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A Band of Oafs: The Nerd Poker Chronicles

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A Band of Oafs: The Nerd Poker Chronicles


An unofficial Novelization of the hit Earwolf podcast, NERD POKER: DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS WITH BRIAN POSEHN & FRIENDS.


Written and Translated by Ken W. Hanley

Story and Characters by Brian Posehn, Scott “Sark” Robison, Gerry Duggan, Ken Daly, Sarah Guzzardo & Blaine Capatch


NERD POKER” is an Earwolf Media Production

NERD POKER” Executive Producers: Jeff Ullrich & Scott Aukerman

Adapted from “DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS” by Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson




I had my first game of Dungeons and Dragons a little more than six years ago when a friend had approached me about a game of D20 with several mutual friends involved as well. I had always been intrigued by D&D, but most of my attempts to get close to a game were halted by a constantly changing schedule and a friend who took the game more than a little seriously. In this game of D20, I played as Javier MacReady, a Priest/Fighter whose headbutts were as devastating as his ADHD. Through this group of friends, we had made the most of many adventures, including time travel, vampire battles and even a trip to Jamba Juice. And then, for one reason or another, the games stopped. Schedules couldn’t align, personal problems arose with several members and general disinterest dropped on others. However, the fire still burned on for me, as my character was last seen in a speeding hearse heading to Mexico as Vampire Rasputin had risen from his cryogenic chamber.


A couple years after the games stopped, I was introduced into the world of podcasts. My first podcast experience was through Comedy Bang Bang, which was a perfect gateway drug into this wonderful medium. WTF was good, but too self-important at times, and The Nerdist quickly won me over but became too inconsistent to champion as my favorite. So for almost two years, Comedy Bang Bang was my #1 show, making my commutes and lunch breaks better than ever. That was until late last year, when Nerd Poker hit the airwaves. D+D? Brian Posehn? Podcasts? It was the best of all worlds, but I was never prepared for how deeply the show would hit me.


The one thing I had noticed about podcasts after the debut of Nerd Poker was the lack of narrative, storytelling podcasts. Thrilling Adventure Hour had tried some, to varying success and disastrous continuity problems. But with the combination of interactive, unpredictable storytelling through Dungeons and Dragons, particularly through the experienced mind of Mr. Sark, and the rich, hilarious characters created by the rest of the group, Nerd Poker felt like something new and different, with an established chemistry between the group that made the listener feel the passion of the players and made the show more immersive with every episode. As time went on, Nerd Poker has become the show I immediately recommend to everyone, D+D experienced or not. Most importantly, however, Nerd Poker set off a beacon of inspiration to myself and many of my former compatriots, leading to a new game in development that I couldn’t be more excited for.


However, there are many more reasons as to why I’m writing this novelization, if we are to call it that. The first is that, as an aspiring screenwriter and current contributor to Fangoria Magazine and Fangoria.com, I need motivation to start again on my passion projects, and to work on this would quickly rejuvenate my all-too-faded engine as of late. The second is for fans of the podcast, as I hope this will not only serve as a third person perspective on our heroes adventure, but also a reference point for fan artists and fans new and old. I was particularly inspired by the Nerd Poker wikia I found recently, and the hilarious results stemming from the collection of material that convinced me to revisit the adventure from the beginning. The last reason is that the show deserves it. Like any awesome mythology, there deserves to be a written history for Nerd Poker, as I believe it has earned the spot as a legitimately great and funny tale.


Now, as with all novelization, there are liberties that will be taken in the name of artistic license. I will expand a bit on the backstories that each of the players had provided, maybe adding a name for nameless characters at time and not leaving in some of the more irreverent side-conversations (that should be for the podcast only, anyways). That said, I will be as faithful to the original story as possible, and I hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoy translating it.


I will be posting these as regularly as possible. Perhaps twice a week, perhaps more frequent than that. I'll also include Interluding Chapters for the "Crazy Shit" segments, and perhaps songs as companion pieces. So without further adieu…

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On the horizon, the endless sea meets the beautiful, red sunset. A gorgeous sunset was fairly common on the voyages of The Queen’s Laurel, a pleasure cruise that could not be rivaled for the price allotted. However, on this particular voyage, the sunsets were often like a fine wine, as each day brought a more admirable, refined view to its dusk. In fact, there was nary a creature on this vessel whose eyes were not on that sky.


