It was fun, and I was happy to agree. I searched the strip, and found the exact one I would want to use.

Namely, this one:

Which would be great except Rob Callahan grabbed it before I could, which means I couldn’t write that story. I’m tempted to so anyway.

This is the actual story I contributed. It’s based on the strip from April 10, 2005. And it’s probably a better story than I would have written for the self-portrait strip. It is indeed a short-short, under a thousand words long, so it won’t take you long to get through it.

I’d encourage folks to have a look both at Sinister Bedfellows and the anthology. It’s a nice little book with some nice vignettes and short stories in it, and it’s a nice hook that’s a little more interesting than a simple print collection of the strips might be. And mckenzee’s eye and viewpoint (not always the same thing) are very cool.

So. Here’s my entry, preceded by the strip. Please enjoy!

The cobblestones of the Old Port alleyway were cool on Ray’s face. He closed his eyes, and felt them growing damp with blood.

“Jesus, Ray,” he heard from somewhere above him. “What this time?”

Ray didn’t answer right away. He felt hands on either side of his shoulders grip and haul him out of the gutter. The blood from his nose and face had poured down on his white shirt. It looked sticky and thick. “I had a good night,” he snuffled. “Had the crowd in the palm of my hand.”

Tom shook his head. “You’re insane,” he said. “I’m sick to Christ of finding you in the back alleys of comedy clubs. What was it this time?”

“Gays in the military,” Shelly said on the other side. “I was in the audience. He got a heckler shout something about him being a queer, so he went into the full on homophobia bit. On country and western night.”

“Best audience for it,” Ray said, shaking them off. “They needed to hear it.”

“How many of them came after you this time?” Shelly demanded. “How many of them kicked the shit out of you this time?”

Ray tested a tooth with his tongue. Loose, but staying in his head. “I don’t really know,” he said. “Four. Maybe more. You sort of lose count in the bottom of the pile.”

“Because you thought it’d be funny?”

“Hey, I killed tonight,” Ray snapped. “You heard them, Shelly. They were howling.”

“Yeah — except for the people who hated it.”

Ray shook his head. “I need a drink.”

“You need a change of career. They’re going to kill you, one of these nights. And you know this isn’t the way to get a Comedy Central special.”

“Fuck Comedy Central.” Ray started around the building. Go back in the front door, get a drink at the bar.

“Yeah, that’s good for your rent. I’m sure your agent will love it too.”

“Fuck my rent. Fuck my agent. Fuck specials. Fuck albums. Fuck sitcoms and guest spots.” Ray shook his head again. “My ears are ringing.”

“We should go to the hospital,” Tom said. He was a little nervous.

“I just need a drink,” Ray said.

“You need a clue,” Shelly demanded. “Look at you. Look at you. You got your ass kicked again. And for what?”

“I killed tonight,” Ray said, whirling on her. Bringing them both up short. “Do you hear me? They were howling in there!”

“Except the ones who weren’t laughing,” Shelly shouted back.

“That’s because the audience was laughing at them! That’s my job, Shelly!”

“To make fun of people? To offend people?”

“Damn right.”

“Explain to me how this is a good thing!”

“Because no one else does it!” Ray slammed his fist against the wall, leaning back. “Small minded people have taken over, Shelly. Safe people have taken over. They control the media. They control the government. They control the corporations. They control everything. And they’re smug about it.” He breathed in, sharply. “I mean, who can call them on their bullshit? They own the courts. They own the legislature. They own the police. They own it all?”

“So you’re saying you can call them on it? That somehow you have the right–”

“I have the duty!” Ray rubbed the side of his face, feeling the blood there. “Damn it, Shelly. It’s the jester. The fool. The comic. We’re the only ones who get to say the Emperor has no clothes. We’re the only ones who get to mock them. To get everyone laughing at them. It’s our job.”

“You know, I don’t think Jerry Seinfeld was that worried about mocking naked people,” Tom said. “And he did okay for–”

Ray spat. “Fuck Jerry Seinfeld!” he shouted.

“Oh Christ, now you’ve done it.” Shelly muttered.

“It’s his fucking fault! ‘Observational humor.’ A show about nothing. His whole god damned Act was about nothing and he got rich. He made it safe to be inoffensive again. And his disciples are flocking into clubs complaining about fucking airplane food again! We are the children of Pryor, of Carlin, of Lenny fucking Bruce. We’re not supposed to be inoffensive!”

Shelly took his arm. “Ray? Raaaay. Shhh… shh shh shh. Calm down. We’ll get you that drink. A drink and a fresh shirt, and we’ll get you home and it’ll be fine.”

“I’m not going home,” Ray said.

“Ray, you’ve had your ass kicked. If you’re not able to go to the hospital, you need to go home.”

“I have a midnight show. It’s in my contract.”

“I think they’ll understand. You were just dumped in–”

“They don’t get to keep me off that stage,” Ray snapped. “I have a midnight show. It’s in my contract.”

“Jesus, Ray,” Tom said. “You go back out there, you’re just going to talk about this. What, you want them to kill you, next time?”

“Doesn’t matter if they do,” Ray said. “I’ll kill them first.” He looked at his friends. “Don’t you get it? Don’t you see?” He shook his head. “I go out there. Bloody shirt. Face like hamburger. Make their dates squirm. Maybe those guys are still sitting out there. Maybe they brag.” He leaned forward. “And I get them laughing. I get them all laughing. I make it all a big joke. Make it a joke on the small minded homophobic assholes who kicked the shit out of me.” He leaned back, and half-smiled. “It’ll kill. It’ll totally kill. And I’ll beat them.”

“And as an encore they’ll kill you,” Shelly said. She didn’t look angry any more. She looked scared.

“Maybe.” Ray grinned. “And then the papers will be full of it. And they’ll remember what I said. Now that will be funny.”

Shelly bit her lip.

Tom took a deep breath. “Okay. What now?”

“Now? I get a drink. And I wash my face. I have a show tonight.” Ray smiled a little more. “I’m on a roll.”

If you’re one of those for whom this is a holiday, I hope you have a good one. If you’re one of those for whom this is not, then I hope today is good to you anyhow.

*** *** *** ***

THESE are the times that try men’s souls.

The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.

Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.

What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value.

Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated.

–Thomas Paine, American Crisis, The Crisis No. I

December, 1776.

The docks were frozen and icy. Winter crossings were never that good an idea, and it seemed like it might just be too cold to set off for France just yet.

In the tavern by dockside he sat, a hot mug near to hand. The barmaid was giggling as she left, which was pretty much what he had been hoping for. He didn’t have much time to take advantage — and truth be told he wasn’t as interested in the catch at his advanced age — but the pursuit gave life the spice to keep going.

At the next table over, a soldier sat. He wore the blue coat of the Continental army, and he did not look happy. Well, there hadn’t been much to be happy about, recently.

He noticed the old man watching him. “Doctor,” he said, curtly.

“You know who I am?” the old man asked, eyebrows up. “I’m surprised.”

The soldier shrugged. “Barmaid said your name enough times. She’s too good a girl to be trifled with.”

The old man snorted. “With the gout in my foot and knee and the prospect of getting on a ship within two hours, I should think she and you have nothing to worry about.”

The soldier shook his head. “Maybe she doesn’t.”

The old man leaned forward. “Meaning you do, son?”

The soldier snorted, nodding for another tankard. “We’ve been retreating as long as we’ve been fighting. The British have captured thousands of us. Congress has abandoned us. Hell’s teeth, Doctor — they abandoned Philadelphia. And in three weeks almost three quarters of the soldiers who are left have their enlistments expire. This so called war is over.”

“Is that why you’re here? To pronounce last rites and produce a post-mortum for Revolution?”

The soldier shook his head, looking into the fire. “I was bringing dispatches. I should be heading back, but it’s miserable out there and besides, there’s no good reason to rush.” He handed a coin to the barmaid as she set the tankard down for him.

“Well, perhaps one day there will be,” the old man said, taking a long pull off his own mug.

The soldier shook his head again, annoyance flashing across his face. “Tell me this — why? Why do I have to be the one to go?”

The old man frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Why me? Why do I have to be the one to go back to a cold camp, to bad food, to the British and the Hessians capturing or killing us? Why does it have to be me?”

The old man considered for a long moment. “You don’t,” he said, finally. Not angrily, mind. But like he was surprised he even had to tell the soldier this.

The soldier blinked. “What?”

“You don’t? Oh, you would have to wait out your enlistment, I suppose, but I suspect it ends this month as most of our soldiers do. But you don’t have to reenlist. You don’t have to go out and fight or die, or do anything of the sort.”

“I don’t?”

“Good Heavens, man, of course not.” The old man drank his mug dry, and waved to the barmaid again. “I can’t, of course. Even discounting my advanced age, my gout would mean that I couldn’t walk in a straight line, much less crouch and fire at the oncoming enemy. But you certainly don’t have to. ”

“Then… then it’s all right if I just go home? If I let my enlistment lapse and get back to my family and my fields?”

The old man chuckled. “Of course it’s not all right,” he said. “It means the end of everything. It means the end of the dream, the end of independence. It means the end.” He turned to look at the soldier. “But you don’t have to go. And I know you don’t want to go. But someone does have to go.

“Someone has to go because our cause is just. Someone has to go because our oppressors have taken from us our right to decide our own fates. Someone has to go because liberty isn’t just a word — it is the ineffable, inalienable right to choose not to go. Someone has to go to protect the rights of that barmaid you were worried about, or the rights of old men like me, or of young men like you.”

The old man smiled to the barmaid as she handed him another steaming mug. “This is not a war fought for land. This is a war fought for hope. For freedom. And if you don’t go and those like you don’t go, then I will have to, because someone has to. If we believe in freedom, and believe in our cause, then it must be fought for. It must be suffered for. And yes, it must be died for.” He blew on the mug, and then sipped. “I don’t want to go to France, you know. My foot hurts. My knee hurts. It’s cold, and I’m far too old for this kind of journey. But the French have some modicum of respect for me, so I can plead our case in their courts and halls. Our fledgling nation needs allies, needs money, needs supplies — we have all too many needs and all too few friends, and this is something I can do. So it is something I will do.”

The door opened, and one of the sailors came in. “Gie me something hot,” he shouted. “We go within the hour. Doctor — the Cap’n says he’s taking the shot before we lose the tide. Shall I send for your sedan chair?”

“No,” the old man said. “No, I think I can walk to the end of the dock, if nothing else.” He looked at the soldier. “I just hope that there’s still a cause to fight for when I get there.”

The soldier looked down. “I don’t want to go,” he said quietly.

“I know that, son.”

The soldier looked back up. “You don’t need to walk for my benefit. Not if you’re in that much pain.”

The old man set his mug down, and dropped coins on the table. He pushed on the edge and forced himself up. “Of course I do,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “After all, if you choose to retire from the field after this, you’ll feel horrible, won’t you.”

The soldier smiled, despite himself. “Perhaps,” he said.

“I’ve got to get going,” the old man said, bundling against the cold.

“Yes,” the soldier said. He looked down into his tankard. “So do I.”