A Real Dealer's collection story...

[Bookery]

I'm not sure why I'm telling this story now... though perhaps it's the smell of Halloween in the air, and Halloween's a good time for stories. More likely, it's the recent threads calling for more input and posts from dealers, that have inspired me. For I think it is true that few even on these fabled boards know the true stories behind the collections that dealers like myself unearth from time to time... the trials and tribulations... the peaks and valleys, pinnacles and pitfalls that go into acquiring cool books. But in my case the peaks and valleys, pinnacles and pitfalls were all quite literal... quite literal indeed.

 

I vowed never to relate this tale, for fear of it being disbelieved, to protect not so much the innocent as the guilty, and to insulate myself from the scars, both acutely visible and those far worse tucked into the hidden resources of the soul. But... it's been nearly three weeks since these events transpired, and after all of this time, I can see no harm in telling the tale now. But be advised, gentle reader, that proper ladies and the youthfully innocent should read not a sentence further, lest their charm and fragile sensibilities be too rudely assailed, and many an unquiet night lie in wait for them ahead.

 

Those of you that know me... and that will be almost all of you... as I set up at over 400 shows and conventions every year, and have had welcome chats and camaraderie with each of you on more than one occasion. But I digress. As you are all aware, I am one who seeks out the truly "rare". No... not the gold-macrame hologrammic-image one-in-200 variant kind of rare... I'm talking about the real deal... those comic curios so scarce that may a collector is unaware they even exist.

 

So it was inevitable that eventually my collecting/dealer interests led me to this point. One of my favorite artists has always been the obscure, often uncredited Ramos Jorge (pronounced hor-hay). A South American by birth, he eventually migrated to the Philippines where he found work, mostly uncredited, with the Redondo studios, producing stories for Warren publications like Creepy and Eerie, among others. Though also uncredited, there is little doubt he was the genius behind the oft-reprinted picnic-adventure classic, "The Titanic Pants". After a rumored dispute with Warren executives, however, Jorge quit and returned to the very remote South American village of his ancestors. It is also rumored that these ancestors were, in the 19th-century, known to be a prominent family of headhunters... a trade presumably abandoned to the dustbins of history. But a fun factoid nevertheless. Besides, rumors are like Hallmark cards... there is one for every occasion.

 

All of this you already know. What you may not know, however, is that once back home, the artistic bug never left Jorge. He eventually banded his friends and neighbors together, taught them the fundamentals of art and story, and in time began producing a line of comics right from this almost forgotten village. He named his company C-Bard publications... a wink to the idea of C-list celebrities, with this far-from Manhattan artists' colony satirically seeing themselves as the C-list of literary creators. Unfortunately, Jorge went too big too fast... cranking out nearly two dozen separate titles in little over a year. He discovered that distribution options from within the deepest recesses of the jungle were few, and no individual title lasted beyond 3 or 4 issues.

 

These comics now are almost impossibly rare. Few made it outside that jungle abode, and those that remained were subject to the ravages of high humidity and a litany of insect villains too long to list here. In all of my years as a dealer I had only been able to pick up a few miserably tattered issues of C-Bard publications. So call it passion, call it greed, but I knew I must acquire more. And in my mind I had become convinced... no obsessed... with the idea that in Jorge's own little village must be at least someone with a protected box of these obscure gems.

 

But I am not a rich man. Few comic dealers are. So how to finance such an expedition? The solution came from these very boards. A collector known only to his closest confidants as "The Sean" agreed to pay the costs of such a trip. Also, as a lawyer, he was invaluable in clearing rights and international passage to these remote and ecologically protected areas. But there was a caveat. The Sean has his own obsessions... and the trip was financed solely with the proviso we obtain signature-series books from the aged Ramos Jorge himself! It was agreed. But we needed a CGC-witness to accompany the trek. The Sean provided us with a legal intern for this task... a clerkish little man named Carson. The wheels were now in motion.

 

I won't bore you with details of all of the arrangements, nor with the drudgery of international flights, seedy hotels, bribes and the other necessities of long-range travel. Nor, for reasons that shall ultimately become clear, will I divulge exactly what ports we entered, the exact nation that was home to this village, the trails taken, nor even the name of that little village itself. It is enough that you know that our ground-trip ended in a small and sweltering river-stop. There were no more trails from that point on... too overgrown was the jungle for that. And too superstitious were the locals to tread a trail into that impenetrable expanse.

 

The rest of the journey had to be made by boat. We were told by the locals that we needed to seek out The Tub, and were pointed in the direction of a particularly unkempt series of docked craft. I never did know if "The Tub" was a reference to the boat or the man, but it made no difference. The boat, if such an accumulation of gray half-rotted boards and a rickety steam-powered boiler can be termed a boat, was named The Muncahusen. Its skipper was a German named Gutman, famous in his own sort of way for globe-trotting in search of avian artifacts. But he fell on hard times, and this corner of the world was the welcome mat to hard times.

