Twenty pages of monsters, comic-book chaos, unfinished ideas, finished damage, and the kind of artwork that happens when summer gives me too much time to think.

The newest issue of ART TO THE FACE is finished, loaded, and ready to invade your device.

This is Issue #30, which means I have somehow made thirty of these things without being stopped by the authorities, common sense, or the rising cost of ink.

Inside, you get twenty pages of drawings, comic art, sketchbook experiments, cover work, character designs, old ideas dragged back into the light, and new ideas that probably should have stayed buried. It is part art book, part sketchbook, part studio archive, and part evidence that I have never learned how to work on only one project at a time.

This month’s issue includes everything from a full-color fantasy massacre on the cover to monsters, armored women, robots, zombies, sketchbook notes, rough concepts, finished commissions, and pages that show how the sausage gets made—assuming the sausage was made out of brush pens, bad decisions, and too much caffeine.

You will find work connected to Zombie Years, fantasy and horror pieces, comic-cover art, painted character studies, original designs, and behind-the-scenes pages full of names, maps, notes, and half-formed universes trying to kick their way out of my skull. There are polished pieces, loose drawings, experiments, and the occasional visual accident that turned out better than the original plan.

That is the point of ART TO THE FACE.

It is not a fancy corporate art magazine designed by a committee. It is direct access to the workbench. It is the stuff I am drawing, developing, revisiting, testing, and occasionally wrestling to the ground.

And subscribers get to download the whole thing.

When you join the FWACATA Substack, you are not just helping me post more often. You are helping fund the actual making of comics, original art, zines, stories, podcasts, livestreams, and all the weird projects currently fighting for space on my desk.

You get comics, artwork, process posts, sketchbook material, downloadable zines, livestreams, and access to the growing FWACATA archive. You get to see the work before it disappears into a box, becomes part of another project, or gets sold to somebody with better wall space than you.

Most importantly, your support gives me more time to do the work instead of spending it trying to convince an algorithm that I exist.

So join up, download ART TO THE FACE #30, flip through the madness, and see what has been happening behind the scenes.

Twenty pages. Thirty issues. No filler. No corporate polish.

Just art.

Straight to the face.

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So…

I did a comic a while ago called VIGIL for one of the first webcomic publishers, GRAPHICSMASH, back in the day. This was my earliest gig, my first time out there, and, of course, it’s a Superhero book… but set in MIAMI! HAH

See a theme there?

Anywho… It’s near and dear to me, and if you read MEATHOOK or FUGLY, you’ll see that they all stem from this Universe. It’s near and dear to me. But of course, like the mutant child that it is, it has many a wart and fuck up in it, and was locked away in the basement and fed fishheads all these years, only to emerge for walkies on Webtoons and some other places.

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I pulled out the comics, showed where the name came from, talked about the strange road from Miami to El Paso, and opened up the sketchbooks where all the ideas, bad notes, good accidents, and future disasters are currently hiding. There are glimpses of Meathook, REZ, Zombie Years, Fierro, and a few other things I’m probably not supposed to be working on simultaneously—but here we are.

Then I settled in and worked on a new FUGLY page live, using toy cars for reference, ink washes for motion, and the sort of crooked lines that would make a ruler file a restraining order. Along the way, I talked about why restrictions can make comics easier, why speed matters, how I loosely script pages, and why you shouldn’t wait for anyone’s permission to make the stories living in your head.

There’s also a little philosophy buried under the ink: anybody can make comics, perfection is overrated, and eventually we all go into the ground—so you might as well draw the damn thing now.

Watch the replay, see the page come together, and hang out in the studio while I try to explain what the hell I’m doing.

Subscribe to FWACATA for free comics, artwork, process posts, livestreams, podcasts, and the ongoing construction of this ridiculous universe. Paid subscribers get access to deeper archives, digital comics, and more original art goodness.

Get more from FWACATA in the Substack app

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Some weeks, motivation isn’t about crushing goals, optimizing your schedule, or becoming a productivity machine.

Sometimes motivation is simply figuring out how to stay human.

After years of podcasts, hundreds of conversations, and more headlines than any sane person should consume, I’ve noticed something: it’s easy to become another voice screaming into the noise. Another person pointing at everything that’s broken. Another reminder that the world is on fire.

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The problem is that most of us already know the fire is there.

We’re drowning in information. Every day brings a new outrage, a new scandal, a new reason to be angry, exhausted, or cynical. At some point, constantly describing the disaster stops being useful. It becomes background noise.

So this week’s Monday Motivation isn’t really about politics, economics, technology, or any particular crisis. It’s about something underneath all of that.

It’s about your soul.

Not in a religious sense necessarily. Not in a mystical sense. Just that core part of you that decides what kind of person you’re going to be when everything around you is trying to pull you in another direction.

Why is it that we’re often so protective of the things we love, the things that make us vulnerable, the things that matter to us... yet we’re completely comfortable embracing our anger, our resentment, and our hatred?

Why do we examine our hopes so carefully but rarely stop to examine what we’re furious about?

This episode dives into that question.

It also wrestles with something many of us are feeling right now: the sense that the systems we’re told to trust aren’t functioning the way they should. Whether it’s politics, corporations, technology, or public institutions, there seems to be a growing gap between what people need and what they’re getting.

The question becomes: What do you do when you feel powerless?

What do you do when showing up doesn’t seem to change anything?

What do you do when you’re scared about the future but still trying to remain hopeful?

I don’t pretend to have the answers.

Leave a comment

What I do know is that giving up your humanity isn’t one of them.

If things are going to get difficult—and I suspect they might—then we’re going to need people who can think clearly, act with purpose, support one another, and refuse to become monsters just because they’re surrounded by them.

Maybe that’s where motivation starts.

Not with changing the world overnight.

But with deciding what kind of person you’re going to be while the world changes around you.

Listen to this week’s episode and let me know what you think.

And whatever comes next, try to remember one thing:

Be good.

A copper for your thoughts, or would I get change coming?

The old man claimed the sea remembered everything, and he said it with the bitter conviction of someone who’d tried to outshout the tide and ended up coughing up saltwater and pride.

Not the way sailors get poetic after their third bottle and a lifetime of bad decisions. He meant it with the kind of seriousness that makes you check your pockets for knives. The sea, he said, carried memory the way blood carries plague—always lurking, always ready to ruin your day. If you listened to the hulls groaning in Oceanforge harbor, or the black water north of Karabek, you could hear the world itself trying to drown out the memory of Narrisia, and failing.

Most ignored him. That was tradition at the Vomiting Dragon, right alongside watered ale, sticky floors, and the kind of decisions that make you wish you’d been born a fish.

The tavern squatted by the lower piers, where steam tangled with salt and the gutters ran red every time the slaughter barges limped in from the eastern fisheries. The place leaned left, like a drunk who’d lost a bet with gravity. Pipes hissed overhead. Blue condensation dripped from copper veins and splashed into mugs that hadn’t seen coin since the last king died. Upstairs, a woman laughed as if she were losing a knife fight. Below the floorboards, something scratched with the patience of a debtor waiting for the gods to forget his name.

The old man had staked out a corner beneath a mural of a dragon vomiting fire onto a parade of tax collectors. He looked like he’d been carved out of stubbornness, bad luck, and the kind of spite that keeps you alive through three wars and a marriage.

One of his eyes was clouded, blind from age or maybe just from seeing too much. His fingers were crooked from old breaks, his beard stained yellow by pipe smoke and years of salt wind. He wore a wool coat big enough to hide a goat, or a small crime. He smelled of salt, mildew, and an oil that clung like a curse. One boot clanked from iron plates hammered into the sole, and his accent hacked through the Common Tongue as it owed him money.

“Narrisia,” he rasped, staring into his cup, “was not born wrong.”

Nobody answered.

A few patrons glanced over, then went back to their cards or drinks. In Oceanforge, you learned quickly that listening too closely to old sailors usually ended in religion, stabbing, or both if you were unlucky.

The sailor continued anyway.

“We were proud once. Cold people, yes. Hard people. But proud.” He scratched at his beard. “The valleys of Narrisia were dead to magic long before the Horrors came. That is truth. Ask any scholar stupid enough to walk there.”

The merchant nearby barked, “Why would magic steer clear of your land, old man?”

The sailor slowly looked at him.

“Because something already lived there.”

That earned him a few more glances, the kind you give a man who might be about to start a fire or a sermon.

Not many. But enough.

Outside, thunder rolled over Oceanforge harbor. Rain tapped at the warped glass like a beggar with cold fingers. Somewhere deeper in the tavern, someone started up a fiddle tune that sounded like a funeral trying to remember how to dance.

The sailor drank.

“You know Bleed Stone?” he asked.

