pumpie part 7

Walt Kelly: "Murder! Murder mos' fowl!" (note to skeptics: No, Walt Kelly was not actually there. I'm just relating the next thing I remember. We were all starving and under a lot of stress. I think it was actually Jim Lawson who said it, but in my mind... I can still see Kelly's finger pointing at me!)

Me: "He started it!"

Scott: "SEE? You all thought the gun was a weapon, but the innocent pump handle turned out to be the weapon!"

Eric: "Talk talk talk... When do we eat?!?"

I guess that's about it. Yesterday when I typed "Let's eat!" I was remembering how yummy those strips of Canadian bacon smelled sizzling over a candle flame, but today I'm not sure anybody who has not starved for 5 days will understand how I meant that as a compliment.

It was actually Gerhard of all people who first called me Sheriff Pump Handle. Over the next three days the name eventually shrank to Pumpie, Peter Laird finally found an exit from the labyrinth of underground caves he got lost in, and here we are today.

Our plan to get away with murder was this:

1. Act crazy and confused if/when we are rescued. Keep the press and the cops confused the first few hours.
2. All insist on going to Kevin's house immediately, which was only a few miles down the road.
3. Gerhard "and Dave" (actually Kevin's life-size Batman action figure in disguise) board Kevin's jetcopter and fly off to Canada.
4. In Canada, Gerhard hires another artist to get plastic surgery and assume the role of Dave.

The story you have just heard is true. Look at all the newspaper photos and TV footage from the rescue. I'll pay you a thousand dollars if you find a picture of Dave.

Now look at the 2 photos below. You can see how the plastic surgery is wearing off.



Why tell all of this now, after all these years?

When I first started writing this, I thought that the Truth must be told, whatever the cost. But now that I've spilled the beans, I KNOW that the truth must be told, and the truth is I'd rather people think of Sheriff Pump Handle than a freaking ketchup bottle when they hear the name Pumpie! It's all vanity. I had myself convinced it was all about the right thing to do and all that horseshit. But now I can see that it was all about ME ME ME.

The End.

I'll post a new Everything tomorrow.

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pumpie part 6

This is big. This is bigger than Bissette sneaking the walnuts. This is enormous.

The story you have always heard about "Pumpie" is a lie. Those of you who have heard it, I mean. For Kerfuffle and for those who have not -

This is not what happened on Day 6. I did not discover a "pump" bottle of ketchup under a floorboard. That is not what we survived on for the last 3 days of our ordeal. Smurphy just made that up off the top of his head in that 60 Minutes interview. We really weren't expecting Mike Wallace to ask why everybody was calling me Pumpie. I guess we should have. I guess we should have buried the name, along with other things.

I have to say though, Smurphy did a brilliant job of writing that whole ketchup story on the spot like that. That's probably why he's a real writer and I'm just a tattle-tale blabbermouth here. Watch that old 60 Minutes interview. Smurphy sounds so damned believable I almost believe it myself! But it's a lie.

This is what really happened on Day 6.

Dave Sim pulled a pistol out of his pocket and said it was time we decided who was going to die so all the others could live. We were all too stunned to speak. Even Scott McCloud was speechless! I did notice that Gerhard looked cool and collected - bored, actually. I guess he felt pretty sure Dave would not shoot him. Dave's loyalty is legendary and well-deserved.

Michael Zulli was first to speak. "Hey!" he protested. "Where'd you get that? You can't have that! You had it concealed! That's a CONCEALED WEAPON! It's illegal!"

"Yes, Michael, that is correct. Excellent observation and deduction! It is a weapon. It was concealed. Now it is not. Is it illegal? Are we in America now? Am I a Canadian now? What is the legal status of this weapon here in the FUCKING UNDERGROUND COUNTRY OF MUD, MICHAEL?" Dave was clearly on edge.

Scott said "Is it even a weapon? Unless and until it actually harms or kills someone, can it truly be called a weapon?"

Zulli grabbed Scott by the throat and started throttling him. "Don't start your between-the-panels bullshit now, Scott! It's IN THE PANEL now! SEE IT? It's pointed right at us! I'd call that a weapon, Scott! I'd bloody well call that a—"

Dave shot the left side of Zulli's moustache off his face, clean as a barber. It was a beautiful shot. Incredible!

