Game of Thrones. I don’t usually write the column. I’m tagging in for the inestimably superior Oh Mars. As well, unlike Mars, I haven’t read the books. So bare with me, as I take to this endeavor as someone experiencing the events for the first time.

What a fucking episode to leave for, Coop! Goodness gracious. The end of all things! Or I suppose the culmination of the very depressing beginning to things. In case you missed the wonderfully overemphasized thesis statement during a scene at The Wall this penultimate episode of the season is dealing with Duty and Love.

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[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s newest fucking story.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who is guaranteed to die. For fans of pop culture, sci-fi, war epic, fantasy, and sick original art]

Daryl got out of the car, thanked his grandfather for the ride, and assured him that he wouldn’t need any further transportation. “Thanks Gramps, but after I see Riff, I think I’ll just walk to 8-Bit’s house. It’s nice out and I could use some fresh air.”

“No problem, kid.” Gramps gave the Buckley residence a once over, stifling his concerns about its dilapidated state and the as-of-yet-to-be-fixed window. Then he remembered the previous evening’s confrontation with Lieutenant Buckley. “You sure Riff’s dad is at work?”

“Yeah, Riff always has to walk to school on Thursdays because his dad has the earlier shift.”

“All right. But if he shows up, I want you to excuse yourself and head home. No need to stir the hornet’s nest.”

Daryl made his way to the front door and would’ve rung the bell if the door had been closed. But it was left ajar, no doubt the direct result of Larry Buckley drunkenly stumbling to his cruiser in the hopes of getting to work on time. As such, the hero walked into the house and called out to his friend.

“I’m in my room,” Riff groaned slumberously.

After climbing the stairs to the second floor, Daryl let himself into Riff’s room. The headbanger was in bed, doing his best to recover from his recent trauma.

His eyes were blackened.
His nose reset.
His spirit broken.

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I’ve been wanting to write something for a while now. A book, specifically. Not for any grand reason. Not for publication, or fame, or recognition. I am too cynical and sinister on myself to expect any of that nonsense. Just to write one. To create something. I’ve been saying to myself that I’ll do it. When? Then! The oldest line in the book. A lot of my time – okay, almost all of my waking free time – is dedicated to Omega Level. The continuous churning of information, the rampant persistent pastiche of shit that I suppose myself and more importantly the small but dope as fuck and tight-knit community here will enjoy.

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[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   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]

The man in the gray trench coat watched as Rimina Jacoby left Bandini’s Café. “Ah, the clever bitch beat me to it! One eye and she’s got a foresight I’d kill for. Well, if ya gotta get beat, might as well be by the best.”

After limping over to a park bench, the visitor sat down and reached into the innards of his coat. He produced a bottle of Pepsi Free, popped off the cap with a twist, and drank greedily. He downed more than half the bottle, then wiped his mouth and chuckled. “Gah, why the hell did they ever stop making this? To make room for energy drinks? Fetid! Sometimes the world makes no sense at all.”

He briefly contemplated following the mystic. After all, it’d long been a dream of his to finally hold a second meeting of the minds. Last time they met he was but the learner, and now he was on his way to becoming a master. But he knew that she was long gone, vanished into an unquantifiable mist.

He was a master of a discipline that, although related, was at odds with the teachings of Rimina Jacoby. “If only we could palaver, everything’d be sorted out. She calls upon the stars, asking them for advice. I redefine astrophysics, discerning how it was that stars even came to exist. She moves only forwards, but can project infinite possibility onto any consciousness. I move in any direction I choose, but can still only experience a singular reality.”

The Pepsi Free was finished, the glass bottle held up in a makeshift salute. The man in the gray trench coat saw that he was alone…but something told him that the Woman in Gray Robes could hear him. “So we have it, one for the ages. Art versus science. And you’re winning…

“If if I didn’t respect you so much,” a smile of remembrance crept cross his face, “I’d be pretty pissed. Hell, I’m one of the world’s greatest scientific minds and I’m being outclassed by a gen-u-ine gypsy mystic.”

The lighthearted rival of the one-eyed seer brought himself to his feet and began shuffling away. It’s not that he didn’t want to keep sitting, thinking about his most formative days. Because he did. But he also knew that that he was a day away from Event Zero. And to be sighted this far into the game, to have to rely on reignition, well that was simply unthinkable.

He was out of sight just in time see Daryl and Clark as they left Bandini’s Café. From his vantage point, he saw them perfectly. Clark looked rewarded. Daryl was determined. And this made sense.

Of course it made sense. It couldn’t be any other way.

The wind picked up, kicking leaves and threatening to knock over the spy. He held his own, pushing back and limping along as he always would.