A dockworker nodded cautiously. “Warp stone. Weirdstone. Heard the names.”

The old sailor spat onto the floorboards.

“No. Those are wrong names given by southern fools. Warp stone bends magic. Bleed Stone kills it.”

He tapped the table with one thick finger.

“In Narrisia, magic dies.”

He spoke the words quietly, but something about them made the nearby lantern flicker.

Not everywhere. But enough. Whole valleys where spells unravel in your mouth. Places where druids become blind. Places where enchanted blades rust in their sheaths. The mountains themselves are threaded with the stone, veins thicker than rivers. Some say they were placed there by the gods to cage something beneath the world. Others whisper the Bleed Stone is older than the land itself— a wound from when the sky broke, and the world bled. The oldest scholars argue it is the remains of a dead star that fell in ancient ages. It poisoned the earth and sapped magic wherever its shadow reached.

He smiled the way a man does when he’s run out of better options and is about to try his luck with the worst one.

“Others say they are the bones of that thing.”

The dockworker swallowed.

The sailor leaned back slowly.

“You foreigners think Narrisia hates magic because we are cruel. Because we are frightened peasants wrapped in iron and snow.” He coughed wetly into his fist. “No. We hate magic because we remember what it does when left alone.”

A serving girl passed by carrying drinks. She slowed slightly to listen.

The sailor noticed.

Old men lived on stories the way drunks lived on cheap ale and the kind of bad decisions that get you banned from three ports.

“The Autarch understood this better than anyone.”

Now the room shifted.

Even drunks knew that title.

The God-Autarch of Narrisia. The immortal ruler in the north. Divine tyrant. Prophet. Monster. Depending on who told the story.

The sailor lowered his voice.

“The Last Emperor.”

A silence settled over the nearby tables.

He smiled like a man chewing on a mouthful of nails and pretending it was steak.

“Though perhaps ‘last’ is the wrong word.”

Rain hammered harder outside.

“I was born in Kharov Vale,” he said. “Before the purges reached the coast. Before the smoke towers. Before the machine legions marched west.”

His eyes wandered off to some place only ghosts, old regrets, and tax collectors could find.

“My father built anchors. My mother stitched winter sails. We prayed to the old saints then. Sea saints. Storm saints. Tiny gods with tiny powers.” He chuckled softly. “Narrisians distrust large gods. They ask too much.”

A man near the bar muttered, “Except your emperor.”

The sailor nodded slowly.

“Yes. Except him.”

He worked his scarred hands together like he was trying to coax a fire from old bones and older grudges.

“The old stories say the Autarch was not born. He arrived.”

Nobody interrupted now.

They say he walked out of the northern ice during the Years of Ash, when the Horrors still roamed openly, and the world burned itself alive every season. Some claimed he was a prophet sent by Balo. Others claimed he was a king from before history. Some said he was a Horror wearing human skin. He paused, eyes narrowing. There are older tales too. Strange things seen in his shadow. Wolves howled in daylight whenever he passed. Snow fell black for three nights after his arrival in Voromir. Once, a priestess swore she looked into his eyes and saw stars moving beneath ice. No one who served him ever agreed on the sound of his voice.

The fiddler upstairs stopped playing.

The silence deepened.

The sailor’s cloudy eye drifted toward the ceiling as though remembering something he wished he could forget.

“He united Narrisia in thirteen winters. Do you understand what that means?”

Nobody answered.

“Thirteen winters,” he repeated. “Our clans once killed each other over sheep paths and fishing rights. We buried knives with our children so they would be armed in the afterlife. Yet this man walked into the valleys and made us kneel.”

His voice became softer.

And the frightening thing was, people wanted to. Like sheep lining up for the butcher, smiling all the way.

The serving girl now remained frozen beside the table.

“He spoke little,” the sailor continued. “Never shouted. Never threatened. He simply looked at men, and they felt ashamed for disappointing him.”

A laugh slipped out, low and sharp as a broken bottle in a back alley brawl.

“My grandfather saw him once in the city of Voromir. Said he walked through snowfall without leaving footprints.”

A drunk at the bar scoffed nervously. “Old nonsense.”

The sailor ignored him.

“He began the Purity Wars shortly after. Claimed the Horrors were not dead. Claimed they hid inside magic itself. Claimed every sorcerer was a doorway waiting to open.”

He drank again.

“And perhaps he was right.”

The room shifted uneasily.

“In the north,” the sailor said, “there are ruins older than memory. Black towers buried beneath mountains. Places where even wolves refuse to howl.” His voice cracked slightly. “The Autarch found one beneath the city of Dresk.”

Now even the tavern keeper had stopped wiping mugs.

The sailor leaned forward.

“They uncovered a chamber made of stone that bled when struck.”

Nobody moved.

“At its center,” he whispered, “was something alive.”

Lightning flashed outside.

For a heartbeat, the old man’s face looked like it was trying to remember how to be a skull, and almost succeeding.

“They called it a bound Horror.”

Someone laughed nervously.

The sailor did not.

It had no shape. That was the problem. One man saw a mountain of mouths. Another saw his dead wife. Another saw a field of screaming horses stitched together by human hands. The men who survived the sight did not stay themselves for long. Some could not sleep without waking to screams. Others spoke nonsense and clawed at their own faces until blood ran. Wherever its chamber lay open, nothing grew for miles. Water turned brackish. The air thickened, as if weighed down by invisible hands. It was as if the land itself tried to forget what it witnessed, but could not.

The serving girl quietly set the drinks down and sat beside the dockworker without realizing she had done so.

“The emperor ordered it contained,” the sailor said. “Not killed. Bound.”

He stared into his cup.

“That was the beginning of Narrisia as you know it.”

The dockworker frowned. “Bound how?”

The sailor smiled faintly.

“With men.”

A coldness passed through the room.

The Bleed Stone beneath Narrisia suppressed magic. The Autarch believed he could use it as chains. Massive engines were built beneath the mountains—vast iron constructs with spines of copper and wheels that crushed bone into dust. They fed on blood and sorrow, belching steam through pipes that throbbed like the veins of some buried giant. Entire cities were hollowed into laboratories and prisons. His voice became distant again. Priests fed themselves into the machines willingly. Sorcerers were cut apart while still breathing so their deaths could strengthen the bindings.

The merchant near the fire muttered, “Gods preserve us.”

The sailor laughed harshly.

“No gods entered those valleys.”

Rain battered the windows now.

“They say the emperor descended beneath Dresk himself during the final binding. Three thousand soldiers marched with him.” His voice grew quieter with every sentence. “Only he returned.”

Someone whispered, “What did he see?”

The sailor looked up slowly.

“Himself.”

Nobody spoke.

“He emerged changed. Taller. Stronger. Colder.” The sailor rubbed at his bad eye. “After that, he no longer aged. Priests began calling him divine. Whole armies worshipped him as a living god.”

He leaned back.

“And perhaps he was.”

A long silence followed.

The old sailor stared into the dark tavern while thunder rolled over Oceanforge.

“Then came the purges.”

His voice had gone flat now.

“Magic outlawed. Elves butchered. Witches burned alive inside iron bells. Entire villages marched into mines to dig Bleed Stone until their teeth fell out.”

The dockworker asked quietly, “And you?”

The sailor took a long breath.

“I served the navy.”

His lips twisted like he’d bitten into something rotten and realized it was his own words.

“We hunted refugees. Smugglers. Mages fleeing west.” He stared at his hands again. “I told myself we protected the world.”

Another pause.

“Then I saw the emperor.”

The room leaned closer without meaning to.

“It was during the Siege of Korvath Port. Rebels had seized a fortress on the cliffs. Mages among them. We expected artillery.”

His breathing slowed.

“The Autarch arrived alone.”

The sailor’s remaining eye had gone distant again.

“He walked through cannon fire.”

Nobody laughed now.

“The rebel sorcerers unleashed everything they had. Firestorms. Bone curses. Lightning. The sky itself split open.” His voice shook slightly. “And none of it touched him.”

The dockworker whispered, “Bleed Stone?”

The sailor nodded once.

“No magic survived near him.”

He swallowed hard.

“Then he raised his hand.”

The tavern had gone utterly silent.

“And the mages...” The sailor’s jaw tightened. “They forgot how to cast.”

Even the thunder outside seemed quieter.

“One woman screamed because she could no longer remember her own name.” He rubbed his forehead slowly. “Another clawed her eyes out trying to find her spells.”

The merchant crossed himself instinctively.

The sailor continued.

“The rebels surrendered within the hour. The emperor ordered every one of them sealed alive inside the fortress walls.”

He finished his drink.

“That was the day I deserted.”

The dockworker whispered, “You fled Narrisia?”

The sailor nodded.

