Yesterday afternoon, I made a sunsoaked pilgrimage out to Soho Billiards, at the corner of Houston and Mott. See, it was there that your pal and mine, Mr. Nikola Tesla had his lab during the time that FIVE FISTS OF SCIENCE takes place.

It was here, I kept thinking every time the little Puerto Rican girl racked up and broke and took more money from sleepy-eyed fat men, that Tesla's earthquake ray ruptured the streets and terrified the neighbors. Oh that mad scientist, they must've thought. The cops shake their heads and laugh. Only in New York, right? It was here he spent the turn of the century-- New Years Eve, would he have been here or the Palm Room? I bet here. I bet there was work. Here Twain stood, bathed in phosphorescent light, waiting for Tesla to finish fidgeting with the camera. Here Tesla stomped the city like Godzilla, twice as big and ten times as handsome. Here.

And as such, it was here that I finished the fucking comic.

I found a little table in-between the dozens of pool games going on and hunkered down and, hoping the ghosts in the room might be pleased, finished the writing of FIVE FISTS OF SCIENCE by longhand in my notebook. I like writing longhand these days.

It'll be 100 pages of comics, not counting bonus materials, and in full color. FULL COLOR! Sand is finishing 95 right now, I think-- we worked where I was only ever a few pages ahead of him, if that-- a maddening and terrifying process, one that demanded faith and trust in both one another, in the vain of material we were trying to tap, and in whatever gods of the process we could interest. That was the cliff we chose to jump off, though; that was the leap of faith we took. Just because.

Now on the homestretch, the book'll be gracing the world with its presence this summer, its timing perfect. For a season full of d-list characters taking point-blank head-shots delivered by e-list characters, supporting villains raping other supporting characters, and massive ultramega EEEEEE-VENT COMICS rocking the genocide and cruelty tip, we've made this sweet and weird little thing that wants nothing more than to make people happy, to make people feel good, to make people forget all that bleaky and rainy stubble-chinned shit and just have a good time.

Goodnight, guys. I'm going to miss the fun.

Until, of course, TESLA & TWAIN: A MODERN GENTLEMAN'S GUIDE TO HUNTING THE DEMONS OF VINEGAR HILL comes out, I mean.