Obscure Comic of the Month - Maxwell Strangewell

This is the first of a monthly feature which takes a detailed look at an obscure entry from my personal comic book collection. Some will be from major publishers, others self published projects, Original Graphic Novels, issues and Manga. What they'll all have in common though, is that I've rarely, if ever, seen anybody talk about them.

                                                              

Maxwell Strangewell by The Fillbach Brothers – Dark Horse Books 2007

Contains minor spoilers for the first third of the book.

Photographer Anna Gilmour discovers a ten-foot-tall alien immediately after his fall to earth. He can't speak, but communicates through telepathic empathy, and Anna introduces him to her father as “Max.” Their home is soon beset by a sea of beatific Tibetan monks, alien assassins in disguise, and heavy weapons fire! Max might not know who he is, but a lot of others sure seem to. Before the final act, Anna and Max encounter a prophecy, the man in the moon, an entire race of alien accountants, and the Revolver - an innocuous-looking jogger responsible for keeping the world spinning.

I first picked up Maxwell Strangewell during my final year of university. It was around this time that I had finally decided to take my interest in comics seriously. To really explore the medium I'd fallen in love with. Up to this point I'd only really experienced Cape Comics, 2000ad and a few Vertigo titles.

I really wanted to explore further afield, didn't really have a starting point. Instead, exploring further afield mostly meant digging through the indy section of Worlds Apart Liverpool and going with my gut. Maxwell Strangewell was a promising prospect; a standalone story by creators I'd never heard of. Even better, it was about the size of the Alien vs Predator anthology I was buying at the same time, but twice as cheap.

It was a joy to read, and once I finished it all I could think was “Why does nobody ever talk about this? Why does nobody know about Maxwell Strangewell?”

It's been years now, and I never found my answer. But my repertoire of graphic storytelling has grown exponentially since then. It's hard to look back at something like Maxwell Strangewell without wondering if it's all rose tinted glasses now. That's what made me pick for the first of this series of columns.

So what of the book itself? Well, our first page starts with a quote by Robert Frost. Yes, it is that one about the road not travelled. So far, so predicable. Softening the blow is another quote, this time by Douglas Adams. It's fitting that the book should start with an Adams quote, considering how reminiscent the story is of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. The book owes a great deal to Adams, being a spiritual successor of sorts. It's not the only influence though. The story opens immediately with an homage to the light tunnel scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

It's interesting how quickly the story hits the ground running with it's fantastical elements. Anna finds Max, (A character that seems to be one part Morpheus from Gaiman's Sandman and one part David Bowie's The Man Who Fell to Earth.) and she and her father immediately accept that he is an extra-terrestrial. It's refreshing, and a good thing too, since the story has a lot of diverging plot lines to get through. Doing the whole ET thing would have stifled the story's momentum.

Before long the plot follows Anna and a pair of monks on their way to find out what Max really is as a bunch of evil alien factions fight to obtain his power. Anna's dad is separated from her and instead teams up with rogue FBI agent Jerkins and a moon man. There's a lot of plot going on at any given time, but each is following it's own thread, so never feels overcomplicated. It also gives you more bang for your buck. You can never get bored since it'll jump from one thing to the next before you get the chance.

Let's talk characters. Max's design is a little uninspired to be honest, but he's more of a mobile MacGuffin than anything else. Ironically this makes him the least interesting part of the cast. During an early part of the story, he's flipping through TV channels, reacting to different visuals. He reacts badly to Adolf Hitler, and fondly to Charlie Chaplin. The duality is notable, but decidedly non-committal.

It's hardly interesting to see a character react unfavourably to Adolf Hitler of all people. What would Max have thought of George Bush I wonder? (He would have been in office at the time remember?). Indeed, the whole story lacks any kind of strong moral or allegorical statement, instead leaving us with a generic 'love everyone message'. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but with a story that owes so much to writers like Douglas Adams, it certainly takes the bite out of it.

Anna too is pretty much white bread. She's the nicest character in the cast, and her arc mainly consists of getting over her mother's death. Pretty much all the characters are archetypes, but that's okay, it serves the humour and the visuals. There are a few weak links as a result though.

Two characters, Jerkins and Ringo, are cut from the same cloth. They're both 'no nonsense badasses who need to get over themselves'. I think it's worth noting that there's a bit of gay subtext between Ringo and his partner Phelp. They're represented as nothing more than 'buds' in the story, and I don't think they were supposed to be read as gay, but it's a massive oversight that could have helped differentiate Ringo from Jerkins more. There are a lot of moments like this. Missed opportunities that could have added a more interesting dynamic to the characters.

Easily the best character is Lobscrum, the tiny, one eyed, foul mouthed alien pilgrim. He's mostly there for comic relief, but damn it if the comic isn't worth reading for Lobscrum alone.

The plot has a lot of high concept stuff going on. It's about coming to terms with death, mostly, but also about the nature of love, greed, pettiness and war. It's no massive philosophical text, but it wants to speak about higher truths in, once again, the same way Douglas Adams did.

It's mostly successful at it too, having an almost filmic quality to the work. (The Fillbach brothers are credited as 'directors' at the end.) The art is clean, functional, and expressive. It's perfect for the story being told and it reminds me a lot of Paul Grist and a lot of 2000ad Future Shocks. The artwork alone gives you a whole cavalcade of wild and interesting aliens. Not a single page is wasted, each giving you something a new and mind boggling spectacle of alien ships and weird dimensions.

I'm happy to say it is still a joy to read. And it's ending hit me in exactly the same way it did all those years ago.

Why then, is Maxwell Strangewell not regarded as a modern classic?

Maxwell Strangewell was published under Dark Horse Books, not Dark Horse Comics, which probably meant it didn't get the promotion you'd otherwise expect. The Fillbach Brothers have a fairly small back catalogue and haven't produced anything since 2009. It sucks, because Maxwell Strangewell feels like a great foundation to build from. Maybe they'll surface again with something that does, who knows.

The answer is simple in hindsight. Maxwell Strangewell is a great comic, but there's just nothing that interesting about it. It lacks a central conceit with which to make it noteworthy. It owes too much to Douglas Adams, and it doesn't do anything to build on that inspiration.

Maxwell Stangewell is a book I love. I'd never sell it, and I'll likely revisit it again in years to come. But it's a book that truly struggles to find an identity and stand out. Why talk about Maxwell Strangewell, when there are so many wilder, greater, weirder comics out there?