With the stink of Memorial Day weekend-promoted seared animal and sunshine still on my flesh, I bustle to bring you this week’s Variant Covers. Summer time always smacks of considerable events, the now common deluge of superhero flicks, and a good excuse to read some funny books in front of that big shiny star looming down at us. Per usual, I encourage readers to share their pull lists for the week. I can’t read everything, haven’t heard of your favorite niche comic but I’m interested, and often just like to look at slicing swords and telekinetic knives.

Hit me!

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Oh hey! There’s roughly a million sci-fi movies, television shows, novels, RPGs, poetry slams and more about the inevitable and forthcoming robotic uprising of [Year Really Soon.] Despite this, we continue to give robots the tools they need to eventually gain sentience, band together, and overthrow us and wear our faces as silly flesh banners.

Today’s example: researches want to teach robots how to build their own language.

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[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   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]

Bandini’s Café was lost in time.

The year outside of the diner was most certainly 1986. Ten months in and gazes were still directed skyward, accompanied by somber sentiments for the crew of the Challenger. The Boston Red Sox and the New York Mets were trading blows in the World Series. And twenty-three year old Katherine Hushaw reveled in an admiration only awarded to a Playmate of the Month.

The year inside the diner, well that was up for debate. The booths were wide and cushioned in such a way as to support the heavy aspirations of those celebrating VJ Day. The walls were decorated with yellowed posters assuring patrons that I Like Ike and asking them to Drink Pepsi-Cola. And the most recent hit that the jukebox would sing was I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch). Moreover, no one inside of the anachronistic haven had been born after the year 1940.

Except, of course, for Daryl Millar. But, not unlike the diner, Daryl was in the process of becoming timeless.

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Well shit. Macho Man Randy Savage has been killed today in a car accident.

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Hello! How are you?  This week marked the end of my longest fucking semester ever, and I’m burnt like a mo’fuckah. You may have noticed the updates around these parts growing thinner and thinner as the winter turned into spring. This was in direct correlation with the workload I had on campus, the frying of my synapses, and the amount of tears I wept into my pillow as my boy-parts shriveled and decayed under constant duress. Shit culminated this week in the absence of an edition of Variant Covers, and for that I apologize.

I’m done though, fucking done! So I’m shutting my brain down for the weekend, starting now, and you’ll have to make due without me. I know it won’t be hard, I’ve barely been here anyways. So no Press Start!, and unless something calamitious or outstanding happens, I’m drinking Diet Mountain Dews and watching television until I shit and piss myself with glee.

Shit will be back to normal on Monday, and I wish you all a flushing of your genitals until we meet again.

[Coops or Rendar may be bringing their fury this weekend, I’m not sure. If they shall, you will be blessed, for they are my far superiors.]

[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   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]

Gramps and Daryl walked down the hallways with resolve. Neither had any desire to spend another second in the school, a place that was supposed to foster reason and rational thought but was overrun by small-minded tyrants. Ah, just like the real world!

And also like the real world, Daryl had been punished for calling into question the legitimacy of a reigning power. With his balled-up fist, Daryl asked Brady Moore’s jaw Hey, what makes you think that you have the right to do whatever you want?! For these efforts, the teen was suspended for the remainder of the school day.

The bell rang and a cavalcade of bleary-eyed youngsters filed out of classrooms. They were tired and hungry, teeming with hormones and devoid of reason, underappreciated by their teachers and over-appreciated by their parents. Those that noticed Daryl slapped him on the back and thanked him for his early-morning contribution.

After all, word travels quickly in a high school. In terms of pure speed, the gossiping patterns of suburban youths ages fourteen to eighteen should be studied by telecommunications companies. Without any sort of genuine perspective, most of these students find no greater satisfaction than in hearing and spreading the tale of some rule’s infraction:

Who did what? Seriously? Does Becky know? She doesn’t? She has to. Well, yeah, I know she’s stupid but Jake is her boyfriend! And they’re serious! They’ve been a couple, for like, seven weeks! Well, I think it’s cool that he did that but he’s going to get in trouble and you have to realize that if it comes out that you were with him then you’re totally going to get busted as well, and there goes our big after-prom party that I finally convinced my dad…

And so on.
And so on.
And so on.

Swimming against the current of rumors and unfulfilled potential, both Daryl and Gramps saw a figure with whom they needed to speak. The relationship each held with this pretty young thing was unbeknownst to the other. For one of them, she was one of those rare teachers who was both intelligent and concerned. For the other, she was the daughter of a friend who had been known and looked after for decades.

Worlds apart and yet within the same hemisphere.

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