The Queen’s Laurel had built a reputation for its tolerance of different species and races, as many cruise companies had become segregated as a byproduct of one too many messes due to the bloodlust of barbarians or repulsive dwarven sex parties. But money is money, and to those willing to pay bargain basement prices for bargain basement quality, this diverse oceanic trip was unmatched.


Usually around dusk, most of the voyagers had migrated towards the Ship’s uppermost deck, as the sunset was a perfect compliment to the happy hour priced drinks. After all, the company of such questionably enjoyable rogues was much more palatable when assisted by watered-down liquor. And it was at this bar where Blackee Green, a wispy half-elf, was going on another long-winded, but oddly hypnotic rant.


“Fuck Druids. That’s what I say.” said the overtly charismatic Green. Green’s charm was often perplexing to most within his vicinity, but nevertheless, the bastard had grown on the crew and vacationers alike.


Green thrust his gun fingers at the nearby female bartender, barking out, “You know what I’m talkin’ about? ‘Cause I do!” In the past week and a half, Green had repeatedly tried to fashion this statement into a catchphrase to universal indifference.


The Bartender, now filling Green’s half-empty cup with something that resembles a Mai Tai mixed with OrangeGlo, patronizes the warlock. “So, what brings you on The Queen’s Laurel?”


“Because… Blackee Green is worth it! I’m also trying to get away from the light pollution in all of the major metropolitan areas so I can do a closer study of the southern hemisphere skies, or whatever hemisphere I’m heading to. You know what I’m talkin’ about? ‘Cause BLACKEE GREEN knows what he’s talkin’ about!”


The Bartender sighs, handing over the cup. Luckily for her, a lanky, male Crew Member makes his way to the Bar, tapping on Green’s shoulder.


“Excuse me, sir? Have you seen a small woman around these parts? Perhaps this tall?” the Crew Member asks, holding his flattened palm slightly away from his sternum.


“It’s a SEE cruise, as in S-E-E cruise, as in looking up in the sky, brother. You know what I’m talkin’ about? ‘Cause I do!”


The Crew Member ignores the charismatic Green, instead raising a radio-communication device to his mouth. “Still no sign of the stowaway, sir. I’ll keep asking around.”


The Bartender’s eyes desperately turn to the clock as the Crew Member makes his way around the deck, approaching a lurching goliath of a man. Defined by his bald head and broad back, the barbarian stares intently into the miles ahead of him.


“Excuse me, sir?”


The Crew Member’s voice is lost amongst Amarth Amon’s memories. Just days ago, Amarth was standing in what remains of his village, having been ravaged by both time and war. His fathers’ voice still echoed in his mind…


“Son, you fight well. But you’re almost 50 years old. You must leave the house. Leave, and do not return, unless it is with the head of a worthy opponent.”


Beyond that horizon laid a worthy opponent. Something, somewhere.


“Sir? A moment of your time, please?”


Amarth turns slightly, his shadowed eyes landing upon the Crew Member.


“You wouldn’t have happened to-“


Amarth turns back to the horizon, bored by anything this puny man has to speak of. The Crew Member cuts his losses, dragging his feet to the roped-off V.I.P. section of the deck, inhabited by a large, scaly dragonborn by the name of Bartha-Shett Boral. Boral sits elongated on a poolside recliner, being attended to by several exhausted crew members holding large leaves.


“You know why I go on pleasure cruises?” asks Bartha-Shett. The crew wags their heads, trying to focus on their breezing.


“Because… I love fucking pleasure cruises. I can afford it, I like people waiting on me, and I’m hoping to get my drag on!”


The Crew Member looks at Bartha-Shett’s awful, self-aggrandizing grin. He goes to open his mouth, but the other crew warn him with stares of unease before he can get a word out. The Crew Member backs away, as Bartha-Shett eases further back into his seat.


“Yep. I don’t feel out of place at all.”


However, underneath the half-dragon man’s chair peers two eyes, hidden beneath a small grate, usually used to deposit garbage and filth into the hull.


The eyes tell a tale of a woman. A dwarven woman. They speak of bitterness, and jealousy towards Bartha-Shett. They speak of a religious family, disapproving of the rebellious impulses of her spirit. They speak of an arranged marriage that she would go to the ends of the world to escape. They speak of living in smelly rotten food and trash, networking with unimpressive castaways for the better part of two weeks just to start anew. They speak of a fighter.


They speak of Mildred Maxton.


