A Very Patreon New Year (Patreon)

I can't thank you guys enough for the continued support over the last few months and as but a small token of that appreciation, here's the first page of the new episode of Ethan Sees All!Expect a cover in the coming weeks! 

___________________________

Since man, on calloused knuckles and soles, came swinging down from the trees to partake in the fruits of a world yet unexplored, and traded his fists for flint, and then his rock for steel, he has yearned for a return to the primordial. An age before complication. Just beneath the skin, there lurks a carnal wildness in each of us. Some are adept at repressing it, wreathing themselves in the cocoons of modern society, unaware that every chrysalis must eventually burst. Others reject convention altogether, spending their golden years in common-law marriages with troglodytes; you’d be surprised at just how hospitable a cave becomes with the right mood lighting and a sharp eye for décor. 

In a town like Wherever, the final resting place of industry, one is never quite removed from nature. She makes her presence known in the ever-encroaching avalanche of ivy overtaking the junkyard, in the thorny arms that entangle and invade the rusted over heaps of trashed cars. You can hear her whisper on the beating of raven’s wings as they encircle, in huge flocks, bits of carrion discarded on the forest’s edge. And nowhere is she more talkative than within the embrace of the miles and miles of crowded woodland surrounding the small town. 

As with any locale begging by its very aura to be left alone, the forest attracts certain strains of visitors: amateur sleuths of the paranormal, shaky-cam filmmakers, people in latex animal costumes, and in diminishing frequency, campers. 

A hiker's path was once underway, but after three separate contractors signed on only to quit shortly thereafter, citing ghastly sounds that kept the workers awake at night with terrors, the project was abandoned. Now, anyone daring (or foolish) enough to take refuge in the wood does so with a dubiously sketched map and an internal compass (because those of the magnetic variety become useless, fidgeting paperweights past the forest's threshold). Unsurprisingly, reports of missing campers are no stranger to the weekly rag. The Wherever Gazette even dedicates a column to those poor, arrogant souls; too proud to ask the long-faced men staring out at them from behind bushes for directions. 

In lieu of superhuman directional intuition or a breadcrumb trail, the buddy system is acceptable recourse for ensuring at least half of your venturing party survives. And what a tale they'll have to tell for it, provided they haven't gnawed out their own tongues for sustenance. 

The camping group would have been an even foursome had I tagged along, but determined not to pass around the stomach virus I'd contracted teaching a sputum-snuffling, avian librarian how to tango, I left Poppa Zitto, a local merchant of the antique, Domino, the talent vacuum who resides above me, and the Landlord, my... er, landlord, to go the journey as a trio— the universally agreed upon worst formation for not dying a grisly death. 

As morning mist dissipates in white wisps over the city, so too do my fears that I’ll need to learn the name of yet another new Landlord. Grunting and exhausted sighs precede the three men’s procession into the apartment complex, a taciturn weariness plain across their expressions. Beatriz and I, gathering mail from the wall of lockboxes by the foyer, watch in fascination as the trio limps past with heads hung low, like casualties of war, a role Mr. Zitto has had some practice perfecting. From their bedraggled appearance, you’d be forgiven for assuming they were Forest Dwellers making their first timid steps into society. The Landlord and Zitto have their fair share of scratches and torn clothing articles, both gasping hoarsely as to be expected from men their ages, but somehow Domino seems worse for the wear. There’s a ripped flannel sleeve wrapped about his upper arm, foam green where the cloths dangles in space and soaked through a deep scarlet where it swaddles skin. Ahead of any quandaries from Beatriz or myself, Zitto puts a finger to his lips, a signal I’ve learned to interpret as “Oh, just wait until you hear this story” as the two older men lead a dreamy-eyed Domino by the shoulders and up the steps to the second floor.