Took a fishing boat west through storm waters. Lost two fingers to ice, my son to fever before we limped into Oceanforge. Lost my wife somewhere before that, but that’s another story and a worse one.

Nobody had the right words, or the wrong ones.

The old man sagged, as if the years had finally caught up, handed him the bill, and waited for a tip.

“The Autarch still rules,” he murmured. He hesitated, eyes flickering as though chasing old rumors through the smoke. “They say he has not aged in fifty years. Some claim he is a shadow behind his own eyes. Or something wearing him does.”

A voice came from the darkness nearby.

“You believe he bound the Horror?”

The sailor looked up.

A man sat alone at a nearby table that had been empty moments before.

Wide-brimmed hat.

Dark coat damp from rain.

A pipe smoldered quietly between gloved fingers.

Nobody had seen him enter.

The sailor stared.

The man’s face remained mostly hidden beneath the hat brim.

“What I believe,” the sailor said carefully, “does not matter.”

The stranger smoked silently.

“Yet you told the story anyway.”

The sailor’s hands tightened around the mug.

“I am old.”

“That has never stopped fear before.”

Something about the man’s voice made the air feel smaller.

The sailor studied him carefully now.

Not drunk.

Not sailor.

Not dockworker.

Too still.

Too calm.

“Are you asking if the stories are true?” the sailor asked.

The stranger nodded once.

The old sailor took a long breath.

“I think the emperor tried to chain a Horror.” He swallowed. “And I think the Horror chained him back.”

The pipe ember glowed brighter.

Around them the tavern noise slowly returned, though quieter now. Dice rolled. Someone laughed upstairs. A drunk collapsed against the bar.

Life, as always, pretending the abyss was just another neighbor who borrowed your tools and never gave them back.

The stranger reached into his coat and placed a copper coin onto the table.

Heavy.

Narrisian.

The old imperial seal gleamed in the lanternlight.

The sailor froze.

He had not seen one in decades.

“You know what they say in Narrisia?” the stranger asked softly.

The sailor said nothing.

“The dead should remain useful.”

The man stood.

For a brief moment, the sailor noticed how tall he was.

Not giant tall.

Wrong tall.

Like his proportions had been remembered imperfectly.

The stranger stepped beside the table casually, as though preparing to leave.

Then he moved.

Fast.

One gloved hand covered the sailor’s mouth while the other drove a thin black blade upward beneath the ribs.

Precise.

Practiced.

The sailor jerked once.

No scream escaped him.

The blade slid perfectly between organs. A killing strike designed not for pain, but silence.

The old man’s remaining eye widened.

The stranger leaned close enough for only him to hear.

“Some things,” he said quietly in Narrisian, “are better as myth than truth.”

The sailor tried to breathe.

Couldn’t.

The blade twisted once.

Gently.

Then the stranger lowered him back into the chair like a sleeping drunk.

Nobody noticed.

Or if they did, they preferred not to.

That too was Oceanforge: a city where the dead kept their seats warm, and the living pretended not to notice.

The man removed the blade, wiped it clean with a cloth, and placed the pipe back between his teeth.

The copper coin remained on the table beside the sailor’s stiffening hand.

Outside, rain swallowed the streets.

The stranger paused briefly at the tavern door.

For just an instant, lightning illuminated his face beneath the brim.

Pale.

Ancient.

And his eyes—

Not human.

Then he stepped into the storm and vanished into Oceanforge night, leaving the dead sailor alone with his story and the terrible possibility that every word of it had been true.

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Once I realized the stream was actually working (and that yes, there were probably three people watching), I did what I wanted to do all along: show the sketchbook and talk shop.

What I showed on the stream

This sketchbook is my “main project” book—the one where everything ends up: notes, layouts, test prints, character designs, and the chaos glue that holds the whole FWACATA universe together. I flipped through:

• A color print test for “Pachanga Part 3” (for FWACATA #4) because I’m that guy who has to see how colors behave before committing.

• The basic FUGLY template: six squares per page. Simple box. Simple limits. And weirdly—those limits make it more freeing.

• A peek at future FUGLY pages (Issue 2 deeper pages, plus the beginning of Issue 3) and how I outline each page with notes so I’m not just winging it and praying.

• My “PAD” streak system—where I try to do at least a panel a day / up to a page a day, marking off progress. I’m around day 43 in the transcript.

And then it spiraled (in a good way) into the usual studio multiverse: astronaut/Aztec-ish designs, luchador ideas, El Chuco (local mystical mask hero for El Paso), fantasy gravestones for Horlo’s Stand, ink experiments where I’m literally making my own gray markers by putting ink + water in water brushes, and a pile of “what if this becomes a shirt/sticker/book later?” sketches.

I also talked about the eternal Substack question: should I post sketchbook stuff daily, and does anyone even see Notes unless they’re living in the app? (I’m still figuring that out.)

The main event: Turbo Turtle

Then I decided to work on a character design and finally explain Turbo Turtle—because he’s going to matter more in FUGLY.

Turbo Turtle is not actually a turtle. He’s a guy with very short, stumpy legs—born different—who’s brilliant with mechanical design. So he builds a suit that makes him one of the fastest guys around, purely through technology.

The fun part is how “technologists” work in my world: mad science isn’t a job—it’s a sport. An exclusive club. If you’re capable, it’s almost your duty to build something insane and dangerous and then see what happens when it hits the street.

Since people mocked him and called him “Turtle,” he leaned into it: Fine. I’m Turbo Turtle. And he made himself a badass—big arms, forceps, a suit that functions like a Swiss Army knife, with tools and extensions for whatever he needs.

And because this is FUGLY’s world, Turbo Turtle doesn’t fund his projects by being a wholesome inventor. He becomes a collector / paperwork enforcer / bounty-hunter-adjacent—the guy who can actually serve papers to superheroes and supervillains and make debt stick. Because yeah: if Batman owes you money, how do you collect?

He’s got this unicycle / single-wheel morphology, and the suit can tuck down into a high-speed “shell” mode—one wheel, armored front, ripping down the highway. His tires are basically nanite-like: they change form depending on terrain—off-road, slicks, whatever.

And here’s the spoiler: he becomes FUGLY’s partner. For whatever reason, FUGLY likes him. Turbo Turtle is a good dude with a violent streak and a story behind it—raised by good parents, but something in him is wired different, and I’m saving that reveal for later.

What’s next (and how to catch it)

This was my first “Substack Attack,” and I want to do these every Monday—plus I mentioned I’ll be live on Instagram Tuesday 6–7PM.

If you’re here for:

• free comics

• process and sketchbook peeks

• FUGLY updates

• and watching me build this whole universe in real time

…subscribe at FWACATA.com, and you’ll catch the next one.

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Time is the one thing nobody gets more of.

Money comes and goes. Opportunities appear and disappear. Projects fail and can be restarted. But time? Once it’s spent, it’s gone forever. That’s the central idea behind this week’s Monday Motivation podcast: being intentional about where your attention goes and who gets access to your time.

The conversation starts with something most of us already know but rarely act on. We live in an age where we’re connected to everyone, everywhere, all the time. We can look up a recipe in seconds, learn a new skill, video chat with old friends, or send a picture of our dog doing something ridiculous halfway across the country. Those things are genuinely amazing. The internet has become one of humanity’s greatest tools.

The problem starts when the tool becomes the master.

Somewhere along the way, many of us stopped using the internet and started letting it use us. Endless feeds. Endless outrage. Endless distractions carefully engineered to keep us scrolling just a little longer. What begins as “I’ll check one thing” turns into an hour lost to videos, arguments, headlines, and content we’ll barely remember tomorrow.

This episode isn’t anti-technology. Far from it.

It’s about awareness.

It’s about curating what enters your mind the same way you’d curate what enters your home. The algorithms learn from everything you feed them, and before long they begin shaping what you see, what you think about, and what occupies your attention. If you’re not careful, you’ll wake up one day and realize your mental landscape is being designed by people you’ve never met and companies you’ve never heard of.

There’s also a deeper concern here: attention has become fragmented.

Many of us can no longer sit with one thing.

A book competes with a phone. A drawing competes with a video. A conversation competes with a notification. Even our hobbies are often interrupted by the constant urge to check, refresh, or scroll. The result is a life filled with stimulation but starving for focus.

So what do we do?

Maybe the answer is simpler than we think.

Draw without YouTube running in the background.

Read without checking your phone.

Take a walk without earbuds.

Sit under a tree and do absolutely nothing for a while.

Give your brain the chance to process the world instead of constantly reacting to it. Give yourself room to think your own thoughts again.

Because at the end of the day, that’s what this podcast is really about: reclaiming ownership of your attention.

The internet can teach you, connect you, inspire you, and help you build incredible things. But it can also consume every spare moment if you let it. The choice is yours.

Use the internet.

Don’t let it use you.