The eyes quickly retract from the grates, avoid the avid sniffing of a spectrally projected grizzly bear. The bear’s wet, ghostly snout peers under the recliner as the male Crew Member approaches the man to whom it is attached.


“Excuse me, sir? This is a V.I.P. area.”


The barely robed Elf Shaman known only as Ell Ryan pats his spirit companion on its non-existent fur. The bear had been the only thing to stand beside him since his last communion with the Spirit World, in which fortune chose to leave Ell Ryan at the end of a crispy, freshly burnt down forest.


Did he burn down the forest? There’s nothing that proves that. After all, Ell Ryan was too tuned into his trip, woken only by the all-consuming flames that quickly engulfed the woodland around him. Ell Ryan took responsibility for robbing his village of the wildlife and resources of the grand forest that his people depended on, and was suggested to leave the Elven Country at the behest of a forceful bludgeoning from a Wizard’s Staff.


Everything else was blurry, as his next memory was waking up on this ship to the rough tongue of his loveably ravenous Spirit Bear. Ell Ryan knew he should not overstay his welcome again, and makes his way out to the general population, bear in tow.


However, Ell Ryan does not get to enjoy his stay, as the lights suddenly burst, leaving all on deck in darkness. The Crew Member’s voice, albeit concerned, resonates over the minor panic.




The Crew begins to rush around, ushering off the passengers below deck. One by one, everyone returns to their rooms, whether it be the Royal Suite for Bartha-Shett, the balcony room of Blackee Green, the proverbial waste-dump for Mildred Maxton, the undersized bachelor room for Amarth Amon, or a comfortable double stolen by Ell Ryan and his horrifying spirit bear. And as they each rest into their respective beds, they dream of the next day, and of the next sunset, even more beautiful than the ten previous sunsets on their vacation.


However, their dreams are cut short by a faint hissing noise, and then… darkness.

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READERS! Sorry for the lack of Chapters! Will have two piping hot new chapters for you tomorrow, starting with CHAPTER TWO: TO HULL AND BACK!

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Amarth could still smell the odor in the depths of his nose as he faded back into consciousness. Overtaken by a certain dizziness, Amarth realizes the absolute blackness consuming the room. The deprivation of one sense was hard enough for the massive Barbarian, let alone the loss of several. He attempts to stand, taking the risk of falling into the void surrounding him, yet he cannot. Shortly, the warrior pieces together the puzzle, as the rope around his hands and legs are too taut, even for a goliath of his strength.


As his sense of smell departs from the odor, two other stenches reach their way to Amarth. The first is that of heavy wood, a stench Amarth recognized from the hulls of the many Viking Ships he sailed upon and torn asunder. The second stench was much harder to place, but it had the unmistakable scent of life drifting amongst it. And then it hit him: Amarth was not alone


Amarth’s dizziness subsides as his eyes adjust to the darkness, barely making out several oak barrels, with lines of rope and block tangle hanging shortly above through the faint light emitting between the boards of the ceiling. As his hearing becomes focused in the wake of his blindness, Amarth picks up the creaking of the moving vessel, amongst the labored grunts of what sounds like men struggling. Amarth turns to the sounds, seeing briefly lit glimpses of three others, trying to escape their binds.


Amarth recognizes the skinny, pale one from brief encounters, all of which ended in catchphrases that made the big man chuckle in delightful confusion. Amarth’s eyes drift to the large, scaled creature, although this is the first time the Barbarian has seen the dragonborn man not surrounded by slavishly working servants. Lastly, Amarth stops his gaze on the Elf-Shaman, who greets his view with a stare of his own.


Ell Ryan looks deeply into Amarth’s eyes, trying to piece together how a man of his stature was not only subdued but bound. Clearly, there was a greater mechanism at play of which they were all unaware, but Ell Ryan knows to keep his suspicions to himself. Besides, the spirit world would provide him the answers. He was sure of it.


Shortly after his struggle to escape began, Bartha-Shett collapses in vain. “Can one of you help me?” says the dragonborn royalty, waving his glowing eyes at his bound companions. Ell Ryan, seizing an opportunity for reciprocation, rolls over towards Bartha-Shett, placing his hands towards Bartha-Shett’s binds.


“Don’t fidget,” says Ell Ryan, hoping to keep the prim scaly bastard still for long enough to do his figurative magic.


Amarth decides to join the group, using all of his might to break through the ropes around his hands. After an unsuccessful attempt, Amarth’s small mind goes for the obvious, slipping his arms through his legs to bring his hands in front of him before scanning the room for a blade or sharp edge to hasten his escape attempt.