It's an obscure classic. No more, no less.

                                                                 

Jack Harvey 2015. Maxwell Strangewell (c) 2007 Matthew Fillbach and Sean Fillbach. Images used under Fair Use.

Hero Forge Product Review

Just over a year ago, a Kickstarter for 3D printed custom miniatures was successfully funded. I was one of the backers, mainly motivated to see the dream become a reality, since me and my fellows don't get much miniature gaming done these days, though the possibility of owning miniatures tricked out to look specifically like characters I had created was a chance I couldn't pass up. A few days ago, said tricked out miniatures arrived, so it's time to air my thoughts on the final outcome.

Before we do though, I want to talk a little about Hero Forge's character creator and the customisations on offer. First of all, it is easy to use. If you have a character in mind then there's a few pre-made templates that you can use as a starting point. Armour and weapons from all ranges can be mixed and matched accordingly, and the range of stances, as well as both the facial and anatomical sliders means you're hard pressed not to come out with something unique. There are however, a few improvements I'd like to see, namely a wider range of poses and the ability to tweak the positioning of shoulder pads and pouches and the like.

One other issue I have with the character creator is the options available. Now don't get me wrong, there's a wide range so you're never stuck for archetypal designs, but if you have a specific design in mind you might be surprised at what's not an option. The character designer does not include options for any of the list below.

Berets

Waistcoats

Medium length hair

Short, messy hair

An M-16 Assault rifle

Wings

Tails

Backpacks

A back mounted quiver

A classic shaped medium shield

A texture-less shield (so no decals 4 u!)

Skeletons/skulls

Kevlar vest over shirt/jumper

Fedoras

Any Native American stuff (despite there being a western range)

And there's probably a few more I haven't thought of, the list isn't exhaustive. Now I'm pretty sure we'll probably see some of these added in the future, but conspicuous in their absence and it's probably a bummer if you have a specific character in mind that you want a beret on, for example. All things considered, it's pretty adaptable, but like I said, also exhaustive.

Anyway, time to move onto the product itself. I designed two characters, based on two that have been rolling around for a long time, Jocasta, and Katie. I've designed both of them with Fantasy and Contemporary looks in the past, but due to the aforementioned limitations, had to compromise with going with Jocasta's fantasy design and Katie's contemporary one. Still, they came out pretty close to how I imagined them to, and soon enough the crate landed in the mail.

I was a little nervous that the miniatures would be damaged, they were after all made of resin and coming from overseas. I was convinced Katie's rifle would have snapped off when they arrived, but I needn’t have worried. The package was carefully packed, and they arrived safe and sound.

The miniatures are of a more accurate anatomical scale than the common 'Heroic Scale' a lot of companies go by. To be honest, I'm more of a fan of Heroic scale because it helps the miniatures stand out more on the table, but I know a lot of people, especially those more into the painting side of things, prefer a more detailed look, so that's what you get here. Think more Forge World than Games Workshop classic.

The models come complete, so there's no gluing required, though that might present it's own problems depending on how you've designed your characters. There doesn't seem to be any flash at all to deal with, so you can probably jump right into painting, though some surfaces that should be smooth do appear a little bumpy, so some preparation might be required before you start. Also, parts of the model can feel a little 'sweaty' when it arrives as a side affect of the 3D printing process.

They are extremely detailed, and will come as designed. They are also extremely delicate, I honestly don't expect I'll be using them for gaming since I'd worry about how to transport them. Your average foam packed case doesn't strike me as safe enough, so I wouldn't take any chances. The service does offer a more sturdier form of resin, but is more difficult to paint, so it depends on where your priorities lie.

So as for the models themselves, I am extremely satisfied, though woefully protective of them. I'll probably paint them up and get a little display case sorted out. If Hero Forge does add more options it's likely they might be joined by even more characters.

Katie and Jocasta MK1 vs Katie and Jocasta MK2. You have no idea how hard it is to find a girl with a mohawk and a rife. And in miniautre form too.

The ultimate question you have to ask yourself before purchasing is if Hero Forge is right for you. The miniatures themselves are more expensive than any of their competitors, so if you're trying to run a campaign on a budget it's a definite no no. Likewise, the options themselves are not infinite, so it might turn out that you have a better chance of finding something close to your character at Reaper. Also consider how delicate the models are. If you are the type of gamer who travels around a lot, you might be better off going with something more durable.

On a final note, I'd say that it's best to go with Hero Forge if, like me, you want something special for yourself. It's a real thrill to see a character you've designed be brought to life, rather than have to compromise on a miniature that just sort of looks like what you want them to look like. Ultimately the price ain't cheap, so you've got to really want to see your character immortalised in resin before you purchase.

Final Judgement: A highly detailed but expensive product. Recommended for vanity projects, miniature enthusiasts and gamers with a lot of clout to throw around. Wouldn't recommend for those on a budget and gamers who play fast and often.

The Flags of Castor Island - A Gravis Greyslate Story

The Flags of Castor Island is another story set in the Modern Realms. This was based on a dream I had a while ago so as a result it's pretty mind screwy. Hope you enjoy it.

                                                                                                                    

Modern Realms

The Flags of Castor Island

A Gravis Grayslate Story

By Jack Harvey

“The flags,” Gravis said, somewhat mystified, “they look as though they could have been made yesterday.”

“And yet they were strung up centuries ago,” came Thorof's guff voice to his right.

Gravis did not turn as he responded. “I detect no magic.”

Thorof nodded, and returned to help Blessed tie up the boat.

The crisp, triangular, blue and white flags, held aloft on a long cord, flapped in the wind. Gravis' eyes followed the line up, as it disappeared into the mists.

“Interesting isn't it?” boomed a voice from behind him, and this time Gravis did turn. “They say that the mountain was used for funeral processions. That the Aether would march to the top of the mountain like a pilgrimage and watch below as hundreds of burning ships would take their dead to the heavens.

Gravis nodded, though he knew most of the myths already.

Castor Island was a foggy dreamscape on the northern coast of Avalon. It was not difficult to get to, but the government had classified it off limits. The island was predominantly a narrow mountain, hundreds of leagues tall, it's summit theorised to once have been a ceremonial site for the long dead Aether civilisation. Few had been able to decipher the island's mysteries, even in these enlightened times.