Listen to the full episode for a funny, thoughtful, and occasionally profanity-filled look at modern life, algorithms, creativity, and why protecting your time may be the most important thing you do this week.

ABSOLUTE BATMAN drawn for fun in video; want some original art? Hit up my commissions page or go to WHATNOT for more! I will be live tonight on Substack!

BE GOOD

I can’t help but imagine launching a flying scissor kick. I just want to give you the biggest beatdown I can. EXAMPLE:

Now that we’ve settled the truly pressing matters, let’s talk about how the week went.

Every idea I come up with—whether it’s a comic, a painting, a story, or a scribble on a Post-it—only has one real shot at becoming real: me. That’s all there is. There’s no magic productivity fairy, no algorithm, and no sudden wave of motivation. It’s just the calendar, the work, and the decision to sit down and get started.

1.

FWACATA #4 is nearly done and just needs some final touches. FWACATA #3 still has a few last commissions and packages to send out. I’m trying to decide whether to launch #4 in July or August, since July could mean a trip to Spain for my wife’s performance. I’d rather not spend a beautiful day overseas stuck to Kickstarter, refreshing it every five minutes like a raccoon at a slot machine.

In all of this, I have rebuilt my store and my apparel sales store, which is coming along, but what the hell.

Meanwhile, I’m fully immersed in rebuilding ZOMBIE YEARS and VIGIL. I’m planning to re-release the first five issues in a cleaner, standard comic-book format. Right now, I’m on page four of issue one, editing, redesigning, and having imaginary arguments with my younger self.

VIGIL is a bit more complicated, and I'm trying to clean up and redo many a page as we go, while restructuring and essentially rewriting the series. It’s funny how often Past Juan seems to tell Future Juan, “Good luck fixing this, idiot.”

Still, things are moving forward.

And that progress is what matters most.

2. The Old Internet Might Save Us

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how creators get discovered, and honestly, it seems like most don’t—at least not the way they used to. The internet used to feel like a neighborhood, but now it’s more like a casino. Algorithms have become these huge black boxes that decide what people see, what gets buried, and whether something you’ve worked on for months or years ever reaches anyone. You can do everything “right”—post at the right times, use the right thumbnails and hashtags, even joke about making a sacrifice under a full moon—and still get twenty views. Meanwhile, someone filming themselves eating drywall gets ten million.

So maybe the answer isn’t to keep trying to outsmart the machine. Maybe it’s time to look back instead.

I’ve noticed people like Ganzeer and YouTube creators like DAN DOES (I really enjoy model makers on YouTube) finding success by doing something refreshingly old-school: helping each other directly. They exchange banners, give recommendations, make personal introductions, and build real communities.

No algorithms. No paid ads. Just creators helping each other find new readers. I’m also thinking about starting a “Draw FUGLY” initiative, where artists can draw the character however they like and share it online. There are no winners, prizes, or judges, because it’s not a contest—it’s just a way to boost each other’s work. It’s a chance to show off your art, meet other creators, and have fun with the character. If you join in, post your art, tag it, link back to your own projects, and let people discover what you’re making. The goal isn’t competition; it’s community. The internet used to work like this all the time, with web rings, link exchanges, and creators helping each other grow. Maybe it’s time to bring some of that back.

So why not us? If you have a favorite creator, mention them in your reply to this email or just send me a link. If you know someone doing great work, recommend them to the group—just reply, and I’ll share your shout-outs in the next issue. Want to connect with other readers or find collaborators? Let me know in your reply, and I’ll do my best to connect people. Basically, reply to this newsletter with anything you want to share: links, recommendations, your own projects, or just a friendly hello. Let’s help each other spread the word like it’s still 1998. All it takes is a little push from a real person, not an algorithm.

Remember web rings? Remember when people linked to another website just because they thought, “Hey, if you like my stuff, you’ll probably like theirs too”? There was something very human about that. It wasn’t about optimization, money, or data. It was simply people sharing what they loved. The more I think about it, the more I believe the future is there—not in more algorithms, but in stronger relationships. Not in better metrics, but in better communities. Maybe the way forward is to remember that behind every screen is a real person, and people have always been better at finding great art than machines ever will be.

3. Every New Drawing Is a Door

This week, I came across something Warren Ellis wrote, quoting Picasso:

Picasso complained all the time. He hated getting up, grumbled about work, and thought everything was awful. But then he’d spend the afternoon painting. His philosophy was simple: every new drawing is a chance—an opportunity, a sale, an idea, a connection, a door opening. The only way to create new opportunities is to keep making new things.

That’s really all there is to it.

No secrets. No productivity hacks. Just doing the work.

Fucking amen.

4. Demons in the Machine

Lately, I’ve been deep in writing mode for REZ, which has led my mind into some fascinating and risky territory—specifically, computer daemons. For anyone unfamiliar, a daemon is a background process that quietly runs behind the scenes, doing its job while you go about your day, completely unaware. That sounds pretty occult, doesn’t it? Throughout history, every culture has had stories about invisible forces—spirits, angels, demons, ancestors, djinn, or whatever unseen intelligence your mythology prefers. Now, we have invisible digital entities working in huge electronic networks, making decisions, moving information, opening and closing doors, and shaping reality without us ever seeing them. If you explained modern computing to a medieval monk, they’d probably call for an exorcism. That’s where my mind starts making connections. What if the occult wasn’t replaced by technology but simply given a new language? What if all these massive AI systems, algorithms, and background processes are creating a modern mythology of invisible powers beyond our understanding? Don’t worry, I’m not saying Peter Thiel is summoning Beelzebub through a startup incubator, but it would make a funny comic premise. In REZ, this idea is turning into a conspiracy theory where “daemons” are both computer programs and supernatural entities, traveling through networks, data centers, and AI systems, finding new ways into the world through our obsession with building smarter machines. Somewhere between occult rituals and software engineering, there’s a horror story, and REZ is getting closer to it.

If you have any wild ideas, strange stories, or favorite examples of where technology and the supernatural meet, let me know. Want to brainstorm horror ideas or explore these themes together? I’d love to hear what this sparks for you. Reply to this email and let’s swap theories, inspirations, or just some weird tech folklore. We might come up with something great for REZ—or just have a fun, spooky chat.

5. The Garden

Finally, there’s my wife’s garden. The tomatoes are thriving, the jalapeños are growing, the beans are climbing, and the apricots are starting to ripen—all from a small patch of dirt that looked pretty ordinary just a few months ago. It’s amazing when you think about it. Maybe that’s the real lesson behind this whole newsletter: you plant something, water it, care for it, and then wait. That’s all there is. No shortcuts, no hacks, no algorithm. Just attention and time. Then one day, there’s food. Or comics. Or paintings. Or a life you’ve built, piece by piece, without even noticing. My wife is incredible at this. Not because she’s perfect—thank God—but because she truly makes me better. She calls me out when I’m being ridiculous, encourages my best ideas, and won’t let me get away with my worst ones. If you can, find someone like that. Someone who helps you grow, can move a couch without complaining, and gives great kisses. The world naturally drifts toward distraction and noise. The trick is to plant things anyway and show up every day to help them grow.

So here’s a gentle push: try planting something new this week. It doesn’t have to be a real garden—maybe it’s a sketch, a paragraph, a phone call, or a small project just for you. If you want a fun place to start, here’s a creative prompt for everyone: draw your workspace, no matter how messy or tidy it is, or write a six-word story about your day. If you feel like sharing, reply and let me know what you came up with. Give it a little attention. Check on it every day, even if it’s just for a minute. See what happens.

Be good.

-J

PREVIOUS EPISODE

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Every month I put out ART TO THE FACE, my digital sketchbook zine—because if I don’t dump the chaos somewhere, it just lives in my skull rent-free and starts breaking furniture. This isn’t a “best of.” This is the workshop: the doodles, the panels, the character bruises, the notes, the experiments, the stuff that later mutates into FWACATA, FUGLY, VIGIL, Dragonbreath, and whatever cursed idea sneaks in while I’m not looking.

Issue No. 29 comes in hot, loud, and a little unhinged. The cover is pure May energy: a big, red, wide-eyed head with clenched teeth—like the exact facial expression you make when life taps you on the shoulder and says, “Hey… remember consequences?” while your brain screams, “COOL COOL COOL.”

Inside, you get a full-page intro rant that sets the tone like a boot to the chest: life is going to swing, the month is going to swing, and you’re either going to swing back—or get dragged. That’s the FWACATA posture: laugh, curse, make the work anyway.

Then it pivots into visuals: moody ink-wash gravestones and a windswept hill like a fantasy postcard from the edge of town (the kind of place a hero gets buried, and a villain gets remembered). After that, we shift into FUGLY territory with a lineup-style character sheet—full-on “case file” vibes with height chart energy and that thick, noir-ish shade work. It’s the kind of page that reminds you: even the comedy characters in FWACATA look like they’ve done time.