“Can you move my hands in front of me? Thanks,” asks Bartha-Shett to Ell Ryan, noticing the less-pained expression on Amarth’s face. Ell Ryan ignores Bartha-Shett’s advice, focusing on using what little strength he has to loosen Bartha-Shett’s ropes.


Noticing he is being watched and judged by the other hostages, Amarth feels a wave of adrenaline shoot through his muscles, destroying the ropes in front of him. “FUCK YEAH!” cheers the Barbarian, proud of his small yet important destruction. Amarth quickly starts untying his feet binds as he looks over to the skinny, pale hostage next to him.


“Uh, a little help dude? Blackee Green does not like these bounds!” asks Blackee Green, hoping his well-above-average charisma will convince the dummy to free him as well. Amarth obliges Green, reaching down to the warlock and hoping slightly that he does not break his rope-thin arms in the process.


Ell Ryan sees Amarth’s success, and follows suit by dislocating his own shoulder, moving his arms to his front. A small amount of sweat appears from Ell Ryan’s pores as he frees Bartha-Shett from a forward angle. Bartha-Shett gives off a reluctant ‘thanks’ before reluctantly freeing Ell Ryan from his bounds, allowing the Shaman to pop his shoulder back into place. The lack of pain from Ell Ryan’s face through this process concerns Bartha-Shett, who quickly returns his thoughts back to himself.


Green quickly throws away his ropes, turning to Amarth with a glowing disposition.


“Alright, you’re my new best friend,” says the warlock to the Barbarian.


“What’s your name?” asks Amarth, nonplussed by Green’s enthusiasm.


“My name is Blackee Green. You can use it, it won’t wear out!” shouts Green, ending his sentence with a knowing wink.


“I don’t get it,” shrugs Amarth.


“That’s okay! I’ll get it for ya!”


“What are you talking about? What are you going to get for me?”


“Anything you want, dude. You’re my best friend.”


“Hm… I’ve never had a friend before,” says Amarth, remembering those formerly in his life as either people he’s killed or people he’s yet to kill.


“Well, now you’ve got Blackee Green!” exclaims Green, holding his hand out. Amarth grabs Blackee’s forearm, shaking it cautiously.


“My name is Amarth Amon,” says Amarth, whose eyes turn to the fellow distant hostages, “and I don’t trust this dragon.”


Amarth is cut off suddenly by a sound of clamoring boots above them, unaware of whether the step patterns are that of humans. Shadows are cast upon the group from above as they look at one another.


Ell Ryan looks around, unsure of where they are on the boat, or even if it is the same boat as before.


“Does anybody see a door or anything in here?” exclaims Bartha-Shett, fearful that he may be enslaved once again. Bartha-Shett squints, looking for the edges of the room and, hopefully, an exit.


“I have low-light vision!” shouts Blackee, the half-elf.


“I do too,” responds Ell Ryan, the full-elf.


“Let’s do this, then,” yells Blackee, motioning to Ell Ryan to scan the other side of the room, “I don’t want to light up any magic until we need to.”


Amarth lets the elves do their work, glad to have at least have his clothes, even if his weapons and gear are missing. Amarth leans on a container, noticing that this container seems to have been thrown down with disregard for placement or content. He looks at the other containers within his vision, noticing the same.


Green gets about 50 feet from his spot before reaching what appears to be a heavy door, with the large, wooden bar dropped down towards Green. Green looks at the door with confusion, wondering, “Did we block this door? Is there somebody else in the room? Are we trying to keep somebody out?”


Green whistles for the rest of the group, who scamper through the dark, cautious not to knock over any container. “Does anybody remember anything?” asks Green, looking to his newly unified front to no real response, aside from nonsensical muttering from Amarth.


Green shrugs, leading the group towards the other side of the room in hopes of finding answers or possibly a separate exit. During their trip, Ell Ryan searches around the containers in search for his missing items, craving the magical mushrooms he had previously hidden from the crew of the Queen’s Laurel. Alas, Ryan is not as lucky, finding merely the remains of the Laurel’s provisions in the mostly hollowed containers.


Amarth and Bartha-Shett pass several other empty containers, which appear to signal that they may still be on their original vessel, although nothing is for sure. After haphazardly avoiding the shed ropes on the floor of this hull, Green reaches the other side of the cabin to find yet another door. However, the door seems to be locked from the other side, as no bar is to be seen, and no force of strength appears to budge the door open.