Many had scaled the mountain, and many had reached the top, but none had come back down with anything save the vaguest of information. Most returned amnesic, with little memory of that which had unfolded, while others would return with their minds fractured, as though what they had witnessed had driven them mad.

But still men came, for legend had it that the peak lies on the borders between the realms and the heavens, and if one can scale the foggy cliffs, the gods, or whatever powers dwell there, would grant an answer to any question they are posed.

Sometimes the lonely or the desperate are willing to take the risks.

That is what brought these three men here. First was Michael “Blessed” DeMonfort, a popular dwarvern travel writer best known for scaling the mountains of both The Everwinter and The Spine. The other two kept their reasons closer to their chests. Thorof Teethsmasher, an unexpectedly intelligent Orc from a family of nine siblings, and the only one not to follow them into the mercenary business. Finally, Gravis Grayslate, a dark elf, from a culture often ostracised for their hedonistic ways. Even with their eccentric personalities, he would be seen as a strange bedfellow.

Gravis had kept to himself for the journey by boat however, and Blessed was willing to accept help from anyone who'd scale the mountain with him. The elf pulled out a revolver from his waistcoat and checked the loaded cylinder casually.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!” Blessed came striding over, a fatherly tone to his voice. “We shall not be taking weapons with us Mr Grayslate.”

“Are you that confident for our safety Mr DeMonfrot?” Gravis looked down at the dwarf.

“Quite the contrary Sir. Castor Island houses no native life that would be hostile to us, but it is well known that the journey can put great strain on the psyche. The last thing I want is someone pulling out a weapon in the heat of an argument.” He nodded to the boat. “Tie it with the rest of the gear. It will be quite safe.”

Gravis had no cause to cross his comrades this early in their endeavour, so he did as he was commanded. As a dark elf he was adept in the powers of death magic anyway, but he had always been hesitant to wholly rely in it.

“And another thing,” said Blessed, “Are you sure you wish to make the journey in that... attire? It is an overnight trip sir.”

Blessed was referring to the fact that while he and Thorof had dressed accordingly for a two day hike, Gravis had still insisted on coming in his best waistcoat and slacks. Mercifully he had brought the appropriate boots and coat, but it was still far from ideal.

“He'll manage,” said Thorof, “won't you Gravis?”

The orc was behaving oddly familiar for a man who had barely said a few words since they had met. Gravis nodded all the same, “I will.” He pulled a cigarette from a silver case, and offered it to the others. Thorof partook, Blessed didn't.

Before long they had secured their packs, and began marching along the mossy flat ground towards the mountain's incline, flags flapping in the wind.

***

Gravis' pants burned against his legs as he strode uphill, and though he was over one hundred and fifty years the dwarf's senior, he tried not to let pride affect him when the stocky dwarf strode ahead once more. In an effort to slow him down, Gravis had struck up a conversation, which he tried to dictate whilst panting for air.

“You've scaled The Spine,” he gasped, “A far greater hight than this. Wasn't that enough? Why this? Why now?”

Blessed smiled, and sat on a rock to let the elf catch his breath. “It had to be done,” he shrugged. “My readers want to know. They want to know, at the very least, what is at the top of Castor Island.” He beat his chest, producing a hard sound indicating the journal he kept in his jacket. “Whatever happens, even if this journey drives me mad, I shall at least have something written down.”

He pulled open a skin of water and took a sip, then offered it to Gravis. He was grateful for it, even though elves had a slower metabolism than dwarves. Thorof looked off into the fog, ignoring Blessed's chatter, as if he'd heard it all before.

“And what about the authorities?” Gravis asked. “Us being here isn't strictly legal you know?”

“Pish posh!” Blessed waved a stubby arm. “A trespassing charge at best. A man of my calibre, they'll just slap me with a fine. They'd probably even waver it, after all, if this gets published it'll deter the curious from coming over here themselves.”

Gravis nodded again, feeling oddly the student in this relationship.

Blessed slapped his knee. “Now come on, we've only just begun. Rest too long now and your legs will seize up, and the journey will be all the harder.”

With that the two men rose to their feet, blood rushing to their heads, and carried on.

***

The ground was grassy and wet because of the fog. Visibility was low as the group traversed the cliffs on the east side. Gulls circled overhead, the island's only form of native life. Gravis felt his gut wrench as he looked down and saw the fog obscured waves crash against the rocks. They were high enough now that one wrong slip could be fatal.

Still, Blessed tried to keep their spirits up. “So, Mr Teethsmasher, or may I call you Thorof?”

“First name will prove fine Blessed.”

“Ah yes, the surname doesn't seem to suit you in all honestly. Take that as a compliment.”

“I shall.”

Gravis smiled.

“Tell me. How does an Orc from a family of mercenaries come to have such a refined manner as yourself?”

Thorof was quiet for a few moments. At first Gravis assumed that Thorof wanted to remain secretive about his past. Gravis, after all, was the same. Though when he saw the Orc's large jaw hang low, it was more in frustration. Thorof looked tired. “Not yet,” He said finally. “Now is not yet the time.”

“Suit yourself,” shot Blessed, a little insulted.

“Well how about you Mr DeMonfort?” Gravis said, to diffuse the tension. “That's hardly a traditional dwarvern surname now is it?”

“No,” Blessed laughed jovially, scaling a series of rocks. “No it is not. Would you believe that I have a little human blood in me.”

“It wouldn't surprise me.”

“Yes indeed. My great grandfather was a member of the Lyon nobility. Met my mother during the Industrial Revolution. She worked as an engineer you know? Was bringing the steam train to the mainland.”

“I see.”

“Of course, you, more than anyone else here should know what happened next Mr Grayslate. I do believe you would have lived through it”

A sly look ran across the elf's face. “I was but a boy back then, and we dark ones had our own problems.”

“Oh indeed,” Blessed laughed again, “But you need not worry Mr Grayslate. I harbour no such prejudices against your people, and neither I expect, does Thorof.”

“None,” the orc said simply.

“Were most of the realms so open minded.” said Gravis grimly. “In answer to your original question, 

yes, I recall the collapse of the continent's monarchies.”

“My great grandfather was left with a choice, return to Lyon and remain forever exiled from his wife, or stay with her, forfeiting the chance to return to his lands and titles. In the end, he chose love over duty, and now nothing remains of him but the family name.” He turned and sat on another rock. “And that is why, each generation, my more traditionally named dwarvern peers name us 'Blessed'”.