And because this is my sketchbook, you also get the messy middle: character scribbles, weird little creatures, notes-to-self, dumb jokes, and drawings that exist purely to keep my hand sharp and my brain honest. There’s sexy pin-up practice, there’s cartoon nonsense, there’s “I just had to get this out” pages—because the point of a sketchbook isn’t perfection, it’s momentum.

Then we hit the real-world punch: a full-page nuclear rant about getting TeePublic nuked from orbit with the kind of vague corporate non-answer that makes you want to bite through drywall—followed by the only logical conclusion: fine, I’ll build my own lane and keep moving.

That’s what ART TO THE FACE is: proof-of-life. A monthly “still here” flare. A behind-the-scenes look at what I’m making, what I’m thinking, what I’m testing, and what I’m refusing to let die.

If you want more of this—monthly zines, process work, comics, and the real FWACATA engine running—subscribe to the Substack (free gets the feed; paid gets the deeper archive and extras).

See you next month. Bring snacks. And maybe a helmet.

BE GOOD

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Another week, another day, another dollar, 50 cents after tax.

Been wrapping up the school year, and this specific teacher exhaustion has settled in—the kind that doesn’t vanish after a good night’s sleep because it isn’t just physical, it’s mental mileage. People don’t realize teaching is a nonstop decision factory: you’re constantly choosing what to explain, how to explain it, who needs help, who’s quietly falling apart, who’s about to start a problem, and how to keep the whole room moving without losing the thread. It’s classroom management, counseling, tech support, referee work, and improv comedy—sometimes all in the same minute. By the time the final weeks hit, your brain has been running hot for months, and it needs to cool down. Not “do nothing” cool down—just the rare luxury of doing ONE thing without being interrupted, evaluated, or pulled in ten directions. Sitting. Drawing. Reading. Breathing. Teaching ain’t for everybody, and honestly? That’s not a flaw—it’s a truth.

1.

FUCKING COOL

This Colossal piece is a straight shot of visual electricity: photography as a weapon, a witness, and a love letter during the Black Arts Movement. It pulls you into the era through images that feel alive—street heat, studio swagger, activism, performance, and everyday Black life framed with intention. The article spotlights the upcoming exhibition “Photography and the Black Arts Movement, 1955–1985,” featuring work by 100+ photographers spanning editorial, commercial, self-portraiture, and mixed-media critique. Come for the history, stay for the jaw-dropping photos that prove culture doesn’t whisper—it documents itself.

2

FILE UNDER BEATING A DEAD HORSE:

Major Spoilers dropped a weird little sign-of-the-times piece this week: ElevenLabs partnered with Stan Lee Universe to license Stan’s voice likeness for commercial use—with approvals, licensing review, and content oversight (so it’s not total chaos). It’s the classic modern move: dig up the dead, wire them to a battery, and make them dance—maybe not for a vacuum commercial yet, but the pipeline is clearly built. And yeah, it feels gross on principle.

But here’s the uncomfortable punchline: if Stan were still around, there’s a decent chance he’d have at least considered it. The guy spent decades turning Marvel into a licensing hydra—TV, film, toys, games, “anything with a licensing agreement attached to it,” as the post puts it. He could be brilliant, he could be a shill, he could be both in the same sentence—and we still love him anyway, because comics are messy and so are their saints.

So sure, this is unsettling. Also? It’s painfully on-brand for the era: nostalgia, monetized, infinitely scalable.

And now, in my completely fictional, absolutely-not-real Stan voice parody:
“Excelsior! …FWACATA is the best comics ever!”

Major Spoilers

Stan Lee Returns!

The comics world went a little sideways this week with reports that Stan Lee is “back…

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a month ago · 2 likes · MajorSpoilers

3

MORE AI SHIT?

Bleeding Cool covered the backlash around Jorge R. Gutiérrez getting involved with Amazon’s GenAI Creators’ Fund project—specifically that his new series “Punky Duck” is tied to Amazon’s AI animation push. People freaked out (understandably), because the fear is always the same: “cool, so the tech eats the artists.”

But Jorge’s response is basically: I’m treating this like an experiment, and I’m going to be “as cautious as possible,” with the goal of artists driving the tech—not the other way around. And honestly? That’s the only way any of this is survivable: if creators get inside the kitchen and control the knives instead of getting chopped up by them.

Look, the big picture is messy. But if Jorge is stepping into this with leverage, visibility, and a spine, I’m not rushing to throw tomatoes. I’m thinking: WTF, let the man cook. Because an artist with taste, standards, and clout can become an “inside man” who pushes the industry toward workflows that don’t erase humans.

And remember the three Fs: if they ain’t feeding you, funding you, or fucking you… you don’t need to listen to them. Let’s see what he builds. I think in the end it’s a big fa tfucking check an dhe as a family to provide for, and it’s dumb to say no. If that means some Boo’s from the sideline, so be it.

4

OH FUCK IS THIS A BLOG POST ABOUT AI NOW

Boing Boing frames it as a heel turn: Kojima + Nicolas Winding Refn + Prada, and the result is an AI-generated sci-fi short that looks like retro astronauts wandered into a luxury-brand fever dream. (Boing Boing) The internet’s first reaction is the usual: “AI slop,” “sellout,” “why is this even Prada,” etc. Fair. Also: missing the real temptation.

The most seductive part of AI isn’t “make a picture.” It’s ownership of the means of production—the ability to chase a vision with no committee, no gatekeepers, no waiting on crews, no ‘we’ll get back to you,’ and (almost) no time. For a random clown off the street, that freedom still produces the same beige garbage. But for an actual auteur? That’s where it gets dangerous—because now the only limit is taste, ethics, and whether you can wield the thing without letting it wield you.

This is where the Conan line comes in: What is the riddle is steel? Steel is only as strong as the hands the wields it. The tool is neutral. The wielder decides if it becomes sorcery… or just a loud, expensive fart in space. (Boing Boing)

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5

SUMMER IS COMING

Doesn’t have the same tone as Game of Thrones, right? Actually have a lot planned, with some travel in between. I am going to be LIVESTREAMING at the time in a couple of places but mostly WHATNOT, INSTAGRAM, and here on SUBSTACK! This is to drum up some viewers and, hopefully, some funds over the summer to keep things going. To say the job market is CACA is an understatement, and I also hate the amount of ageism that happens. It’s like a real thing: if you’re a 48-year-old man applying to Costco or Lowes, they look at you like a total fucking liability. SIGH. But I am excited to get back to drawing live and get a lot of work done over the Summer before leaving for SPAIN! Whoooo!

STAY TUNED

Other than that, it’s end-of-school-year crunch time—wrapping up the chaos, checking boxes, and trying to finish the stuff I swore I’d “totally do earlier.” Meanwhile, back home in Miami, my friends are sending off my brother John Ulloa tonight, and I can’t be there because airfare is now priced like you’re buying a small aircraft, and my job’s hitting the end-of-year wall at the exact worst time. So yeah… c’est la vie. Still hurts. Still feels stupid. Still real.

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But here’s the thing: life doesn’t pause because we’re sad. It reloads. It spawns the next wave. It’s like the universe is a bored game designer going, “Oh, you were grieving? Cool, here’s a new boss fight. No checkpoint.”

So we buckle down. Not because we’re invincible—because we’re alive. The day you stop struggling is the day you’re in a pine box, so until then? We keep moving. And when life hands you lemons, you don’t make lemonade—you return fire. You trade small-arms chaos with the universe until it cries, shits its pants, and realizes you’re still here and you’re just getting warmed up.

Be good.

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(PREVIOUS EPISODE CAN BE FOUND HERE)

The waiting was the worst part.

Not panic. Panic, at least, had the courtesy to give a body something to do—run for a boat, a cellar, a god, a knife, or whatever else your shaking hands could grab before the world ended. Waiting just squatted next to you, fat and smug, breathing onion stink in your ear, counting out your heartbeats like a miser with coins, making damn sure you heard every last one.

Horlo crouched in the root cellar under Orkell’s Inn, wedged in with the stubborn, the doomed, and the sort of folk who’d rather die in their own dirt than run. He peered through a crooked crack in the boards at the street beyond, where moonlight spilled silver over mud and restless trees, turning the world outside into something strange and haunted, like a place he’d only heard about in bad stories. Shadows squatted everywhere, and every twitch of branch or blade of grass made his guts twist tighter, like some invisible hand was wringing him out for supper.

The boats had left an hour ago.

