gurgle. The prostitute
he's coiled up with is beholding him with horror.
Caption:
I AM THE MIRROR, JEAN-PIERRE. I AM THE REFLECTION YOU CAST AND THE EYE YOU SEE IT WITH.
Caption:
I AM THE MIND THAT KNOWS ITSELF AS YOU.
Caption:
I AM THAT SELF.
PANEL 5:
The flashbulb bursting.
Caption:
I AM THE OTHER.
Caption:
THE YOU THAT THINKS IT'S NOT ME NEEDS TO DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE.
Caption:
IN A CLOUD OF BROKEN GLASS.
PANEL 6:
The lobby of the Oriflamme Hotel. Vache leaping up, clearly disoriented, clutching Melinda's
wrist. At the upper right hand corner of the frame, a scream starts that runs across and off
the top of panel 7.
Caption:
DEATH BY DREAM OF DEFIANCE!
VACHE:
WHY DID YOU TAKE MY PICTURE?
MELINDA:
I DON'T KNOW. SOMETHING ABOUT YOU...
MELINDA:
SOMETHING "OTHER".
VACHE:
GIVE ME THE FILM.
MELINDA:
NO.
PANEL 7:
Just outside the lobby, on the front steps of the Oriflamme, Melinda in the foreground, as if she's
chased him outside. Beyond her, Vache hurriedly heads to the Lautreamont luxury car.
VACHE:
FINE. I'LL SEE YOU.
Caption:
...IN YOUR DREAMS.
Caption:
I COULD ENTER YOURS ANYWHERE.
Caption:
BECAUSE YOU'RE JUST LIKE ME, MELINDA LEE.
PAGE EIGHT (seven panels):
PANEL 1:
Panel of the "Indestructible Object" on the mantelpiece of X-ray Mankiewicz. A metronome with a screen-shaped photo of Melinda Lee's eye at the tip of its needle. It's tilting to the left.
Caption:
YOU HAUNT PEOPLE.
F/X:
CLICK!
PANEL 2:
Tilting to the right.
Caption:
IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT.
F/X:
CLACK!
PANEL 3:
Tilting to the left.
Caption:
IT'S YOUR NATURE.
F/X:
CLICK!
F/X:
BZZZT!-BZZZT!
PANEL 4:
Square panel of X-Ray Mankiewicz (a hardboiled cross between Man Ray and Weegee), sitting in an expensive-looking leather chair (splattered with paint), hunched over, smoking cigarettes, staring into space. There's a big deluxe radio in this room, a door to the hall and the stairs, a door to the bedroom, and a door to the darkroom. The decor is arty and fascinating, but sort of
austere. He's clutching a pair of lacy black panties. He has tears in his eyes. There may be
a bottle of scotch in the picture and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
X-RAY:
WHERE ARE YOU?
F/X (IN UPPER LEFT HAND QUADRANT):
BZZZT!-BZZZT!
F/X (IN UPPER RIGHT HAND CORNER):
BZZZT!-BZZZT!
X-RAY:
SHIT.
PANEL 5:
X-Ray, still smoking, opening the door. Two gendarmes are here to collect him. He's obviously
not shocked. They must collect him on a regular basis.
GENDARME 1:
MR. MANKIEWICZ? CHIEF INSPECTOR DES ESSEINTES URGENTLY REQUIRES YOUR SERVICES, SIR.
X-RAY:
X-RAY.
GENDARME 2:
EXCUSE ME, SIR?
X-RAY:
EVERYBODY CALLS ME X-RAY.
PANEL 6:
In the foreground, , X-Ray put his coat on and straightens his tie. A wider view of the room
makes it evident that there are bizarre dream photographs of Melinda Lee everywhere, including a
few with the two of them together. The gendarmes are gathering his camera bags.
GENDARME 1:
WE'LL JUST COLLECT YOUR EQUIPMENT, THEN...X-RAY.
X-RAY:
THOSE THREE BLACK BAGS. THE STUFF IS ALWAYS PACKED.
X-RAY:
I'M ALWAYS JUST WAITING FOR SOMETHING TO HAPPEN.
X-RAY:
WAITING FOR HER TO HAPPEN.
PANEL 7:
Truncated view of the gendarmes exiting with his stuff, x-ray strutting behind them. He has the
strut of a jazz cat. He's following them out the door. We realize he was facing this massive print
of one of his photos of Melinda Lee, obviously the Melinda we met at the Oriflamme.
X-RAY:
...OR SOMETHING HORRIBLE.
X-RAY:
TELL ME ABOUT THE CRIMESCENE.
X-RAY:
BUT GO SLOW. YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED, BUT MY FRENCH IS TERRIBLE.
*******
special bonus: "OTHERMAN & THE ORAKULOIDS" trading cards (art by JASON SQUAMATA)...
*******
special bonus: "OTHERMAN & THE ORAKULOIDS" trading cards (art by JASON SQUAMATA)...
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