Gravis smiled again. It was a good story, and he more than anyone else loved a good story, but once again he caught Thorof staring off into the mists carelessly.

They didn't say anything for a few moments.

“And you, Mr Grayslate,” Blessed said. “What answers do you seek on Castor island?”

Gravis turned and looked at the dwarf.

“I have my reasons Blessed. That is all you are permitted to know.”

Blessed sighed. “Enigmatic. Very well, let us continue.”

***

The three men made small talk as they scaled the west side of the island. It was a smooth incline, but it was not easy. The grassy patches soon started to clear away until they were on nothing but a rocky path. The fog was getting denser and soon they could only see a few feet in front or behind them. The view of the sea was now long obscured.

Gravis regretted his choice of attire, but reminded himself that he hadn't gone through a day in his life without looking appropriately dashing, and he wasn't about to start now. He ran a hand through his wavy hair and felt sweat on his brow. Thorof and Blessed were out in front now, half obscured by the mist. If he slowed down there was a real possibility that they could disappear and he might never find his way back to them.

He strode on, pulling a hip flask out of his inside pocket and took a swig of brandy. A fools errand to be sure, but it made him feel better. A dark elf was never content unless he could enjoy himself at least once per day.

Over the last couple of hours Blessed's optimism had begun to wane. Thorof had remained as tight lipped and professional as always, but Blessed, having begun to complain about his joints, threw a few barbs at himself about getting old. Each laugh became more forced than the last.

After spending about an hour scaling the base of the mountain proper, Blessed decided it was time to rest up and prepare for dinner. Blessed pulled out a host of sandwiches made of thick bread, and a series of pork pies. He shared the provisions out amongst the other two. Gravis pulled a flask of smooth dark coffee from his pack. Just the smell of the beans as he opened it was enough to bring him to his senses.

“Amazonian,” Thorof said, without looking over.

“That's right,” Gravis nodded. He always bought the specific blend from a specialised seller when he could. “How could you tell?”

Thorof smiled, his massive under-bite surprisingly sly. “Call it a hunch.”

Gravis took a sip of the dark liquid. There was something about Thorof. Something he was unsure of.

***

They had scaled most of the mountain in silence. It was dark now. Cold. The three men huddled round a fire as they camped out in a small cubby hole in the rocks. Blessed had roasted rabbit for them, but despite the rest and the food, all three felt drained and demoralised. They made small talk as Blessed passed around the brandy.

“Forgive me if this is a personal question Gravis,” he said as he poured out a cup. “How difficult do you find it being a dark elf.”

Gravis didn't say anything at first.

“You ask that as though it could be summarised though one man's experiences.”

“I wasn't implying that everyone of your race was the same,” Blessed said defensively, waving his hands in the air. “I merely wanted to know what trials your day to day life entails.”

Gravis took a swig of brandy and felt the warm liquid tear its way down his throat. He'd rather not discuss his people's plights with outsiders, they had done little to earn his trust. But here and now, miles from civilisation, they might as well have been the only people in the realms left alive.

“It's not difficult, mostly. It's easy to hide who you are.” He looked down. “You're a dwarf Blessed, I imagine you worship your ancestors regularly.”

“I do,” he nodded. “Even the human ones.”

“And you have that...” he snapped his fingers, “Festival every year. Right?”

“The tribune, yes.”

Thorof's eyes flicked quickly between the two men.

“Well imagine all that culture, all your traditions, both grand and trivial. Imagine you couldn't partake in any of it, because the society around you deemed it unseemly.”

Blessed took a swig of the brandy and winced. “Well, I see what you mean, but the dwarven festivals don't tent to involve fooling around with anybody and everybody.”

Gravis rose to his feet.

Blessed said, on the defensive again. “I wasn't implying... It just slipped out!”

“For the record, I haven't bedded man nor woman for decades.” Gravis' voice was calm, but it was building. “But the fact that you tell me you hold no such prejudices and then trivialise my people's culture to be about rutting like common animals is an insult I will not permit.”

Blessed smiled, tried to show that he wasn't intending to be cruel. It didn't work. Thorof remained seated.

“Our people's art goes further than you could possibly imagine dwarf. We understand beauty in ways other cultures only brush aside. We rebelled against an empire for what we believed in. We face persecution on a good day, and execution on a bad.”

“Gravis, I meant no offence. Please, sit.”

But Gravis didn't sit. His voice deepened, and his eyes glazed over. Blessed couldn't say for sure, but the fog itself could have grown darker.

“I have lived through centuries of unreconciled crimes against my people dwarf.”

“Gravis calm down.”

“Calm is a privilege I give far too readily,” Gravis shouted. “I could kill you with a word!”

“But you won't,” said Thorof, setting an equilibrium to the camp as though Gravis and Blessed's disagreement hadn't even happened. “You won't.”

Gravis wasn't calmed though. “What do you know of what I will and won't do Orc?”

Thorof took a swig of tea from his cup. “Because you haven't before, and won't now.”

“What do you know of me Orc? We've been together but a day.”

Thorof put down the cup. “I know you better than you think Gravis. Sit down. It's time.”

Gravis wasn't sure of where Thorof was going with this, but there was a gravity to his words that 

made Gravis forget his anger. He sat.

“This isn't the first time I've scaled Castor Island.” Thorof said.

“You've done this before?” Blessed said, ecstatically. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Thorof looked up. “This isn't the first time I've scaled Castor Island with you either.”

The two men were silent, trying to decipher what it was Thorof was trying to say. Finally Blessed broke it. “I don't understand.”

“You wonder how an Orc can be as educated and gentlemanly as I? Truth be told I wasn't always this way. I was just like my brothers, a hired thug. One day a man came to hire me. You, Blessed. You needed two men to join you on your trip to Castor Island and you could only find one, so you hired an Orc that was too stupid to know what he was getting into.”

“You approached me.” Blessed said, practically a whisper.

“Because I grew tired of waiting,” he took another swig of tea. “Let me finish.”

The two men didn't interrupt again.

“So, one morning, looking for work, I was hired by Blessed DeMonfort to help him scale Castor Island with him and Gravis Grayslate. We did. We got to the top, to the ruins of the Aether's alter or whatever in the hells it is, and then, I'm gone.” He tapped his hard skull for emphasis. “I'm back in my bed at home. It's the following morning, like nothing ever happened.”