 

Gutman was an eighty-page giant of a man... twice as thick as an ordinary fellow, and filled with lots of stories we all had heard before. So we soon set sail... or rather, set chugging down that fabled river also to remain unnamed. It was an experience I wouldn't wish even on an eBay image-swiping swindler. Insects the size of softballs tore at our flesh relentlessly. (Okay... perhaps I exaggerate a little bit... but the point is made). The heat was oppressive, and the smell from that fetid river nauseating. One dared not seek even small comfort such as the dangling of a toe in the water, as men did not fish these waters... the fish instead sought the tasty morsels of human flesh.

 

One dark night, and all nights were as dark as pitch, made even what little sleep we could catch beneath the mosquito nets impossible. There was from out that black morass a cry. But not a cry like any of the dozens of screeching animals to which we had become accustomed. It was more of a voice in the night. From what direction it came we cannot say, but it was strange muffled anguished voice, both guttural and choked with an almost fungal softness. We never knew from whom.. or what... it came... but it is a sound that will haunt me forever.

 

But we continued ever down that yellow syrup of a river... besieged by heat, winged and biting assailants, and maybe worse, the endless re-tellings of Gutman's own prior adventures. Once you made the mistake of showing interest the first time, you were trapped. He was a man, as he often reminded you, who liked talking to a man who likes to talk. Though he seldom afforded the opportunity for one to do just that.

 

But... time passed, however slowly, and eventually the day arrived. We took a turn off the main river and worked our way down a small tributary. So narrow it was, that in places the overhanging moss brushed our faces as we stood on the deck. Eventually the waters slowed, and then stilled, as we entered a claustrophobic little lagoon. Gutman disembarked and met with a couple of villagers at the end of the lagoon. These were small bronzed men, but powerfully built. They talked in their language, and we hoped Gutman was eliciting some information rather than recounting his exploits.

 

After he returned we packed a few things... little enough that we could reasonably carry them in that hellish heat. Carson was not a sturdy man to begin with, and I more than once feared for his health... but he trudged on with only minor complaint. We were led in good time to the village itself. The locals more or less ignored us, with only the occasional curious glance as they went about whatever work their day required. We were expecting someone to greet us... someone who could direct us to the residence of Ramos Jorge himself, if possible. But for awhile, no one showed.

 

But eventually, he did arrive. We were expecting a native chief, though even in this remote area that perhaps is too archaic a term... a village mayor, or equivalent of a councilman, might be more politically correct in this century. But instead we got him. I did not recognize him immediately... his already small frame gone gaunt from however long he had sealed himself away in this dank and septic world. But soon it became clear. He was a former comic dealer of Scot-Dane extraction named McDuyck. I say former, as many years ago he was ostracized from the collecting community under accusations of micro-trimming. McDuyck never admitted to the charges, but his days as a wheeler-dealer were over. Soon he disappeared from the convention circuit and was never heard from again.

 

Yet here he was, in all of his glory. If glory is an emaciated little man, prematurely balding, with an insistence on employing an outdaded pinch-nez for the benefit of his dark and darting eyes. Even Carson seemed the picture of health by contrast. But soon it became evident McDuyck was in his glory. As he welcomed us in cryptic fashion, we strolled toward his hut noticing the locals turning their eyes downward as he passed, some even bowing to their knees. What strange hold this unprepossessing outsider held over these proud fishermen was unclear, and I must confess, remains unclear to me to this day.

 

Once in the hut, and the customary introductions made, we found that McDuyck, like myself, had also come long ago to seek the C-Bard collection(s) that gnawed at my psyche like an impatient tapeworm. Somehow, and I may have lost track of his actual reasoning through the barrage of rapid-fire chitterings that erupted from this corrupt but lonely man like a caffeinated chipmunk... but he elected to stay in this shadow of existence, far away from his accusitory peers.

 

The conversation as it must, soon led to the C-Bard books, and to the actual location of Ramos Jorge himself. But McDuyck would have none of it. Not this evening, at any rate. But he assured us all would be revealed the following day. Instead he insisted on light conversation, and he was thirsty for information on collecting trends... he new nothing from the years he had stowed away in this jungle. He had a steely-eyed cold command, even despite his nervous, often percussion-like style of speaking. If I drifted and missed some point he was making, he made not the same mistake with us. He absorbed every word, swished it in his mouth like fine wine and took it in. Only once was his demeanor shaken, when I recounted how a specific issue of New Mutants could be worth hundreds of dollars in high grade. But, he stammered, all issues were in his dollar boxes when he abandoned the convention circuit years ago! I wasn't sure he even believed me, until his eyes grew narrow and focused, and then he muttered something that chilled me... he knew a way, he revealed like a man sharing his Lost Mine treasure map for the first time... how he could guarantee that one's 9.4s could be made into 9.8s... every time. I quickly changed the topic, and somehow we ended up debating which publishing house did the best job of producing Disney comics. Everyone agreed, of course, that Dell was champs. But the debate centered on second best. As Carson and I presented the virtues of Gold Key and Gladstone, McDuyck angrily leaped to his feet and pounded on the table. Pounded on the table with a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, and shouted "Boom Studios! Boom Studios! Boom Studios! Boom!".