“Maybe we’re in some kind of airlock,” mentions Green, unsure of what to make of this new development. Amarth looks at Green with confusion, ignorant of what exactly an ‘air-lock’ could be.


“I’m not afraid. Let’s get that bar off the other door and see what’s on the other side,” declares Ell Ryan, motioning back towards the far side of the cabin. Green and Amarth spring into action closely behind the Shaman.


“Has anyone gotten us out of here yet?” asks Bartha-Shett, now leaning on the hull walls out of boredom.


As the group arrives at the far side door, Amarth inspects the bar within the bracket. Through a quick touch, Amarth gathers that the wood may be timber, as he has felt that wood against many skulls in several forest battles when his trusty broadsword was nowhere to be found. Amarth lifts the bar as if it was made of aluminum, looking back at his companions for further instruction. Sensing an instinctual urge to barge into the other room, Amarth opens the door, tossing aside the timber bar mere inches from Ell Ryan and causing a large crashing noise.


“Hey man!” shouts Ell Ryan, angered by his close call with a timber bar to the face.


As Amarth peeks into the next room, the darkness from his awakening returns in spades, as no ceiling light is emitted within the area in front of him. Amarth quickly grabs Ell Ryan and Green by their garments and push them in front of him to act as his eyes. The two elves look around the room, appearing to be a continuation of the hull they were in, this time hosting over several distances the forms of what may be people.


However, Blackee Green could feel something was wrong in his charismatic bones. The figures did not move, nor did the speak, nor did they smell. Green hesitates before moving in closer as he tried to-


“HEY, WHERE ARE WE?!” yelled Amarth, ruining any element of surprise or discretion that this band of oafs had established. The bark was mostly muffled from the poor wooden acoustics of the room, and there was no further response from the figures. Amarth turns to Green, who appears annoyed but calm enough to hold no grudges.


“Do you guys see stuff? Do you guys see people?” bellows Amarth to Green in the closest thing to a whisper that this monstrous man can achieve.


“We see people, but there’s no movement,” responds Green.


“Where’s the closest guy? Direct me towards them. How many steps am I away from punching this guys’ face off?” bellows Amarth, inquisitively.


“Maybe our dragonborn friend can shoot some fire out of his mouth,” asks Ell Ryan, with just the tiniest twinge of malevolence ringing in his words.


“That makes me uncomfortable,” Amarth bluntly states.


“It is only when I am in battle that I can use that skill,” announces Bartha-Shett, needing not to be bothered by this lower-class citizen.


“Well, what do you call now?” asks Amarth to Bartha-Shett, condescendingly.


“Almost-battle!” responds Bartha-Shett, as a matter of fact.


Amarth fails to acknowledge Bartha-Shett’s supposed wittiness, fidgeting and stomping his feet akin to that of an impatient child. Meanwhile, Ell Ryan turns to the group, his eyes matching that of an owl perched in the thick of night.


“You guys might get to meet my bear…” says the Elvish Shaman, ominously.


“I’m… I’m sorry?” asks Bartha-Shett, as alarmed as he is confused.


Ell Ryan smirks. “You’ll see…”


Amarth, Bartha-Shett and Green look at one another with grave concern. The threat, if it is that, reeks of sexual undertones and psychopathological impulses, none of which makes the group comfortable. Amarth emits a guttural “Oh God” before turning away from the Shaman.


Ell Ryan turns back to the darkness, able to see only a couple silhouettes within the darkness of the room. He cannot figure how far the room goes, but if the room is similar to the hull that they are exiting, it cannot be more than 20 more feet away from the shadowed figures. Sensing that the almost-blind Bartha-Shett make turn him into his personal walking stick, Ell Ryan ventures into the room, drawing closer to the still entities.


As Ell Ryan gets closer to the silhouettes, Blackee Green follows suit, leaving behind the two larger creatures to tiptoe in their path. As Ell Ryan gets closer, he notices these figures gently swaying to-and-fro, stopping the Shaman in his tracks.


“Oh, they’re dead bodies! They’re like pieces of meet, and Sylvester Stallone is going to come in and start training in a couple of minutes! We’ve gotta get out of here before he falls in love with Talia Shire!” worriedly yells Green, much to the inherent confusion of the rest of the group.


“I don’t know who those people are, but I’m uncomfortable,” says the Shaman.


“What’s going on? What do you guys see, hippy person and tiny person and dragon asshole?” asks the blind Amarth.