Blessed was about to interrupt, but then thought better of it.

“So I'm thinking it was all a dream, or I'd hit the drink and the drugs too much over the weekend. Weeks go by. A month maybe. Then Blessed DeMonfort comes to me again. Same deal, no memory of what went down. So I scale Castor Island with him and Gravis Grayslate. Again. It plays out identically. We get to the top, and I wake up in bed again, the day after the last I remember. A few more months go by, and It happens again. And again. Sometimes only days separate it, sometimes years. But time and time again I keep waking up on the day we go to Castor Island.”

It took a while for it to sink in. The realms were home to many fantastical things, of gods and monsters, but what Thorof was explaining was unreal.

“So what are you saying Thorof?” Gravis asked. “You're from the future and you keep getting taken back. Or are me and Blessed losing our minds?”

“I don't know,” he said quickly. Clearly Gravis had asked this of him before. “Every time I've asked, you seem to be up to current affairs. It's almost as if this day is sliding through history with me.”

“So why do you come?” Blessed said, a fear in his voice. “Why don't you just stay away?”

“Because I need answers. Because I know, deep down, If I can only remember what I see at the summit, I'll know why I keep getting brought back here.”

“How do I know this is true?” Gravis shot at him, accusingly. “How do I know you're not just making this up?”

“How would I know about Lileth otherwise Gravis?”

The elf's face dropped. It was as though he had been hit over the head with a rock. His eyes glazed over at first. Blessed wasn't sure of the significance of the name, but he could tell that it clearly meant a lot to Gravis.

“What do you know of Lileth?”

“I know you love her, but you are not in love with her. I know she is like family to you, yet you are not related. I know you'd give your life for her, though you hope it would never come to that. I know you're closer than lovers but you'd never be intimate with her, nor she you. I've been up this summit with you more times than I can remember Gravis. We've talked about your hopes and dreams, your fears, your follys, but the one thing I've never gotten out of you is what it is you hope to find at the summit of this mountain. I'm willing to bet it's got something to do with her.”

Gravis didn't say anything. He nodded, clearly Thorof knew everything he needed to to show Gravis solidarity. There must have been something between them for him to have opened up in this hypothetical past.

“Extraordinary,” said Blessed. “Absolutely extraordinary. This must have something to do with the unique qualities of the island. I must write this down and record it for my book.”

Gravis didn't say anything, just looked Thorof in the eyes and listened the sound of flags flapping in the wind.

***

The three men had risen early. Gravis and Blessed were a little unsure of what to make of Thorof's revelation, and, query it though they did, it became abundantly clear that Thorof had an answer for every one, but could shed little light on the mystery.

Having expended their curiosity, the men completed the last leg of their journey in complete silence, and before long the difficult rocks soon began to level out, as a clearly designed path began to present itself.

The all encompassing fog began to dissipate, as grey and silver walls came into view. They were at the summit at last, with what appeared to be a large roofless theatre or alter waiting for them.

The structure had the characteristic design of all Aether ruins, of a metallic sheen embellished with sly ridges of glowing red rock. The flags that had led them all the way to the top were tied round a series of poles. It was eerily silent, save for the flags.

“Incredible,” said Blessed, who almost immediately pulled out his journal and began sketching things down. Seconds later he ran over to what appeared to be some kind of balcony or viewpoint. “Ah yes. The theories could be correct. You can see straight down to the shoreline from here. Perfect if you wanted to watch a burial at sea.”

Gravis wasn't here for a history lesson however, and he turned to see Thorof running his hand along the wall, trying to determine if it was metal or stone.

“Ringing any bells?” Gravis asked him.

“Nothing,” said Thorof.

Blessed was talking to himself still, rambling about the possible purposes of the structure. Gravis looked up, his eyes following the string of flags. They raised higher and higher, until Gravis was 

looking immediately up. The flags spiralled off into the mists above.

“What are the flags tied on to?” Gravis asked to nobody in particular.

The wind picked up, drowning out his voice.

Blessed didn't seem to hear him, still thinking out loud and writing notes into his journal. Though there was a rabid intensity to it, not like Blessed at all.

Thorof by contrast was still tracing the wall with his hand. He turned. He had to shout over the sound of the wind. “What?”

“The flags.” Gravis shouted “What are they attached to? They just seem to get higher and higher. But there's no support beams or poles or... well anything.”

Thorof shouted something back, but Gravis couldn't hear him over the wind. No, it wasn't the wind. It was something else. A low moaning drone, at first, accompanied by what sounded like singing, or screaming, it was hard to say. Gravis' eyes were locked into the foggy sky now, trying to stay on the spiral of flags.

He could hear Blessed, still talking, but it was more like babbling now. Thorof had fallen to the ground, though when and why, Gravis couldn't exactly be sure. All he cared about now was the sky, the flags, where were they going?

The sky seemed to get lighter. The sounds grew louder, clearer.

“What are the flags tied on to?!” he shouted like a mantra. He couldn't even hear the sound of his own voice.

The fog began to part, and something, something beautiful and terrifying came towards him framed by the flags.

***

“Ahhgh!” Gravis screamed as he came to.

He was back on the sand, by the boat. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out for. He craned his head back, trying to take things in. He could hear the gulls circling overhead. It was probably midday, but it was hard to tell with the ever prevalent fog.

As he got to his feet, Blessed came marching over, that warm fatherly smile back on his face.

“Ah,” he said, clasping a hand around Gravis' waist. “You're back.”

“What happened?” Gravis rubbed his eyes instinctively, though he felt no fatigue.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he laughed, “What do you remember?”

“I remember...” Gravis closed his eyes and thought, trying to piece the last few days together as tough they were a fleeting dream, “I remember getting to the alter, or whatever it was. I remember you talking about how you could see down to the sea. Little all else after that.”

Blessed smiled and tapped his journal as he had done many times before. “Got a lot of stuff down, a good sketch too, but it quickly descends into meaningless gibberish. Still enough for the readers that's for sure.”

Gravis looked around in confusion. “What time is it? How did we get down here?”

Blessed shrugged. “Couple of hours. There are few answers to be had on Castor Island it seems.”

Suddenly Gravis realised that the Orc wasn't with them. “And Thorof?”

Blessed didn't say anything at first, just nodded towards the boat. Gravis followed him, and he could see the once proud Orc tied down, a vacant look in his eyes.

“I just hope he got whatever answers he sought.”

Gravis put a hand over his mouth. “What will you do with him.”

“Take him back to his family,” Blessed said with a tone of regret in his voice. “If they won't have him then It'll be to the nearest institution I imagine.”

The two men took stock for a moment. So much lost and so little achieved it would seem.

“Time to go then I suspect.” Blessed said, and started to board their transport.

Gravis nodded and made ready to embark, when suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his side.

Something had found it's way to his inside waistcoat pocket.

He turned away from Blessed, and out came an intricately decorated cube. It was brassy in colour, and segmented as though it were some kind of puzzle.

“Are you alright there Gravis?”

He quickly spirited the cube away and turned. “I'm fine. Shall we?”

Blessed nodded, and though the two made way to end their adventure, Gravis got the feeling that his journey was only just getting started.

                                                                  

Copyright Jack Harvey 2015

A Die-Hard's Case for a Lady Doctor

 

Doctor Who. Doctor. Who. Once upon a time I would have hated the idea of a woman being cast in the role. Not too long ago I was more diplomatically against the idea. Now, I'm all for a Lady Doctor, with the stipulation that they don't fuck it up. As somebody who's been a fan for as long as I can remember (Literally) It's not an easy concept to wrap your head around.

This article is intended to both serve as an argument towards Who fans like me, who have been embedded in the show for a long time, as well as a caution of where I'm worried such a casting could go wrong.

This article is not intended to go into the wider reaching 'big picture' benefits of such a casting, namely because as a man my opinion is not particularly optimised to comment, but also because so many great feminist articles have got there before me. At this point It's a no brainier that it would be a net gain socially, but I'm here to address the conservatives in the camp.

Let's, as is fitting, go back in time. Like I said, I've been a fan of Doctor Who for most of my life. The earliest memory of me visiting my Grandma and Granada is sitting in their home reading a radio times article on the 1994 re-runs. My mother incorrectly identified a Sillurian as an Ice Warrior, that's how vividly I remember it. I was about 7 at the time.

Naturally dedicating myself to every Big Finish audio, novel and comic I could get my hands on in those years, it's ultimate revival has been a bumpy road for one such as me. My issues with both the RTD and Moffat seasons could cover articles, but that's not what we're here for today. I hold no ill will towards 'New Who' fans, but I think it's often overlooked that the experiences of a seven year old English boy in the mid nineties growing up with a patchwork of Hartnall to McCoy are worlds away of that of a fourteen year old American girl watching a consistent story arc unfold every week.

So many feuds could be avoided if only people could remember that. Your show is not mine, nor mine yours, and at the end of the day nothing can change that. It shouldn't be any other way.

Oh wow, we're getting way off subject now. What I'm trying to say is that we all have different ideas of what Doctor Who is, and that intimately influences our perception of what we feel is “proper for it”. Let's jump forwards in time now, to just a little while ago, to when I started to warm to the idea of a female Doctor.

This change of opinion came about through necessity. There have been whisperings here and there of casting a woman in the role for a while now, so I judged that if such a move was only a matter of time then I might as well get used to it. Then Michelle Gomez mastering (poor pun, sorry) the role of the Master (blowing away Simms interpretation, in my opinion), started to turn me around in a big way.

By this point I genuinely started to think about who would be right in the role. Sue Perkins was my first choice, since I love her in everything and she is my spiritual sensai. Helen Mirren came to mind, bringing a certain gravitas to the role. I remember going to a convention a long time ago and hearing Colin Baker mention that he'd like to see Dawn French as The Doctor. I bawked at the time, but I can see it now.

One thing all the women I considered had in common, however, is that they all felt like “exceptions”. They were all either older, tomboys or not conventionally attractive. I questioned myself on whether I was picking them in the same way I would choose a male actor, or were these few the only ones that I could 'bare' watching in the role? Would an outsider, or more traditionally 'feminine' actress ruin it for me? Was I, under it all, still judging potential candidates more harshly purely based on their gender?

Then I had a dream. Not like the great Martin Luther King did, no, this was a literal dream that I had. I dreamed that I was watching a new episode of Doctor Who, and the Doctor was was played by a short, young, tomboyish woman. She dressed with a kind of punk/hipster aesthetic, with a see though shirt with no bra that I doubt the BBC would go for. She had the enthusiasm of the Smith years but had the air-headedness of Baker the first at his best. She was less likely to stand around lecturing about what she knew and more likely to go crawling through air ducts to find out what was going on.

It was fucking awesome, and then I woke up and was disappointed to find it wasn't real.

Anyway, this whole thing sold me on a Lady Doctor regardless of who's playing the part. I don't care who they cast now, I'm interested to see who they'd go with.

However...

Let's go back in time a bit. Remember earlier when I said that at one point I was diplomatically against the idea? At that point my take was that while you could have a Lady Who, I felt there was no way they weren’t going to fuck it up. My biggest fear was that they'd screw up either the casting or the writing and this character would just not feel like The Doctor.

As explained, my mood has changed, but I think my original worries do hold weight when examining what could go wrong. In the interests of hoping for a good Lady Doctor, lets take a look at what I think they are up against.

First up and my biggest problem would be them making a big deal about the gender switch. Old characters cracking out lines like “You're not the man I knew,” “Phwor, I could get used to this,” mistaking them for the companion, The Doctor making jokes about now having boobs and so forth. It not only runs the risk of being grossly transphobic (which never even crossed my mind at the time) it also just comes across as plain cheesy and stupid. I'm not a fan of the comedy in New Who at the best of times and I think this approach would be a big mistake.

The casting is also an issue. I'm not dead set against anyone at this point but subconsciously we never quite know our blind spots. Casting The Doctor in general is always a fine art, and I always advise going against the seemingly obvious choices (People often bring up Jonny Depp. No, there is only one American who could handle the role, and that's the recently departed Robin Williams). I'd hate for the production team to get too swept up in the novelty of casting the first Lady Doctor without really thinking they're the right choice.

Finally, and in relation to the last point, don't treat the casting as a gimmick or a novelty. Idris Elba has always said that he would never accept the role of 'Black James Bond' only 'James Bond'. That's the way it should be. Don't think of this as a new age, a new evolution to the character or whatever buzzword the tabloids will likely pull out of their arses. Think of this as just the the next episode in a show of fifty years. If the Doctor is to be played by a woman then you've got to remember that this era stands side by side with all that came before. This is still Doctor Who. Doctor Who is Doctor Who, stick to that first and foremost.

Basically don't over-think it.

Anyway, to round this little thought piece off, here are a few of my picks for a lady who. (Some of them aren’t even British!) Sue Perkins, Helen Mirren, TamsinGrieg, Dawn French, Gwendoline Christie, Ashley Burch, SarahSilverman, Maria Doyle Kennedy, and Jenny Agutter.

I have more, feel free to bug me about it on Tumblr.

Oh and for the curious, if you're going to go for a non-white male Doctor (who's not Idris Elba), I say go for Benedict Wong.

Lisa Cummings and the Case of the Exploding Meat - Part Two

And so here we have Part Two of our comical farce. In case you missed it, Part One is here. Do our twentysomething sluths find the culprit to the abattoir overkill? Read on to find out.
                                                               

Lisa Cummings and the Case of the Exploding Meat
Part Two
By Jack Harvey

Lindsey Williams sat nervously in the stark grey room. She twiddled her thumbs, bit her lip. Did the police think that she had been responsible for Mel's death? Is that what this was about?

After ten excruciating minutes she was met by a dark skinned plainclothes officer and a short haired 

 woman in a red polo shirt.

“Miss Williams, I'm Inspector Browning, this is Cummings. We'd like to clarify a few things about Melvyn Kent. You were set to work on the carcass he was... attending to, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” said the fresh faced young woman nervously. “I already told all this to the other officers.”

“You can chill babe, this is just a follow up,” Lisa said, in an at attempt to diffuse the situation. Andy looked at her with annoyance. She shrugged. He turned back to Lindsey.

“What was your relationship with Melvyn Kent?

“We worked together,” she sighed, looked down. “We were at school together but we weren’t friends or anything. When he came to work at the abattoir it was the first time I'd seen him for years. We'd chat a bit about old times now and again but our work isn't exactly the kind that allows chatter.”

He nodded. “Anything else? Anything specific?”

“He lost his work keys about a month ago. Because we were on similar shifts I helped him out for a couple of days.”

“Did he have any grievances with you?”

Lindsey looked confused. “If he did he never showed it.”

“So he never threatened you at any point?”

“No.”

“Did he ever imply that he was interested in you? Ask you out for a drink, anything like that?”

“No, he...” Lindsey paused for a second, lost in thought. Then she smiled slightly, gave out a little 

chuckle. “I remember way back when we were in school. He asked me out back then, we must have only been about twelve or thirteen. I think he did for a dare or something.”

“Did you say yes?”

“I was just a little girl, I didn't even really know him.”

“And he never implied that he maintained these feelings for you?”

The smile left her face. “If he did he never showed it,” she echoed.

Lisa and Andy looked at each other, a silent thought passing between them. Andy scribbled 

something on a pad of paper.

“Thank you Miss Williams. That's all we need to know.”

David Carruthers leaned back on the chair impatiently. He had enough to deal with emotionally after Mel's death. The very least they could give him was some space and time.

Lisa and Andy joined him quicker than expected. He tried to maintain his confident exterior, but swallowed nervously. What was it they wanted?

“Mr Carruthers? I'm Inspector Browning, this is Cummings. We'd like to ask you a few quick questions about Melvyn Kent. I understand you are going to be ending your employment at the abattoir very shorty.”

“It was today in fact,” he said, with maybe even a little joy in his voice. “We were supposed to be going out for my leaving party after the shift had finished. I called it off after what happened to Mel. It wouldn't have been right.”

“What was your relationship with Melvyn Kent?”

“Purely a working relationship.” David folded his arms. Andy could tell just by looking at them that the man had been working out. “We would occasionally talk as you do. I wouldn't call us friends.”

“Any reason he would have to resent you? Did you have any disagreements.”

David paused. He ran his thumb up and down his arm methodically.

“Mr Carruthers.”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “Like I said, we only talked occasionally.”

“You sure about that?” Lisa said.

David went quiet again.

“You're not a suspect Mr Carruthers,” Andy reassured him, “We're just looking for anything about Mel that could help us with this case.”

David nodded, and his head dropped on the final nod. His voice had lost its confidence now. “I didn't say anything before because I was worried it would make me a suspect,” he said.

“Go on.”

“A few weeks ago I'd seen him following Lindsey around. Like, she didn't know. Like, he was stalking her or something. Now me and Lindsey are very close, she's like a sister to me, so I confronted him about it.”

“What was his reaction?”

“It was odd, he wasn't angry or scared you know? He told me that I had to behave myself around Lindsey because he knew what kind of guy I was.”

“Meaning?”

“I don't know. I think he thought me and Lindsey were an item.”

“So Mel didn't know that you were gay?” Lisa said, suddenly.

Both men turned and looked at her in surprise.

She leaned back smugly in her chair. “I've seen you a few times at The Purple Nighthawk. You're a very discreet guy but It's obvious you're not just going there 'with friends'”

David became a little confrontational. “I don't see how any of this is relevant.”

“It's just a question,” Lisa said innocently.

“No. As far as I was concerned it wasn't his business.”

Lisa and Andy looked at each other again, just like they had earlier. That silent communication was happening again. It was broken quickly when Andy's phone began to vibrate.

“Yeah?” he answered. “Great!” he said eagerly and turned back to David Carruthers. “Mr Carruthers, that's all we need to know, thank you very much.”

“What is it?” asked Lisa, “What it is you've got.”

Andy stood. “The final piece of the puzzle.”

***

Andy brandished a wad of papers like they were an academy award. Lisa looked at him, perplexed.

“Asked our tech guys to check out Mel's computer. Surfing habits. This is what we found.”

“Care to enlighten me?” said Lisa, familiar with Andy's tendency to draw things out when he has the upper hand.

“Months worth of sexist rants on social forums. Screeds about how women don't respect him and how one day he'd finally crack and do something about it. The guy really had issues.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow.

“This might as well be a signed confession Cummings. Think about it, years of unsuccessful relationships. Finally he find himself working with the one girl that started it all. Maybe he starts to think that he might be in with another chance, when David Carruthers cock blocks him. He's had enough, he cracks, and he decides to take it out on those who he perceived had wronged him.”

“A crime of passion?” Lisa asked.

“For the digital age.”

Lisa pulled out another lolly and gave a long sigh. “I'm not so sure.”

“Oh come on!” Andy shouted, exasperated. “It's all here in black and white,” he tapped the pile of papers. “You said it yourself, he didn't know Carruthers was gay. To him he was a romantic rival. His nemesis.”

But Lisa wasn't convinced. “There's something about this that doesn't add up to me.” She paused, her tomboy face contorted with confusion. Confident, she pointed at Andy. “Can you get Hastings to hold of for one more day?”

Andy threw his arms apart. “It's the meat festival this weekend Cummings, he wants an open and shut case,” Andy tapped the papers again. “And it

is an open and shut case.”

Lisa ignored him. “I'm going to need the case notes, the files on those postings, his keys and... heck, pretty much everything. If I don't have an alternative for you by noon tomorrow then you can go to Hastings with what you have. Until then, I need you to hold off and give me time.”

Andy shook his head, but he knew better than to argue with Lisa once she had her teeth into something. He complied.

***

Lisa spent the evening and night doing what she did best. She worked her way through the connections, the people, the businesses. She tracked the paper trails. What money was spent? When? Who was where? Why were they there? And finally, she had her answers.

Lisa and Andy often met at the Gershwin Cafe to discuss cases. He sat there with an espresso, she an earl grey. Relics of their respective upbringings.

“Melvyn Kent was murdered,” she said, confidently, with a sly smile on her lips. “By Mr Richard Davies.”

“The IT guy?” Andy responded, confused. “Explain.”

Lisa put down her notes, and began.

“Ten years ago Rodgers and Davies Technology had a plan. They were going make their fortune as a county wide training provider and become a national IT chain. Spoiler alert! It fails. Years later, having lost his partner and with profits dwindling, Davies stages a last ditch attempt to try and tap into the Zeitgeist. He buys the 3D printer, but customers still don't come.

“With mounting debts he concedes the unthinkable, he's going to have to sell his precious collection of Santana memorabilia. However, his collection isn't quite complete, and as any good collector knows, a complete collection can triple the value. They can go for as much as twenty grand so I'm told. Funnily enough, he'd recently bonded with a customer who just so happened to own a 1970 Abraxas tour poster. He offers to buy it, but Mel won't sell. It was his fathers, someone else who happened to die under mysterious circumstances,” Lisa paused for a moment, “Make of that what you will.

“But Davies needs that poster or it's game over. He remembers Mel stressing over his recent woes and hatches a plan. See, that's what bothered me about your theory, it didn't add up. Turns out Mel wasn't sexist at all, he was a feminist. He didn't see David as a rival, he was worried he was a pick up artist putting the moves on Lindsey”

“But the forum posts...” Andy pointed out.

“I'm getting to that. So, Davies plans to bump Mel off, but this isn't a big town, suspicion is going to be on him when he gets that poster, so he needs to put the blame on someone else. He comes up with some excuse to drop by Mel's one day and swipes his home and works keys, gets copies cut and returns them before anyone is the wiser. While Mel's busying away at work, Davies logs onto the computer and leaves a load of inflammatory comments online to make it looks like Mel's planning something.

“He buys the bomb components and the uhh... male stress toy. I'd rather not read too much into that. He looks up Mel's rota to make sure it looks like he's trying to kill Lindsey. Finally, he sneaks in on the Monday morning and plants the bomb, leaves a trail of crumbs to make it look like Mel had planned it all, and waits for the dust to settle to either swipe the poster or buy it from the next of kin.”

Andy laughed, not quite convinced. “Well it's a charming theory, but it's also circumstantial. You going to get this to stand up in court?”

Lisa took a sip of her tea, and smirked again. “Davies was hoping we wouldn't look too closely at the cracks. Maybe he deliberately staged it before the meat festival for that reason, who knows, but he could never truly cover his tracks.

“You take a look a the website's time stamps, they all coincide with Mel's shifts, he couldn't possibly have posted them while at work. Our friend in the blue hoodie is willing to testify that Davies left him to watch the shop on several occasions that line up with the online postings. Likewise, our local locksmith confirms that Davies got two keys cut recently, and he's got a record of them. They match Mel's.”

Andy leaned back and nodded, impressed.

“But the most damning of all is the security cameras. Wondering why Richard Davies isn't on there? Well, I contacted the security firm that is responsible for them. Guess who their IT provider is?”

“Rodgers and Davies Technology?” Andy said.

“And guess who arrived at their monitoring station just a few days ago for 'scheduled updates'?”

“No way!”

“Yep! Richard Davies. At first glance the recordings look fine, but under scrutiny they've clearly been altered to run a loop on the morning of the explosion.”

“Fuck!” Andy sighed, slapping his forehead and leaning back. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

“Nope, just an arrest. Oh, I also checked the online sellers for the bomb components and the wank toy, they were all posted to Davies' home address, just in case you needed one more nail for the coffin.”

Andy stood. “Lets go get him then.”

***

Richard Davies confessed almost immediately. He was obviously prepared for his plan to fail. Backed into a financial corner he had no plan B, no contingency. This was all or nothing.

As they watched the man get escorted into the back of a police car, Andy caught Lisa with a sombre look in her eye. “You okay?” he asked.

“I dunno, going through Mel's stuff was like deja-vu. He was a bit like me in a way. Then, when it looked as though he was the kind of arsehole I used to deal with as a kid, I could have handled his death, you know? But it turns out he was the kind of person who would have stood up for me, shot down those kinds of people. I just feel like we've lost someone important today.”

“Yeah. Well, at least we cleared his name I guess. Listen, Cummings?” Andy scratched the back of his head nervously. “There's something I've got to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“Me and the boys, we're having a gaming night round mine this weekend. Putting our computers together on a LAN?”

“You're having a LAN party?” Lisa said, insulted. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Embarrassed, Andy continued. “I was worried the guys wouldn't like the idea of me inviting a girl round,” he sighed, a little ashamed. “But after all this, I realised I was being a bit of a dick in that regard. I'd be honoured if you and Bitch Brigade could join us.”

Lisa smiled, her confidence returning. “You know the real reason you didn't ask was because we're going to own you guys right?”

“That's it.” He laughed with relief, “that's the real reason.”

“Then it's on sucker!” she said, and after putting another lolly in her mouth, they bumped fists in solidarity, and for a fine weekend to come.

                                                    

 Copyright Jack Harvey 2014