Dave said, calmly, measured "Michael, Scott... We're not going to have a discussion now about whether or not this is a weapon, or whether it is concealed, or illegal, or blue or black or up or down. We are going to vote on who this illegal concealed weapon is going to shoot. Unless one of you wants to volunteer, don't—"

The pump handle I had gingerly eased out of the pile of metal behind the wood stove made a huge groove between the front and the back of Dave's head as I brought it down. It looked like one of those tire commercials where the tire is pushing all of the rain out from under the tire as it speeds safely along the road. It sounded like a crunchy pumpkin. It had that solid wet thump of a pumpkin or a watermelon, and the skull sounded deliciously crunchy! Obviously skulls are not really good to eat, but it SOUNDED like the crunch of an apple or perhaps some crunchy candy shell.

The pistol clattered across the floor to Eric's feet and I said "Don't move if you want to keep all 8 of your toes, Eric." I stepped over and smashed the illegal concealed weapon to bits. One of the bullets fired but thank God it only nicked my ear. I'd never forgive myself if it had killed anybody.

tomorrow: Let's eat! (and yes, I can prove Dave Sim is dead.)

pumpie part 5

This is who ate what from the time the mountain fell on us until the time the thing I'm about to tell you about happened.

Dave Sim had enough beer in him to hibernate for the winter.

The first night, Steve Bissette ate the remaining five walnuts. I've never told anybody before and everybody has always assumed a mouse got them. But this is what happened:

About an hour after the mountain fell on us, as the full weight of our straits was bearing down on everyone, Steve started singing negro spirituals. Everybody thought he was either losing his mind or making some embarrassing valiant effort to keep others' spirits up. He was singing "Swing Low" and "Massa's in de Cold Cold Ground" and "Shortnin' Bread". For musical accompaniment, he would bang a railroad spike that he found in a pile of metal behind the wood stove.

What he was actually doing... Every now and then he'd bellow out a loud note and as the spike came down he'd sneak a walnut under it! He didn't know I could see. He thought nobody could see, but I saw it! I couldn't believe my eyes!

I never told anybody because (a) I didn't want the damn walnuts at the time, and was so sick of hearing people argue I just ignored it, and (b) later I was ashamed that I just sat there and watched as Steve Bissette hogged all the food!

Steve Bissette is famous for his aversion to nuts. It's all an act! It's all calculated to throw suspicion off of him. He'll say "Pumpie's insane, I don't even LIKE nuts!" He may actually believe it himself after all this time.

On the third day, Mark Bode ate the hallucinogenic toad. One second he was licking it, the next second he was swallowing it. There were brief howls of outrage but who could blame him? It was probably involuntary! When you're that hungry and there's a toad right there a fraction of an inch away from your mouth there's just no crime in eating the toad!

Everybody forgave Bode, but the entire spectacle made Eric Talbot so hungry he grabbed Steve's negro spiritual spike and chopped off both of his little piggy that went "wee wee wee" toes and ate them. His own, that is, not Steve's.

On the fifth day Charles Schultz discovered an empty Smartfood White Cheddar Popcorn bag in his coat pocket. Empty except for two puffs of popcorn and a few unpopped kernels. He ate the two puffs, as was his right, and nobody begrudged the old guy having them.

Then he passed the bag around and said we could each have one unpopped kernel, which was damn generous of him if you think about it! The bag traveled around the room, each person in line praying there would be AT LEAST one more kernel there when it got to him. Everybody got a kernel except the last man in line, Kevin Eastman. This was poignant and ironic because Kevin LOVES Smartfood White Cheddar popcorn. But nobody thought it was so sad that they offered him their kernel.

But the Lord works in mysterious ways. As Kevin carefully turned the bag inside out, we all saw that the entire massive expanse of the shiny interior was coated with salt and white cheddar cheese powder. Bissette cried out "Now hold on! That completely changes the playing field! I propose a Starving Artist's Bill of Rights be debated and voted on before bla bla bla!!!"

I watched in disgust and thought to myself "Where was your almighty socialism when Kevin had no kernel? Where was your Bill of Rights THEN, you naughty creature?"

Of course others joined the clamor for Equal Popcorn Rights, but Kevin had the bag licked clean before they could even agree we were in fact all starving.

That's IT, folks. That is it. That is the grand total of all the eating that was done before Day 6.

Well, I apologize. Yesterday I thought I'd get to the Pumpie part today. I was just trying to give you a little background on the food situation and lack of it. I'll get to the Pumpie part Monday, I promise.

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pumpie part 4

Naturally a brief period of chaos followed.

The stovepipe had pulled away from the wall. Dooney threw the door open but that only allowed some mud and a big rock to tumble in. Our cramped quarters were filling up with mud and smoke at an alarming rate! "Put it on the fire! Throw the mud on the fire!" someone shouted, and we managed to get the stove door open and the stove full of mud without killing anybody.