There had been crying and shouting down at the riverbank, people stumbling over crates and children while Marna organized them with terrifying efficiency. The currachs pushed southward downriver toward Borel, carrying those too old, too young, or too frightened to remain. Horlo had tried to climb aboard only long enough to help, but when his mother told him to go with them, he refused.

“I can help,” he had insisted.

“You are helping by living,” Marna had snapped back.

“I’m not running.”

At that, she had pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes as though appealing to gods she no longer trusted. Barbaranna had stepped in then, placing one massive hand on Marna’s shoulder.

“He can watch de cellar,” she had said. “Boy knows de inn. Knows de people. Better than hiding in some boat crying into the river water.”

Marna had stared at Horlo for a long moment before nodding once.

“Stay hidden,” she warned him quietly. “No heroics. No foolishness.”

Horlo promised immediately.

Both of them knew he was lying.

Now he sat among the leftovers. Some were too old to run, some had nowhere else to go, and a few just clung to the place they’d bled for, like barnacles on a sinking ship. The hearthfire spat and hissed, throwing uneasy orange across faces drawn tight with fear and stubbornness. Some muttered prayers to gods who’d never answered before and probably weren’t listening now. Others sharpened knives with the grim focus of people who’d never killed anything bigger than a chicken and weren’t sure they’d like the taste of goblin.

The strangest thing to Horlo was who remained standing.

Arkady Pilsen and Old Margus shuffled out from the back, swaddled in Borelian ranger armor that stank of old oil, cedar, and the kind of dust that only comes from decades of neglect. At first, Horlo almost laughed—these were men he’d known as grandmasters of complaining about weather and wheat, old fools who could argue for hours about grass rot and fishing lines. But now they moved differently, straighter and heavier, like the armor had woken up something dangerous that had been napping under their wrinkles all these years. The steel didn’t fit their bellies or their joints, but it fit their eyes just fine.

The Ranger Regiment.

Horlo had heard stories. The first royal forces to leave the hidden cave settlements after the Horrors faded. Explorers. Scouts. Men and women who walked back into a broken world, unsure if the land itself had been poisoned or haunted by the things that made men disappear overnight. Some said the Horrors were beasts born of darkness and cold; others claimed they were storms of sorcery that could unmake flesh and stone. There was an old tale, half forgotten, of a shattered star that fell in the northern wastes, and from its crater poured a curse that devoured night and memory. Others believed the Horrors were the price of broken promises made by kings and gods, or ancient magic loosed when the world was still young. The ground in some places still trembled on certain nights, and children were sometimes born with silver eyes or voices that echoed with strange harmonies. In old border towns, folk whispered that if you listened closely at dawn, you could hear the Horrors breathing beneath the earth, never quite gone. No one agreed, except on this: whatever the Horrors were, they left scars you could not always see.

Margus caught Horlo staring and grinned beneath his gray beard.

“What?” he barked. “Thought we sprouted old overnight?”

“A little,” Horlo admitted.

Arkady snorted while adjusting the straps on his shield. “Boy, there was a time women across three kingdoms wanted me dead or married. Sometimes both.”

“Still true,” Margus muttered.

Barbaranna entered next, and every conversation in the room stopped.

She wore a patchwork of armor dragged from the inn’s forgotten corners, dust and cobwebs clinging to scale and plate that hung off her like iron curtains. But it was the axe that shut every mouth in the room.

The thing was monstrous.

The haft looked carved from a whole young tree, thick and bent with years, and the stone head was a chunk of mountain sharpened into pure, ugly rage. It could have doubled as an anvil or a tombstone. She hefted it one-handed.

When she set it down, the floorboards groaned like they were considering giving up and letting the whole inn drop straight into the earth.

“Horlo,” she said in her thick Karabekian accent, “vare is jor Mozza?”

“She’s helping at the boats,” Horlo answered, carrying a bucket of water toward Arkady and Margus. “Last I saw, she was at the stables.”

“Your mother is so efficient, I am surprised she is not Narrisian,” Barbaranna grumbled.

The joke earned a few nervous laughs.

Then she turned toward the door, and for one brief moment Horlo saw it.

Fear.

Not panic. Not weakness. Just the careful fear of someone who’d survived too much to ever trust what came next.

That chilled him worse than any wind ever could.

Horlo carried water to Arkady and Margus at the river depot, where they hammered boards over windows and stacked crates into makeshift barricades. The older men drank deeply from the bowls he offered.

“You ever fight goblins?” Horlo asked quietly.

Arkady wiped his beard. “Aye.”

“Ugly little bastards,” Margus added.

“What are they really like?”

The two old men exchanged a glance.

“Smart enough to be dangerous,” Arkady said. “Mean enough to enjoy it.”

Margus leaned against the barricade. “Most folk think goblins are cowards. That’s a lie. Goblins know battle better than most men ever will. They just don’t kneel to fairness. For them, a good fight ends with their tribe fatter and their enemies feeding the worms. Honor’s worth less than a cracked tooth. They prize cunning over muscle, loyalty to their clan above all, and they believe the land remembers every drop of blood spilled for it—yours, mine, theirs.”

Beyond the barricade, somewhere in the moonlit treeline, a goblin chief listened to the far-off sounds of the human defenses. Around him, his kin pressed low to the ground, silent but for the careful click of stone and bone tokens braided into their hair. He tapped his chest with two fingers—a gesture of kin-bound promise—then touched the earth. “Old ground. Old debt,” he whispered in his quick, guttural tongue. The others repeated the words, not as a battle cry, but a reminder. Hunger, memory, and the hope that their lost would not be forgotten moved them forward. For them, this night was not only about taking but reclaiming what had been lost in darkness and blood.

“They stayed above ground during the Horrors,” Arkady explained. “While humans hid in caves and dwarves sealed mountains, goblins fought and survived in the filth of it all. Learned quickly. Adapted quicker.”

“They see all this?” Margus gestured toward the village. “Human towns. Farms. Trade roads. They see thieves moving into land they bled for.”

Horlo swallowed.

“So why attack us?”

“Because that’s what desperate things do,” Arkady said simply.

Margus spat into the dirt. “And because goblins love slaves.”

That darkened Arkady’s expression immediately.

“No creature owns another,” he growled. “Not man. Not goblin. Not king.”

The old ranger’s anger flared so quickly that Horlo finally saw the man he must have been and understood why people once called him dangerous.

Margus nodded toward the darkness. “Remember this, boy. Never underestimate goblins. If they’re stupid, they make up for it in cruelty. If they’re clever, they become monsters. And if they’re both…”

“Burn them,” Arkady finished.

Horlo pulled out his father’s dagger then, trying to look brave as he struck a dramatic stance.

Margus gasped theatrically. “Gods preserve us.”

Arkady raised his hands in surrender. “Too fierce! Spare me, young warrior!”

Horlo grinned, feeling for a heartbeat like a hero in some old tale—

—and then Marna’s voice cut through the night behind him.

“Pointing end out.”

He turned.

His mother stood there watching him with tired eyes.

Horlo sheepishly lowered the blade. “I was practicing.”

“You were posing.”

“Posing can become practice.”

Marna sighed and held out her hand.

Reluctantly, Horlo passed her the dagger. For one terrible second, he thought she meant to confiscate it.

Instead, she whispered something beneath her breath.

The air around the blade shifted.

Smoke—not smoke, exactly, but something pale and glowing, like burning sand or the ghost of a campfire—curled around the dagger before sinking into the steel. The weapon shimmered, just once, and Horlo felt a chill crawl up his spine. Most folk never saw real magic up close. Steel enchanted like this cost lifeblood, and there were stories of mages losing years, teeth, or worse with every spell. Only the desperate or the stupid dared risk it. Some whispered that every enchantment cost a mage something precious: a memory gone, a favorite taste turned to ash, fingers gone numb to touch. Marna’s hand trembled, just a flicker, as the light faded from her knuckles, and Horlo wondered, for the first time, what it took from her each time she did this. What she’d already left behind in the dark.

Then it was gone.

Marna handed it back.

Horlo stared. “What did you do?”

“What did I say?” she countered.

“Pointing end out?”

That earned a small laugh from her. She kissed his forehead.

Then the screaming began.

Not human screaming.

Worgs.

The sound rolled through the trees, huge and hungry, like wolves choking on thunder.

Everyone froze.

Then came the arrows.

Pikern died first.

One moment, he was stumbling back toward town, arms full of some errand no one would remember. Next, an arrow punched through his throat, spinning him sideways. Blood sprayed black in the moonlight as he fell, clutching at a wound no hands could ever close.

The second volley came immediately.

Arrows hissed from the darkness with terrifying precision, striking walls, shields, wood, flesh. Villagers screamed and scattered for cover.

Horlo dove back into the cellar beside Telma and the others, remaining hidden below the tavern. Telma clutched his arm so tightly her nails dug through his sleeve.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“So am I,” Horlo admitted.

Above them, the battle exploded.

Through the cracks, Horlo saw chaos. Shadows darted across rooftops. Arrows streaked silver through the night. Arkady moved like a man half his age, shield raised as shafts shattered against it. Margus loosed arrows with the calm of someone who’d seen too many battles to bother flinching.

Then came the worg riders.

Huge wolves prowled into town, their bodies lean and monstrous, their mouths oversized with snapping teeth and hanging ropes of saliva. Goblins rode them without saddles, legs wrapped around narrow waists, guiding them with clicks and whistles.

The beasts slid through the dark like sharks in black water.

Arkady attacked first.

With a scream that sounded half rage and half joy, the old ranger leaped from the granary roof spear-first into a goblin rider. The impact skewered both rider and beast together so violently that the spear buried itself into the ground beneath them.

Horlo stared in disbelief.

Arkady rolled free, sword already drawn as two more riders charged him.

Margus exploded from the side street, swinging an axe into the skull of one worg hard enough to split it open like rotten fruit. Black blood sprayed across the dirt. The goblin rider crashed free, rolling with knives already in hand.

The remaining rider lunged.

Arkady jammed his shield into the worg’s jaws, the beast gnawing splinters while he rammed his sword through its skull. The goblin rider rolled clear, crouched low, yellow eyes burning in the moonlight.

Then it whistled.

Arrows fell again.

One pierced Arkady’s shoulder.

Another struck Margus square in the chest but bounced from his armor.

Margus laughed.

Then two arrows found his face.

He dropped without a sound.

Arkady roared and surged forward—

—and the goblin turned toward the tavern.

Toward Horlo.

For one horrifying moment, their eyes met through the crack in the wood.

The goblin smiled.

It knew.

Horlo stumbled backward as panic overtook the cellar. Above them, the sound of footsteps crossed the tavern floorboards.

Small footsteps.

Careful footsteps.

Telma grabbed his arm again. “Horlo…”

He heard goblins laughing upstairs.

Furniture overturned. Glass shattered. Someone screamed once and stopped abruptly.

Horlo drew his father’s dagger.

The cellar door burst open.

Goblins flooded down the stairs like rats spilling from a wall. Small, fast, wrapped in dark leather with knives glinting in their hands. One villager tried to run and was immediately hamstrung from behind, dragged down screaming while the goblins laughed hysterically.

Horlo lunged instinctively.

His dagger caught one goblin beneath the jaw.

The creature jerked violently and collapsed.

The others stopped.

Not afraid.

They circled him, grinning, while behind them, villagers were dragged away screaming. One goblin backhanded Horlo hard enough to split his lip. Another nicked his arm. A third stabbed shallowly into his thigh, just to hear him yelp. Horlo cried out. None of the wounds were deep,, but they were painful. They were practiced strikes to be painful. They weren’t going for a kill. They were playing with him.

Telma screamed for them to stop.

Horlo attacked again.

His father’s dagger was buried in another goblin’s chest, its eyes wide in amazement as it died on the blade.

That changed things.

The leader stepped forward then, taller than the others, feathers braided into his armor. He studied Horlo with something close to admiration.

Then he stabbed him.

The blade punched through Horlo’s stomach; pain went white and endless.

Horlo dropped to one knee, blood soaking his shirt, while the goblins howled with laughter.

Somewhere distant, he heard Telma crying his name.

The goblin leader crouched before him. “Good lil’ hoo-man,” it hissed in broken Common. “Brave lil ding.”

Somehow.

Some way.

Horlo forced himself upright.

He planted himself between the goblins and the remaining terrified villagers.

His legs shook like saplings in a storm. Blood dripped from the little sword in his fist.

But he stood.

The goblins stared now in genuine awe.

The leader tilted its head. “I wear your skull for one year,” it promised almost respectfully. “Then throw from a beautiful mountain.”

It raised its blade for the killing strike.

A lance of fire erased the leader’s head from the world in a burst of burning red light. The tavern shook; every goblin turned. Marna stood in the doorway.

She looked terrible.

Blood masked half her face. One sleeve was nothing but char and memory. Crackling light crawled up her hands and arms like living lightning.

But her eyes—

Her eyes burned like collapsing stars.

“GET AWAY FROM MY SON!”

The room exploded.

Magic ripped through goblins in shrieking arcs. One split apart, screaming, as crackling tendrils tore it open. Another burst into flame in mid-leap. Shadows twisted around Marna as eldritch power roared from her hands, precise as a surgeon and merciless as a storm.

The surviving goblins fled.

Straight into Barbaranna.

The giant Karabekian woman hit them like an avalanche.

Her axe tore bodies apart with the force of a landslide. Limbs flew. Blood painted the walls in wild, ugly strokes. One goblin tried to scramble over a table, but Barbaranna caught it midair and hammered it into the floorboards so hard the wood cracked and the whole room seemed to wince.

The battle ended as suddenly as it began.

Smoke drifted through the ruined tavern.

Bodies sprawled everywhere, broken and still.

Marna dropped beside Horlo instantly, catching him as he finally collapsed.

“No,” she whispered.

Horlo tried speaking.

Only blood came out.

“It’s okay,” Marna said desperately, hands glowing as she pressed them against the wound. “No no no no—”

The magic flickered.

Failed.

For the first time, Horlo saw fear break his mother like a wave breaking stone.

Thornfeld entered then, battered and bloodied himself, one arm pierced clean through with an arrow. “The goblins are repelled,” he began.

Then he saw Marna. Saw Horlo. And stopped.

The room went terribly quiet.

Horlo looked weakly toward Telma.

She was crying openly now.

He wanted to tell her not to.

Wanted to say something brave.

Something worthy of stories.

Instead, he managed a crooked smile.

Then he was still.

Terribly.

Terribly, terribly still.

Gaf the dwarf marked the place on his map. He sat in Orkell’s rebuilt tavern listening to old Telma tell the story while evening rain tapped against the windows.

“Horlo’s Stand,” Gaf muttered as he wrote the name carefully across the parchment. It had taken many years, but the town now had a name.

The nameless village had grown into a town. Trade roads crossed its heart. River barges stopped at its docks. Children played in streets where goblins once hunted.

“What happened to Marna?” Gaf asked quietly.

Telma stared into her tea for a long moment.

“She left,” she said. “After the burial. She and Barbaranna went into Algernia hunting goblins. Heard they killed whole warbands.”

“And did they find peace?”

Telma smiled sadly. “Barbaraanna did eventually. Came home old and scarred. Broke her axe, killing some goblin mountain baron.” She chuckled softly. “When she saw they named the town after Horlo, she laughed and cried at the same time.”

“And Marna?”

Telma shook her head. “Some say she died in battle. Others say she wanders east still. I once heard she fought alongside rebels in Narrisia. But she never came home.” She hesitated, glancing at the battered satchel resting at her feet. “Last spring, a trader from the Violet Road brought an old charm—a scrap of blue cloth, stitched with a rune none could read. He claimed a mage with Marna’s eyes gave it to him, amidst a caravan lost in fog. Maybe it’s nothing. But sometimes I think her story isn’t finished yet.”

Later, Telma led Gaf up a hill overlooking the growing town. Gaf took his time with her to get up there, but she insisted she needed no help. She was strong, had borne many children, buried some, buried a husband, and run her businesses well. She was even chosen as the town’s mayor. They got to the top, and she caught her breath, her eyes intense on something past Gaf’s shoulder.

There stood the graves.

Horlo Guiliamet at the center, beneath a small stone sword.

Around him rested the others. Arkady. Margus. Thornfeld, who had only recently passed, and Barbaranna sometime before.

Guardians, even now.

Gaf removed his hat. After a quiet time reflecting on the stones, he turned to Telma.

“What next?” he asked quietly.

Telma laughed softly at that. Old age bent her nearly double now, but warmth still lingered in her eyes.

“What next?” she repeated. “You live.”

She looked down toward the bustling town below.

“Horlo never got to grow old. Never had children. Never got peace.” Her smile trembled slightly. “So the rest of us do it for him.”

Gaf wrote that down carefully.

In the end, the only gift the living can give the dead is to keep living, stubborn and loud, even when it hurts. Every harvest, every laugh in the sunlight, every child cursing Horlo’s name for chores, became a quiet offering to his memory. The town’s future grew from his courage like weeds through old stone, and in the warmth of survival, the old wounds began, slowly, to heal—not by forgetting what was lost, but by honoring the price paid every time someone dared to hope again.

And so they did.

WHEW! What a journey to make this happen! I hope you enjoyed this one-two-part piece. Sorry it took a bit, but I was stuck on my 4th draft of this second part, and it was in danger of being a three-parter with what I wanted to do! Again, these smaller stories are meant to provide history and background, with context for the world of Essiadarius, which I think I may do a podcast about to get into what I’m trying to do here.

