Murder Face — Cold Brewed 005
A graphic novel told in photos about an alternate history where coffee and not alcohol was banned in the prohibition — free with a links to the print version.
The header photo from today’s episode is the one that made Mark 9 a finalist in the oldest photo competition in the world, Photo Spiva. It was judged that year by a curator from the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Photography.
It’s the tenth(+) anniversary release of Cold Brewed into print, so Mark 9 and I are re-releasing the digital version. Outside of scrolling, it never quite formated well for e-readers. The iBooks version was like 5 gigs. One way to support the team is order a print copy from your preferred bookstore:
Like another bookstore? Let me know in the comments.
Or subscribe and I’ll send cash on to the actors and production team:
“Wait, wait. What’s this?”
Cold Brewed’s a graphic novel told in photos about an alternate history where coffee and not alcohol was banned during the prohibition years. It’s an odd duck with a lot of third wave coffee lingo — we never knew, for instance, that Adam’s roasting in his over would turn into an actual coffeeshop and roaster. 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:
"I'll talk. I'll talk. Word is there's a new brew in town," Milker said. "Goes by the name Bearded Lady."
“Drum roaster?”
“Noper. Does it in huge batches. Bringing them city roasts into town.”
“Tamping the town?”
“Yeah,” Milker said, “Hear the Bearded Lady pulled a coupla local roasters and their whole chaff short. Burned most of the labs and hid the good rigs in storage. Dunno who’s next.”
“Wilson,” I said.
“Wilson? Wilson only doses, he ain’t a roaster.”
“Wasn’t a roaster. When he dosed, he dosed only local stuff, Milker.”
“Yeah… there is that…”
005
I sprinted after, but came up empty back in the factory main, Milker giggling and gagging behind, “Getting slow, Jett Plane Murder Face!”
I let my palm heel say goodbye to Milker. He’d given me enough to go on, but I needed to think it through: which of these new ladies had a big enough beard, big enough crew to run a full body Emerald City? Had to come in from the city. Muffs? Bud? Dark Roast Jack? Dime Bean?
Toby Aurelius who looked an awful like Wilson? The Flatcap Twins?
Lots of new blood, new roasts, everyone wanting a piece of the morning rush. Needed to let the facts steep before anything solid would bleed out. A bath.
I started back, took the back alleys. Heard something...
Nothing else sounded out, so I turned to walk again...
Muffs.
Muffs coming to me a whole helluva lot faster than normal.
”Now Muffs, listen—”
Bad choice of words, in hindsight.
Strictly speaking, step one of my plan had not involved boards or cheekbones. But hey, I found Muffs.
I mumbled, “Good to see you again, Muffs.” Cheek throbbed to the beat of my nerves. Didn’t know nerves had beats. Still talking, so jaw wasn’t broken. It’s the little joys in life.
Knocked off my damn hat.
Must've hit me pretty hard...
Never found out how it happened, but Muffs lost the use of his ears and voice box as far back as any of us could remember.
That stare he kept giving me was somewhere between his, “I’ll freaking kill you,” and, “I need help, Jett: someone’s screwing with me and I ain’t happy.”
Hoping he needed help, I said, “Gee Muffs, I—”
“Don’t call me Murder Face,” I said. Turned out I was wrong about the glare.
He raised the board again.
I said, "No need to--"
—watched the board come down hard on the bend of my knee anyways. I’d like to say I took the blow in the silence with which it had been delivered, but I didn’t. Silence was Muff’s domain.
Nope I howled like a wounded jackal.
Did he want to know why I was here? “Cause I live here Muffs.”
Wanted me to look that aways, trying to communicate something, but the knee throbbed. Throbbing something fierce. “The hell, Muffs?” I rubbed it out. “The hell you hit my knee for?”
He pointed again, more firm.
“Yeah, I came by that aways, what of it? On a case, here, Muffs. Someone’s been tamping the town. Say, Muffs, you haven’t been tamping the town lately, have you?”
He stared longer. Heard wind rattle through glass caps on power lines. He waited.
“Fine you didn’t do nothing. Anyways I ain’t got time to worry about your territorial crap.” Five years in the same apartment, he’d never questioned my use of the alley.
Strange things in town and now Muffs’s stubborn.
Muffs was never this stubborn. What was he trying to tell me? “What if I need a gallon of milk?” I asked.
“Think about it: what if I’m needing milk to mellow out a bad crop and have to cut through here quick before overdosing?”
“I ain’t happy,” I said. “This ain’t your street, Muffs. This the whole city’s street. You got no claim here. No claim. This ain’t some slice of pizza you can just lick and call dibs on and think everyone and their pals will just go on and let you take it just cause they don’t want your spit in their mouth.”
Didn't like the challenge in those eyes...
“Really? Really, Muffs? That —that’s your claim?”
He got up and tried to stop me from leaving. Pointing the way I walked, making more of those gestures.
“No no,” I said, “You can have it, I don’t want it. See ya Muffs.” Took the long way home.
Way I figured, Muffs didn’t have a big enough beard to run this tamper anyways. Way he was acting, it was all probably affecting his trade, but he wasn’t the Bearded Lady. He wasn’t tamping the town. Least not this time around. Hot water. I needed hot water to steep out the facts. A bath.
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Forward this one on to friends:
It’s the tenth(+) anniversary release of Cold Brewed into print, so Mark 9 and I are re-releasing the digital version. Outside of scrolling, it never quite formated well for e-readers. The iBooks version was like 5 gigs. One way to support the team is order a print copy from your preferred bookstore:
Like another bookstore? Let me know in the comments.
Or subscribe and I’ll send cash on to the actors and production team:
WHAT IS THIS?
Cold Brewed’s a graphic novel told in photos about an alternate history where coffee and not alcohol was banned during the prohibition years. It’s an odd duck with a lot of third wave coffee lingo — we never knew, for instance, that Adam’s roasting in his over would turn into an actual coffeeshop and roaster.
Without further ado, here’s the photonovel I made with Mark in my early twenties: