Cold Brewed 008 — The Chase
We're finishing up re-releasing the scrolling version of the graphic novel of photography I wrote and produced in my twenties, predominately for the launch of the paperback version.
How are you guys? Let me know in the comments.
Today, we’re sprinting quite literally towards the climax of Cold Brewed, the graphic novel of photos I produced with Mark 9 in my twenties. Whether you love or loathe this episode, since we’re releasing this version for free please take two seconds to review COLD BREWED on Goodreads. Star rating takes one click. A review takes nine clicks.
Forward this one on to friends:
Support the team if you can — order a print copy from your preferred bookstore:
Prefer another bookstore? Let me know in the comments. Or subscribe and I’ll send cash on to the actors and production team:
“Why coffee? Why photos? Why a comic? Why ten year anniversary?”
We tell the graphic novel Cold Brewed via photos. It’s an alternate history where coffee and not alcohol was banned during the prohibition years. Odd duck, sure: lots of coffee lingo. Video here for the making of Cold Brewed back in 2012, you’ll see our baby faces:
Without further ado, here’s the photonovel I made with Mark in my early twenties:
previously on Cold Brewed:
Takes tough teeth to soften the water.
"Oh, Jett, you're hurt," she said.
"Tried to break a two-by-four with my face."
“Why on earth would you do that?” Scarlett asked.
"Gotta find out who’s been frothin’ the shots..."
“Needs ice,” she said.
“I just soaked it in cold water, I’m fine.”
“Still needs ice,” she said.
“This…”
“…needs sleep.”
008
Groaning oaks. The sound of heaven grinding its transmission till it found the right gear. Then after a few seconds it ground again, closer, the sound of an unlubricated maw at the forefront of some mechanistic beast opening. Slowly.
I heard a sound amid clinks and squeaks and rain and dishes, an awful sound like a man muzzled, like a cripple punched in the teeth until his jaw breaks and tongue splits and he can’t—
Muffs.
“Wake up.” Milker’s voice that time. “Wake up Jett.”
I was dreaming.
“Wake up.”
But I needed the sleep. I hadn’t slept like this since—
“Jett, please, you gotta wake up.”
Listening to Milker’s voice was like listening to some whining poodle. You give in once and they just get louder and lou—
“WAKE UP!”
Someone slapped me and I shot up and opened my eyes on a black-hole room. Still couldn’t see anything but I knew I had a firm grip on Milker’s wrist.
Blinding light.
“Come on, Jett. You can let go now.”
I gripped tighter, straining to listen.
“Jett? I can’t feel my wrist, Jett.”
“What Milker? It’s no souls hour and I can’t see a thing. What? What?”
“I figured it out! Without a doubt. Without a—”
“Milker?”
“Figured it out, Jett. Figured out how they smuggle them new roasts into the city.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Band kids.”
“Milker: make sense.”
“Band kids, Jett. Kids bring their instruments, they fix ‘em, fill the insides of the cases with the roast. Then the kids take it all back to the schools.”
“For what?” I asked. “What do kids—”
I closed my eyes back to the sweet blackness and tried to listen.
“A drip.”
“That ain’t enough,” I said.
“Was for me,” Milker said, “when I was, y’know, a kid. Back in my day without a doubt.”
“Thought you did fraps?”
“Not then. Hard milks came later. Drips are the gateway drink. All down tower from there.”
“Where’s this at?” I asked.
“Old downtown rise. That’s where they fill the switches.”
“Switches?”
“Cases for horns and strings. Switch one for another and kids take ‘em home. Old cases too. Make it look licit.”
“Show me,” I said.
“Right now?”
“MILKER! You wake me up at two in the middle of the freaking night for this, we’d better be gone five minutes ago.”
“Kay,” he said, “without a doubt.”
We walked through the streets and alleys darker than my dreams, up a dark-rusted fire escape, in through a window, and I followed Milker through the jaws of the building into its belly, down lightless stairs and through back rooms until we came into some inner room.
On a table sat different tools for weighing grounds, grinding, bagging them. Then a pile of instrument cases lay on the floor. Still dark, but I could make out that much. We knelt, Milker and I, and waited the wait. Street lights sent yellowed glows through a window down the hall. We waited right beyond the doorway in the darkness.
The streetlight gave way to a morning glow. The glow gave way to sunrise. The sunrise, hour after hour, turned into the bright light of noonday.
Milker freaked and bolted. Waiting that long and then hoofing it—something wasn’t right. That left me to watch the loading room, that strange room inside a room. I stood and stretched.
Settled in and waited the wait.
Wasn’t long before I heard footfalls behind the wall.
Guy in a flatcap showed up and started stuffing Emerald City crap into those cases.
Staring at the flatcap, I knew I’d seen him before.
“Flatcap Mack,” I said.
“Jett Cropper,” he said.
About that time, I remembered that Milker’d left. Either one of the flatcap twins could easily pull my arms from my torso like a chicken leg cooked rotisserie style.
So I dashed out the hallway, took a left, zig-zagged through several doors in several rooms full of old memorabilia, and took a chance running up some unlit stairs. I stumbled out and saw some light coming from a fire escape door behind an old window. I shattered it and took it. Had enough of a lead on Mack, so I looked around. Ladder leading up to the rooftops and something in the street...
I rammed four fingers into my mouth and whistled at the FDA boy.
"Jett?" he asked.
"Time's up," he said, "what do you have for me?"
I heard Flatcap Mack's footsteps pounding on those wooden boards behind me, stumbling around in the dark. I shouted, “What you want’s on my tail."
Mack was coming out.
I darted up the ladder, hoping Bud'd follow...
Flatcap Jack. Twins always hitched together. Shoulda known he’d be on watchdog duty.
Needed to get to the alley. Quick.
That worst part?
I was headed toward Muff's alley
By the way Flatcap Mack veered off to the right, I hoped I’d worn him out or that Bud’d kept close behind, giving him a long run for his crooked money. Seemed I’d lost Jack at least. Dodged left and tried to lose Muffs. Ran over parking lots, couple of streets to the 7th street bridge. I ran up to the railing and looked back. Muffs was holding up two palms either I’m gonna kill you or Murder Face gestures and pointing east. So I jumped.
On my way down, I realized that maybe he wasn’t saying, “I’m gonna kill you.” Maybe he wasn’t even making fun of my nickname. Maybe Muffs had twice made a roadsign with his hands: death that aways. Maybe he’d licked the ground to mirror the chicory I’d found near Wilson.
Where had he pointed?
The watercourse. East down the watercourse.
How are you guys? Let me know in the comments.
Today, we’re sprinting quite literally towards the climax of Cold Brewed, the graphic novel of photos I produced with Mark 9 in my twenties. Whether you love or loathe this episode, since we’re releasing this version for free please take two seconds to review COLD BREWED on Goodreads. Star rating takes one click. A review takes nine clicks.
Forward this one on to friends:
Support the team if you can — order a print copy from your preferred bookstore:
Prefer another bookstore? Let me know in the comments. Or subscribe and I’ll send cash on to the actors and production team:
“Why coffee? Why photos? Why a comic? Why ten year anniversary?”
We tell the graphic novel Cold Brewed via photos. It’s an alternate history where coffee and not alcohol was banned during the prohibition years. Odd duck, sure: lots of coffee lingo. Video here for the making of Cold Brewed back in 2012, you’ll see our baby faces:
Without further ado, here’s the photonovel I made with Mark in my early twenties: