What do the Mega Powers, the G.I. Joe episode The Greatest Evil, and today’s brew have in common?

Well, dummy-pants, they are all the product of unlikely – but wonderful – collaborations!

At the beer-market today, a delivery-dude saw me scouring the shelves for the perfect inebriator. “Hey kid,” he said, “give this a try. It’s a team-up between Sierra and Dogfish.” He then handed me a bottle of Life and Limb and dispersed into an ethereal gray, drifting into a nether-realm, awaiting the next opportunity to help a beer-drinker in need.

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[DEFEAT. is presented in weekly episodes. the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy. Brian Galiano provides stunning original art for every episode. the end is nigh.]

I’ll never forget how he looked when I finally came face to face with him. Well, face to face with him again. Surely you know what I mean.

Don’t you?

It was just before 10AM when I came across Daryl Millar — just as I had planned it. His entrance at the pep rally would be about a half-hour later, so I figured this was the perfect time to reveal myself. Remembering the route he walked to school, I parked myself somewhere in the middle and waited.

He arrived right on time. Of course.

Before he saw me, his face was filled with fire. Not a blazing inferno of anger, but an inextinguishable torch of determination. There were no words that could persuade this hero to abandon his mission. Not that anyone else would have even approached him to try. After all, don’t forget that he was holding a goddamn sword. Not exactly an inviting image.

When I stepped in front of Daryl, he did not become upset. Perhaps somewhere deep inside, in the same viscera that told him to follow this course in the first place, he knew that I could not stop him. That I was not derailing his train of consequence, but offering a minor detour. With this comprehension in hand, he gave me an honest moment to speak my mind.

I told him who I was. He laughed at first. He told me I was just a pervert who hid in bushes and spied on high school students. I explained that I could understand his interpretation, as he had clearly spotted me on Monday, but that he was wrong. That I was who I was claiming to be. That given the revelations of the week, he should be more open to the idea.

And then I made an allusion to Crisis on Infinite Earths.

Daryl reconsidered his position. He looked as deeply into me as he could. Then he looked deeply within himself. I saw him thinking, considering all of the existential convergences. Intercourse under his belt. A sword that had traveled the world. A genuine gypsy mystic. Visions in basements and coffee shops. Friends in need. An adversary to defeat. His grandfather’s approval for whatever. A final word of warning coming from a traveler from afar. It all clicked.

Universal sequence complete.

We both acknowledged the surreality of the situation. I wanted to say something more to him, but didn’t. He offered his condolences about my right leg. He said goodbye and trudged ahead.

He hadn’t moved more than twenty paces when I called after him. Again, I knew it was useless but couldn’t help myself.

“Daryl! Wait! Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

He stopped but didn’t turn around. Over his shoulder, he called out to me. “Did you enjoy our conversation?

“Yes. Very much.”

“And do you enjoy the ability to have such conversations?”

“Of course! It’s my life’s work — everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

“Then you know what I have to do.” He continued walking. “Besides, nothing’s stopping you from speaking with me again.”

I watched him unsheathe the goddamn sword and take a sneak preview of its glory. Walking down his chosen path, he was all right.

All right forever.

– E.B.

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE – OL’s weekly show-and-tell session. I’m going to give you a peek at some of the bits of entertainment that’ll keep me from swearing off our oppressive society, giving away all my worldly possessions, and then fleeing to the wilderness so I can die in a van.

After reading about the destinations of my entertainment-excursions, you’re encouraged to hit up the comments section so you can show off your own itinerary.

Let’s rock.

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On Friday night I was fortunate enough to catch a midnight screening of Pulp Fiction at the Somerville Theatre. Sure, getting a chance to see Tarantino’s seminal work on the big-screen was absolutely amazing. But what was truly mind-blowing was encountering the most puzzling statement I’ve ever seen scrawled on a bathroom stall:

I also love to fart on pussy.

With no other graffiti visible, my search for meaning became frantic. Who farts on pussy? Why? And what’s with the inclusion of also? This could imply either that the author loves to do other things on pussy or that he loves to fart on other things. Hrm. Is this some sort of Zen kōan?

What does this mean?

[DEFEAT. is a   coming-of-death novella. every week a new episode pops up, accompanied by an original Briano Galiano illustration. for fans of science fiction, fantasy, video games, comics, war epics, and feats of triumph]

The birds started chirping. The sun climbed with resolve, hurtling over the horizon with Olympian ease. The timer on the automatic coffee machine hit its limit and began brewing black inspiration. It was almost as though they had all taken part in a conspiracy, a plot to ensure a perfect beginning to an essential ending.

Did the birds, the sun, and the coffee machine actually know what a monumental day this was to be? No.

But Daryl Millar knew. He knew that this was the most important day of his life. He knew that on this day, he and his closest friends would celebrate together. He knew that they would revel in exultation only possible with immense sacrifice. He knew that this would be the last day of his life.

Daryl Millar woke up. He pulled open the shades and let himself be bathed in golden rays of wonder. He laughed to himself, thinking just how perfect this day would be. It all made so much sense, there was an undeniable purpose at hand.

Bending to one knee, the hero reached under his bed. With great respect, Daryl drew out a sacred tool. An instrument his grandfather had bequeathed unto him. The weapon that Clark Millar had pried from the dead hands of his last mortal enemy.

Daryl Millar held in his hands a goddamn samurai sword.

And in a few hours he was going to plunge it right into his own heart.

Historically, I probably would’ve said that my all-time favorite Crispin would have to be Glover.

Ya know, the dude that played George McFly and then went fucking apeshit.

But after today, I’m afraid that Willard no longer owns quite as much real estate in my heart as he once did. Sorry dude – I didn’t actually expect this to happen. But the fact of the matter is that I’ve now tried Lansdowne by the folks at Crispin Cider and I’m impressed.

Fuck that, I’m blown away.

I snagged Lansdowne from the shelves of my local beer-dealer because I was lured in by its appearance. I ain’t no liar, and I can admit when visual aesthetics win me over. There’s something elegant, mayhaps even classy, about the 22-ounce container. Maybe it’s the black label or the little tree logo or the use of simple typography – whites and golds, print and script. But if I had to toss money on it, I’d say that it’s the interrelationships, the gropings and moanings in a darkened room bathed in auditory-lubrication, between all of the above that sold me. Looking at the bottle, it looks urbane as hell.

I’ll be damned if I can’t imagine Don Draper taking a rip from a bottle of Lansdowne.

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Hello.

My name is Rendar Frankenstein and I’m the host of the soiree that is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! At the beginning of every workweek, I take off my conformity-jacket so that you can peek at the heart on my sleeve. But the Hypernerd Realm is far too vast for one man to map on his own, so I’m going to need a little help. After you check out my methods of leveling-up, hit up the comments section and share yours.

This is about sharing ideas, the most human activity of all.

So let’s dance, you grubby fucks.

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[DEFEAT. is a   coming-of-death novella. every week a new episode pops up, accompanied by full art by Brian Galiano. for fans of science fiction, fantasy, video games, comics, war epics, and feats of triumph]

Bursting into tears, the girl ran into her father’s open arms. She was seven years old and learning about the unfortunate end of life. Death. She was learning what it felt like to watch a loved one succumb, to fall victim to the force by which we are all eventually swept away.

He wasn’t her brother. But he sure felt like it, having been there for the duration of her entire short existence. From the very first day Betty brought her home from the hospital, the seven-year-old had been loved and protected by this surrogate-sibling. And now she had to watch as he withered away into nothing.

Nothing living, anyway.

“Daddy, why is this happening? It isn’t fair! I don’t want him to die!”

Stoically taking a rip from his pipe, the father looked at his only child. He was challenged in a way that was new and unnerving. Which was saying something, given the scope of his life experience.

He had survived war. He had moved to America with nothing and made something of himself. He had mastered the arena of political science, becoming the department head of a prestigious university.

And he had done all of this with self-assurance, an unwavering belief that the path he had chosen was the right one.

But now he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. He gently parted his lips, allowing for a light puff of tobacco smoke to billow upwards. The father savored the taste of the smoke and anticipated the rush from the nicotine. This was his ritual when preparing to do some heavy-duty–

“Daddy,” the daughter interrupted, “isn’t there anything we can do?!”

“I’m still doing zee heavy-duty thinking.” He hadn’t completely shaken his accent. Years later, when his daughter realized he had an accent, she’d find it endearing. But right now, she just wanted a solution to what had been described to her as an insolvable problem.

She had heard the word from all of them. Her mother. Her father. The doctor. They all had different ways of explaining what it meant. The maternal optimism that everything would be fine, despite what the word suggested. The paternal idea of confronting the inevitability of the word, becoming stronger in the process. The scientific defining of the word, plagiarized from a textbook. Yet, nothing curbed the inherent terror of the utterance.

Cancer.

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Welcome back to MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! By the time you read this, you’ll most likely have completed your first day of the workweek and will be primed for some solid entertainment. But not if you work the graveyard shift. Which is a bummer, unless you actually work at the graveyard, `cause then you get to meet zombies and mad scientists and packs of goth kids playing Ouija!

In any case, I’m going to give you the rundown on some of the shit that’ll be keeping my spirits high over the course of the next week. Your mission – should you choose to accept it – is to hit up the comments and show which sidearms you’ll be using in this workweek showdown.

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[face of a franchise presents two individuals that’ve fulfilled the same role. your task — choose the better of the two and defend your choice in the rancor pit that is the comments section]

One of the most celebrated rites of passage in the Nerd Realm is engaging in the Greatest Hero debate. Would Luke Skywalker’s   Jedi powers confound John McClane, or would he manage to best Tattooine’s favorite farmboy even after getting an arm chopped off? How fast can Neo read universal code if Professor X is mind-molesting him? Can Wolverine’s healing factor work quickly enough to thwart off the three-count after Hogan delivers the atomic leg drop?

Fun questions to ask, no doubt. But only in a purely academic sense. Because, if you really think about it, everyone knows who our generation’s greatest hero is.

Super Mario.

I can’t even begin to think of a hero that’s done more than Mario. Every few years he hunts down a dinosaur, beats the shit out of him, and then brings his girlfriend home to bang her out. Oh, and by the way, she’s a princess – so you know she’s packing a high-quality rump-roast. When he’s not out hunting prehistoric menaces, Mario finds enjoyment in high-octane deathraces. He gets his broke-ass brother jobs. Oh, and the muthafuggah’s got a PhD.

With such crazy credentials, it stands to reason that it takes a real boss to portray Mario. Luckily for us, we’ve been graced with performances by two absolute masters. The only problem lies in determining who did the better job.

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