It was too dark beyond to see what lay on the other side of the surviving window, but we could tell there was not mud and rocks pressing against it. But a little exploration revealed only a cave about the size of a closet formed there by the falling rocks and mountainside. We were buried alive.

The candles still burned brightly, so air was getting in through the cracks and fissures. Not enough to draw out the smoke from a fire, but enough to breathe and burn candles. For how long? Who knew?

Oh well. At least we had a few walnuts, and BEER! Beer has calories, you can live on it for days, right?

A long growling belch was the answer to that question. That damn Canadian Dave Sim had drank all the beer! ALL of it! CASES of beer! Gone in the few short hours we had been in that cabin!

Oh well.

I'm going to skip through the next five days. Someday I may write a book, if I can face the horror. But I'll be brief for now, and get to the Pumpie part soon. I just want to quickly cover the main events, and straighten out a couple of tall tales and rumors that have festered over the years.

The first couple of days we felt sure that Peter and rescuers would arrive just any moment. But we gave up on that around Day Three. The story of Peter's spelunking adventures and our final rescue many days later can be included in another book someday. A book written by him.

I'm proud to state here for the record that this rumor is true: We did indeed all vote to preserve the candles for light, rather than eat them. It's true! And we decided on this BEFORE the candles were all eaten, which is incredible considering who all was involved in the deciding!

This rumor is absolutely most definitely NOT true: Nobody drank their own or anybody else's urine! It was never even considered, as it was completely unnecessary. To the contrary, moisture was our enemy! All one had to do was peel a soaked board off the wall and lick the rocks behind it.

True: Yes, we did find a hallucinogenic toad in the mud. Yes, we did lick the toad and trip. Our opportunities for entertainment were severely limited. OF COURSE we licked the toad!

False: There was never a pact drawn up and signed in blood to kill Peter Laird.

I hope you can imagine how horrible it is to be trapped with a bunch of cartoonists in a dark wet stinking underground cabin with no food, heat, outside contact or clean water for days. If you can, maybe you can imagine yourself doing what I did on the sixth day.

next: pumpie, finally

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pumpie part 3

It was dark by the time we all made it to the cabin. It's a miracle everybody made it. Especially Scott, who was outvoted, tied and gagged. I still think some goody two-shoes carried him, but they are carrying that secret to the grave if that is how it happened.

Jim Lawson built a fire in the stove and found a box of candles, and everybody settled in for a night of drinking and lying. I'm not crazy about beer, but I was thirsty enough to enjoy a couple. Then I realized I was starving. Then I realized there was nothing to eat! Mark Bode found a pile of dusty old walnuts in the back of a cabinet that some rodent had stashed there when Jesus was a lad. They were still edible, but cracking the shells with old soft fire logs proved to be too much work. If I ever have to work that hard for a bitter old walnut I'll go ahead and just die.

Along about midnight everybody got to feeling pretty charitable and all agreed to untie Scott if he promised not to think. It got real quiet when Jim took the gag off. Everybody was holding their breath to see if Scott would start Declaring when something CRACKed so loud I thought it was Judgment Day Hallelujah. That crack was followed by a maniacal laugh that instantly convinced me the judging had not gone well for me, but it turned out it was just Bode laughing at everybody else. "What's the matter, you buncha sissies? Never heard anybody crack a walnut before?" At this point in the narrative I would like to phonetically spell out the infamous Bode laugh, but it is one of those sounds that just has to be heard. Nasal. Burp gun. Wicked. Jerry Lee Lewis on acid.

Bode was cracking walnuts on the hearth with what looked like a hand grenade. I said "Where the hell did you get that?"

"Out of Kevin's backpack."

"Well stop banging it around like that! You'll kill us all!"

(insert Bode laugh I can't spell here) "It's not a real grenade! It's just a cigarette lighter, see?" he chortled as he flipped at the pin with his thumb.

When the pin fell out and pinged on the floor, time did that weird expanding contracting thing where it seemed like everyone was frozen in space for a very very long time before everything accelerated and Kevin was just a blur zipping across the room and over to the window all at once and then

it all slowed again . Again, it seemed like a very long time, but it could only have taken a second or two for Kevin to trip on Steve Bissette's foot and crash his head into the window sill as he tossed the grenade out the window. But I remember thinking so many things during that second. They say most dreams only last a few seconds, even the ones that seem like movies. I guess it's like that. I remember thinking that I had BEEN thinking, in the PREVIOUS chunk of time, that Kevin was hurling himself on the grenade to save everyone else, and I had had the time to think "Wow, that is one dedicated paintball warrior!" And I remember thinking "You were stupid to think that, and you should have grabbed the grenade! You were closer! You saw Bissette's foot, you could have avoided the foot! STUPID STUPID!!!" and going through my entire awareness / regret / apathy / fuck it anyway routine with myself, all in that split second.