It is insane fun doing this, as much as it’s also a pain in the ass. Some of it is just keeping the various plates one has spinning in place, while other times it’s all about them hitting the floor when you are writing, and sometimes where they land is where they land. I plan to make a zine of this story, and when I do, I think it will have a full rewrite then- not something that would change what happened, but give it some flow and more context to the citizens of Horlo’s Stand and also where it is. For those of you paying attention, there are already Easter eggs in this; if you’ve read the other shorts on Dragonbreath.

Let me know what you think! I’m working on the next short and have plans for a more adventurous 6-parter that may bring together many of the characters you’ve met, but I need to go back to the novel a bit. I have about 30000 words done with 25-27 chapters but will need to get into it hard this summer, so I hope to have this 3rd or so draft done by October to possibly put it out….January? I will see.

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Welcome to Five Fridays—my end-of-week junk drawer where I dump what’s on my mind, what’s lighting my brain on fire, and what I’m trying to support before the algorithm eats it alive. Some of this is helpful, some of this is angry, and some of this is me staring into the void and then drawing a mustache on the void because I can’t help myself.

This week: dogs that need saving, a newsletter that cuts through the sludge, a full-on rant about the internet’s spiritual collapse, a simple life rule (the 3 Fs), and a look back at my old webcomic VIGIL—including the messy reality of revisiting old work in the age of AI tools.

Alright. Let’s go.

1

27 dogs in Mexico need help right now—basically a pack of tiny weirdos who would 100% pay rent if they had thumbs. A few bucks covers real stuff fast: food, meds, vaccines, flea/tick treatment, and vet care so they can stop living like feral gremlins and start living like the spoiled couch wolves they were born to be. If you can donate, you’re literally buying them time and safety. If you can’t, sharing helps a ton—because the algorithm might be heartless, but your friends (probably) aren’t. Help the squad here: https://gofund.me/6a625e68e

2

Staying informed is its own kind of art—not just what you consume, but what you refuse to let rot your brain. If you want a newsletter that feels like a sharpened blade rather than an endless feed, subscribe to Restricted Frequencies and let it recalibrate your attention.
https://ganzeer.com/newsletter

3

I’m very, very, very FUCKING over it.
It is the internet. I’m tired of it; I don’t find it valuable. And, like anything in this world, if you give too much of yourself TO ANYTHING, it gets taken away or taken advantage of. As an artist, I want to make, I’m tired of trying to appeal to… everyone. You. The “Scene,” be it in comics or art or anything, it’s all… BULLSHIT. Utter fucking bullshit.
I built this site, Substack, because it’s also a place for me to look at the work I’ve done and the things I’ve tried. It’s, in a sense, a type of sketchbook for me, but what I’ve noticed is that any and all attempts to expand hit the ceiling of the algorithm CONSTANTLY. I know I have good shit because people who have bought my books or read my stuff have become fans, which is why I have a small following here and elsewhere online. But fuck me in the ass, have I felt the ceiling there is to all of this.
I feel in part that I just don’t sound well online. I think I may come off as an asshole. I’m fine with that. I’m not for everyone.
I feel like it could be my race. I’m making comics with Spanish phrases and a Latino background and all that shit, and yeah, I know that’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but because it’s not marketable for someone to get political points, I’m left without an audience. I don’t know what is worse, racist people who just don’t want to know my culture past fucking Tacos, Salsa dancing, and fucking our women, or my own people who can’t fucking see anything that reminds them of their own fucking culture because they are secretly ashamed.
It could be political. At the same time that I’m against the current fascist regime of an administration of Trump and ass kissing to Israel for the highest dollar while ripping off and destroying this country in the process, I’ve also been critical about Trans (I love them, but if you got a dick you got a dick, that’s all, live your life!) and say fucked up shit. SO even that commie crowd with Antifa isn’t with me either. I don’t respect suicide. I also think that we have enough on this gorgeous earth to feed everyone, and it’s fucking mortal sin we aren’t.
And again, this is not for money, it’s really not. I have been a 6-figure designer at times, and I was fucking miserable. My problem isn’t finding money but finding a community that speaks, talks, and gathers around a certain area toward something. That to me is way more BLING than money. That’s strength, that’s cool, that power.
But I’m not getting anything from that. So I may pull back from social media because, at its core, it’s fucking SOCIAL. I love the small circle I do have going on, but fuck my asshole, I’m made from the real world and what I have been building, not this shit.

I don’t even like talking on the phone!

I think I’m just old, and know what there is to have a true scene and not this bullshit weak fucking system of technarch assholes as an actual thing. I see “the kids” today in their world, and it’s just a circle jerk of weakness of the most high. I see that people don’t want to hear anyone but their own bullshit. Every expert is challenged by someone who saw a fucking YouTube video, and you have to like everyone. FUCK YOU.
TOLERATE. TOLERATE people. That’s the minimum. Don’t fuck them over, don’t get in their way, let them prosper and maybe see the light, but in the end, you don’t need to like them.
So yeah, just feeling the absolute nihilism of the internet, but not in my life. My life is fucking great, my art is awesome, all my shit is happening there, but this sandwich-board existence of trying to get people’s attention is for the fucking birds. I say this because this post isn’t gonna get shit in the comments, but plenty of people gloss over it.

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See what I did there.

4

Remember the 3 Fs.
If they aren’t
FEEDING you
FUNDING you, or
FUCKING you,
You don’t need to give a shit.

5

VIGIL is a webcomic I did like 10 years ago on the long-gone Graphicsmash.com. When the internet was just in its infancy, and we were all kind of finding our place, some of us said “HEY, COMICS ONLINE SHOULD BE AWESOME” and decided to post it. Thanks to the amazing JOEY MANLEY (RIP), we now had a place to post it that wasn’t a horrible Geocities nightmare of code and crap. From there, I made my first real attempt at telling the story of the world you are reading FUGLY in. It was awesome to do, but the work did not age well. Some parts I was surprised by here were good ideas and storytelling here and there that impressed me to some extent, but, technique-wise, I didn’t have poop. I always look back and wish I had followed through and made the comics I saw in my head, but time and bullshit got in the way. That’s a lesson to you kids: FOLLOW THROUGH, get it done, work on it, give it time. When you keep shooting from the hip like an asshole, you’ll become a fart of a comic book creator like me, putting around, just happy to be here. It’s not a bad life at all, but it could be better, so take my advice: love the journey of making something, and nurture it.
That being said, I went back and started poking them around, mostly prompted by finding most of the original 2003 files! The PSDs were there with the bad lettering and all that crap, but the art? Hmmm. SO I went back and started messing with it, using a combination of brushing and effects, and suddenly got it to look pretty good.
Now, to be 100% truthful with you all, it did use some AI, mostly for effects and lighting, but overall, it’s still done by hand on top of the original inks. I redrew certain parts because the original sucked, and then added the effect I developed here and there using bits of Photoshop, Firefly, and ChatGPT to get it there. I want to say maybe 10-25% is AI. Is that bad?
I’m not a fan of the use of AI in art. I fucking get it, believe me. I’m not here to start a debate, but if you have been around the digital art world as I have, you’ll remember hearing the same rumblings about the ETHICS of using digital tools to make art and work, like Photoshop, back in 1992. Hell, I remember the debate about video artists in the 80s, with people calling it computerized schlock. I think curation is the key; it hasn’t happened yet, but maybe soon.
Now I know it’s all about the companies this and the data centers and all that shit, yes fuck that shit in the ass, the politics of it as ways are made to poison the world. That being said, what about the work? Now I’m not talking full-fledged work; nothing has come of that at all. But even with Photoshop, even using a twirl filter, are we not using a computer to do shit? What about the AI built into the programs? I mean, how much are we talking about here?
I’m not trying to make an excuse, but there have been bits of AI usage here and there that I dig. I think actual work, it blows dog, but if it is actually curated and used by an artist, it could be something. Well, look at this way, here are some examples:

This is the original page, as it was done in 2004

Here is the same page, redone, using AI (ChatGPT and FIREFLY) with some halftone brushes I use.

so it his an Art Crime? You tell me!

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Outro

If you made it this far, congratulations—you survived Five Fridays with your brain still attached.

The throughline this week is simple: focus on what’s real. Real people. Real work. Real community. Real help (those dogs). Real information (curated, not force-fed). And real making—whether you’re using a pencil, a brush, Photoshop, or any tool that still requires taste and intent.

If you’ve got thoughts—especially on the AI/ethics bit—hit reply or drop a comment. If you’ve got a link you think belongs in next week’s Five Fridays, send it my way.

Now go make something. Or at least don’t let the internet make you stupid today.

BE GOOD.

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