 

With that, I knew it was time to turn in. And as odd as it sounds, it was the first perfect sleep I'd had in days, though I suspect there were qualities in the native drink we'd had at dinner that might have contributed to it. The next morning was to be filled with wonders, I'd hoped. And sure enough it was. But like the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.

 

Carson was excited, which was unusual for him. After all, today he would get to verify the signings to be done by Ramos Jorge on some of the most rarely seen comics known to man. He would be the envy of other CGC witnesses. But when we exited our huts, it was clear today would indeed be full of surprise... but not necessarily in a good way. McDuyck stood outside in the village square and waited for us. This time he was flanked by two seeming giants. Tall, lean and as gaunt as the small-statured McDuyck, these men stood just shy of seven-feet tall, and each held an upright, and seeming unnecessary, spear in their hands. Their skin was much darker than the other natives, and they bore an air of the Haitian about them. The spoke not a word, but stared forward with unseeing eyes. Yet with the slightest wave from McDuyck they seemed to know his bidding. Appropriately enough, he referred to them simply as his Lewtons. And they followed us silently as McDuyck led us to Jorge's hut. The other locals were nowhere to be found.

 

The hut was a bit larger than most, but singularly untidy, with open holes in its roofing. It was clear no one had lived here for some time. As my eyes focused in the mixed light I noticed a large rat stared at us from atop a heavy chest in the corner. It did not flinch as we entered, and McDuyck informed us the rat was tame, named Sumatra, and was a favored pet of the late Ramos Jorge. It took a moment for his words to sink in. Late? I stumbled back a bit. McDuyck informed us Jorge had passed a year ago, of natural causes. The villagers still fed his pet rat in tribute to him, and it stayed on in his hut. Carson was crushed. The Sean wasn't going to like this. Not one bit.

 

I felt all of this time and effort had been wasted. I was despondent to put it mildly. But then McDuyck smiled a thin-lipped little smile. Ramos is gone, yes, he said. But his legacy remains. He then scooted the rat from off the chest. Inside the chest was a small strong box. McDuyck handed it to me. I opened it. I admit my hands trembled. An almost fresh quantity of air hushed out from that box and challenged the jungle squalor.

 

There inside, was a run... no... a complete run... of all 64 C-Bard issues. They were crisp. Their pages were impossibly white. They were magnificent. It could have been sweat, or it could have been tears that channeled through the grime on my cheek. Maybe we would never see them signed... but these were clearly the highest-grade C-Bards in existence. I only wished for a pair of white gloves to touch them with. But I could not help myself, and ever so carefully flipped through them. McDuyck grinned and took greedy satisfaction in my satisfaction. Finally, he had respect. Finally he was on top of the game again. Yet through all of my delight, something nagged at me. Something small and almost insignificant, and I hated that it was even there, though I knew not what it meant. But still smiling with my joy, it dawned on me. And I began a closer examination, hoping that my face showed none of the fear that was beginning to grip my throat.

 

Each of those magnificent issues... each and every one of them... had been micro-trimmed! Not even micro-trimmed professionally, such that even me, with all of my years in business, might not notice. But trimmed with what were clearly the only crude tools a man in a jungle could manage to obtain. I was sick, and the pallor showed in my face. MyDucyk's smile vanished and his face grew red with rage. "No!" he screamed. "They're 9.8! 9.8!" he shrieked. I fell back weak and weary against the bed post. "You just couldn't leave them alone", I mumbled. But then my hand felt something just underneath the bed. I pulled forth a portfolio case and curiosity, even in my grief, compelled me to unzip it. McDuyck was not paying attention as he stomped around the hut defending his beloved comics.

 

In that unzipped faded leather case was something truly awe-inspiring, and so unexpected I gasped like an EC word-balloon. There before me was the original art to the complete story of "The Titanic Pants". If a complete run of untampered C-Bards was the Holy Grail, what could describe a find like this? McDuyck stopped his tirade and stared straight at me. There was a moment of silence. Then.... "Noooooooooooooo!" he bansheed, and diving at me ripped the portfolio from my hands. He then rose and scampered from the hut, Sumatra leaping out of his way barely escaping a trampling.