Next there was a ka-boom outside the window. It was not as deafening as I always imagined a hand grenade exploding right outside the window would be. Really more like a ka-crack than a ka-boom.

It was the after-echos rumbling through the mountain that seemed so much louder and thunderous than one would expect. They grew louder and closer until the old cabin was transformed into a washing machine off-balance, then a cement mixer, then boulders, ice and mud smashed through one end pushing the wall and Kevin and Bissette and Bissette's foot in to the center of the cabin.

Then it was deathly still and quiet in that cabin buried under half a Berkshire Mountain in the middle of nowhere in the winter.

next: the reeking tomb

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pumpie part 2

This all took place in the late 80s, by the way. Which put me and most of the people at the summit in our 30s and 20s.

After we got thrown out of the hotel restaurant for being boring, naturally most of us put up a fuss at the front desk and demanded our rights - that is to say, our Rights! The hotel manager called the police, who promptly issued everyone in attendance a citation for aggravated puffery, self-importance and willful attempt to make history without a license. All but Richard Pini, who grabbed a briefcase and assumed the position of businessman by a fern in the lobby. The last we saw of him was the frantic "You bastards!" look he gave us as we all danced out the door, West Side Story style, thumbing our noses at the coppers and the hotel manager. We were all thinking "You shoulda took your ticket like a MAN, Pini!" Little did we or he know how lucky he was to get left behind.

We exited the premises and everybody but Scott McCloud agreed that was enough Declaring for one day, and a little fresh air was in order. Scott was quickly outvoted, tied and gagged. Kevin Eastman ran down to Florence Hardware and bought enough paintball equipment to outfit the entire confederacy and off we went to the Berkshires. There was a cabin way up in the mountains, and it was Kevin's idea of a good time to fight our way to it. I don't particularly like paintball, but I didn't want to be rude to our host, so I geared up for the battle.

Pete, our other host, took off in his Jetsonoid hovercraft for mass quantities of beer and said he'd be there at the cabin when we got there. I don't particularly like beer either. What can I say? I'm hard to please! Suffering through hour after hour of tedious document drafting, getting multiple citations that must be paid and that will sit in my permanent record for years, fighting my way up a mountain in winter with an army of crazed paintball enthusiasts, all in the quest for an evening of beer, beer and more beer... I was getting cranky by the time we finally settled down in the cabin!

The beer was there, and the hovercraft was there, but Pete was not there. Everyone assumed he left the beer and transportation, and hiked home to watch Doctor Who videos or triple-bag his Fantastic Fours. It wasn't until after the nightmare was over and I was back in Alabama that I learned he got lost spelunking under the cabin, and there was in fact a way out the whole time we were trapped in that reeking tomb.

next: KA-BOOM!

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pumpie part 1

dispatch from kerfuffle:

I keep forgetting to ask, and if you really don't want to tell me that is fine, but why do grown men call you Pumpie in a public forum? I have tried to sort of poke around myself and figure it out, but apparently I have not dug far enough into the archive, or it is not on Jabberous. Or I should be looking for a word like it as in Pumpkin or Pumpernickle,or something and am just not getting it. Gimme a clue!!!!

I find it queer. Peculiar, not homosexual, and am simply wondering.

me:

I guess it has been a couple of years since the name was explained. People are starting to ask again. And I've never really told the whole story from beginning to end, in detail, so all of you people who are sick of hearing it be patient. I know it has been discussed and mentioned at tedious exasperating length on chat boards and in the comics biz press ever since that damn fool summit. A lot of misinformation and speculation has weedled its way into the story and I'd like to get it straight once and for all.

I'll start tomorrow, at the point where all of the attendees of the infamous Creators' Bill of Rights meeting got thrown out of Hotel Northampton for boring the guests and staff to tears. Kerfuffle, it's not important - there was a big gathering of cartoonists from all over the US and Canada, and the state of the industry and the creators' place in it was discussed and debated and drilled and dragged and danced on and decked and dug up and discussed some more. All of that is history, but has nothing to do with why grown men call me Pumpie, except maybe as a stress-inducer that led to later events.

More tomorrow. I don't know how many days this will take. We'll see how jabberous I get, and how much story there is. I won't know exactly myself til it's over.

...