“People are dead in here. I’m going to confirm that they’re dead,” states Ell Ryan, as he closes the distance between himself and the shadowed bodies. As he draws nearer, a glow arises from almost nothing.


“I’m starting to get anxious! Somebody find a door or I’m gonna MAKE one!” erupts Amarth, whose fear of the dark is only matched by his utter hatred of the dark.


The glow by Ell Ryan’s side begins to take a ephemeral shape, composing into an outline of a full Grizzly Bear. The bears size is breathtaking, giving even further worry to the other companions.


“What the fuck?!” yells Amarth, readying himself into a defensive pose.


“He’s with me,” declares Ell Ryan, turning back to the group with his hands up, “It’s all good! It’s totally cool!”


Ell Ryan briefly rubs the Spirit Bears mouth, which follows by brushing his head against Ell Ryan’s midsection. The rest of the group slowly calms down in their presence, although holding their balled fists readily by their side.


“It smells like bear piss,” grumbles Amarth, somewhat jealous of not being the most intimidating creature in the room anymore, “What the fuck? How’d the bear get in here?”


“Practice! Practice! Practice!” Green jokingly throws out.


“He’s always with me. You just can’t see him, man,” responds Ell Ryan, “It’s my spirit. When I’m lost, I follow the bear.”


“Oh, it’s like the Great Gazoo! I get it!” says Green.


“Fuck… these people are assholes…” mutters Ell Ryan, somewhat under his breath.


“You just said that out loud,” says the now-angry Amarth.


“Well, you can’t see me!” taunts Ell Ryan.


“I’ll just start punching!” threatens Amarth.


Ell Ryan ignores the Barbarian’s empty threats, examining the hanging corpse under the glow of his Spirit Bear. The body is female, and Ell Ryan recognizes it as that of a woman he had bumped into during the duration of the Queen’s Laurel cruise. He can’t place a name, or even a personality, but he is familiar with her nonetheless.


“Uh, hey, we’re in fuckin’ trouble!” yells Ell Ryan to his compadres. However, his declaration is punctuated by the sound of scuttling from the darkness beyond the corpses.


The sound grows distant as the group moves closer to the other side, as if the hidden creature is avoiding detection.


“What is it? My wife?” states Green, wearing his patented shit-eating grin.


“Little guy, you can see?” asks Amarth in a blundered tone, “Take me with you over there!”


Green’s bony hand wraps around Amarth’s meaty wrist as they rush closer to the far side of that room. Bartha-Shett remains in the far back, carefully placing his steps in the shadows, as Ell Ryan slowly approaches the sound with his Spirit Bear leading the way.


As they draw closer to the sound, it becomes momentarily lost by the sound of boots above them, heading towards the direction from which they’ve left. The adventurers look at one another until Amarth eloquently speaks up. “I don’t give a shit about the roof. Let’s walk towards the thing.”


“We need to find out what the scuttling is and then we have to brace ourselves, because they’re coming in,” Green shouts as Ell Ryan draws nearer to the scuttling.


“What about your asshole bear? Can he see shit?” asks Amarth to Ell Ryan, growing restless as Green follows behind the Shaman.


“I don’t have to answer that,” Ell Ryan hostilely declares.


“I’m just askin’, hippie.”


Before the Shaman can respond, the glow of the bear clears the sight of the far side of the room, drawing the scuttling to the shape of a small humanoid, which quickly jumps into an upended crate in the back corner.


“Stop!” orders Ell Ryan to the unknown creature. The crate freezes up upon being noticed as the team slowly creeps nearer.


“What’d you guys see?” asks the still-near-blind Amarth.


“There’s a little dude, and he ran into a box!” says Ell Ryan, who raises his voice towards the box. “Come on out right now!”


“I hate these cruise ships with Jeff Dunham on ‘em!” states Green, who nudges the laughing yet bewildered Amarth.


As Ell Ryan approaches the box, a tip of a tiny head breaches out, followed by a pair of small hands…


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Sorry for the delay between chapters. Tribeca is having a ton of genre stuff so it's hard to fit it between Fangoria and Diabolique stuff. Stay with it though! I'll try to get one up this weekend.

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Life! My two journalism jobs and day job got in the way of keeping up with this. However, there's a good chance I may start again in the near future since now I exclusively work for Fangoria! Also, I made a shout out to Nerd Poker in the Contributors Crypt of the next issue of Fangoria that hits stands this week.

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