 

"After him!" I shouted to Carson. We tore from the tent and saw McDuyck and his booty running up the hillside. At the far corner of the village we also saw the hulking forms of The Lewtons as they began shambling toward us. They won't be hard to out-run, I thought, and nothing could keep me now from pursuing that portfolio. The narrow trail ended at the top of a small ridge. McDuyck stood wild-eyed, his pinch-nez having fallen off somewhere along the way. He was at the entrance of a large dark cavern. "Follow if you dare!" he shouted as we approached. And then in an instant he turned and vanished into the inky black, grabbing one of a set of lit lanterns that were waiting beside him, and presumably, for us, as well.

 

I said nothing could prevent me from pursuing that portfolio. But that was before that imposing gaping vacuum stood before me. Claustrophobia and the natural fear of the dark stopped me in my tracks. But now it was Carson who was a crazed man. All of that long hideous voyage down river, all of the hope and anticipation, and then the despair followed by the utter madness that was McDuyck... it had taken a toll on Carson. "I need to bring something back to The Sean", he stated with even emphasis. "Or my career as a CGC witness is over!"

 

"Don't go in the cave Carson!" I cried. But it was too late. And so I grabbed a lantern and followed him. We moved slowly over the damp-slimed surface of the cavern floor, but could clearly hear the footsteps of McDuyck echoing ahead of us. Eventually we opened into a larger sub-room within the cavern. As Carson strode forward he stopped, and wheeled back on his heels. I moved up beside him and we held our lanterns in front of us. Before us was a large hole in the cavern floor, whose depths were undetermined. I accidentally kicked a stone into it as I looked, and no sound from its landing ever reached us.

 

There was a laugh. We turned. McDuyck was above us on a ledge, beside a huge round boulder. "If that didn't finish you, this will!" he declared. He began pushing on the boulder, held in place only by the smallest point of contact against the cave. There was nowhere to go, The large boulder, rounded to perfection, would pursue us down the halls of the cave with nary a turn-off. But time, jungle-fever, and the consumption of madness had taken it's toll on McDuyck. Designed for a strong man to unleash, McDuyck could not dislodge the boulder into its intended path. As he pushed with what might his weak frame could muster, his foot slipped on the moistened ridge and he tumbled off and onto the cavern floor beside us. The portfolio flipped into the air, its pages flying out and fluttering like sleepy doves down, down into the abyss beside us. Our lanterns caught the white as they disappeared one by one into the all-encompassing dark, and were gone.

 

We turned to McDuyck. Blood was seeping from a wound in his head where he struck a stone. He was staring toward the abyss, his wild flitting eyes now wide and foggy and gone all Milland, staring not at us but through us and into some terror-filled beyond. The sweat on his upper lip trembled, and I leaned in close as he whispered... "The Jorge... the Jorge...". And then he was gone.

 

I don't know how we made our way back out as quickly as we did. But when we reached the entrance our hearts sank. The Lewtons stood erect at each side of the cave. We feared we were done for... but they never moved. They stared slightly upwards blankly, as if somehow they know what had transpired within, and without command they simply stood... and waited. We moved past them without incident. The village was still empty when we made our way to Gutman and the boat. We had to wake him from a gin sleep, but soon the engine sputtered and we were on our way. Neither Carson or I looked back.

 

I don't ask that you believe me. You may dismiss it as an old man's tall tale, or a whim of Halloween invention. Neither the casual flipper or flea-market seller can imagine such things. But us old time dealers... those of us who predate eBay... we all have stories to tell. Each of us has sought our Jorge, and each has met his McDuyck. Ask Gator. Ask Bedrock. Ask any of those dealers of yore, and if you catch them in an unguarded moment of conversation, maybe they will hint at their incredible adventures and lost discoveries as well. Many of you express the desire to some day open their own shop. To buy and sell collections. To pursue "the big one". It is a great profession. But there is a price to pay.

 

And I pay mine each night in that dim gray period between the waking hour and the deep slumber. And I will pay it as long as I live.

 

 

[namisgr]

[Hulksdaddy1]

[mysterio]

as I set up at over 400 shows and conventions every year

 

I know Wizard has been adding a lot of shows to their schedule, but I didn't think there were quite that many on the calendar.

[Nexus]

“The mind of man is capable of anything.”

― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

[Park]

I'm not sure why I'm telling this story now... though perhaps it's the smell of Halloween in the air, and Halloween's a good time for stories. More likely, it's the recent threads calling for more input and posts from dealers, that have inspired me. For I think it is true that few even on these fabled boards know the true stories behind the collections that dealers like myself unearth from time to time... the trials and tribulations... the peaks and valleys, pinnacles and pitfalls that go into acquiring cool books. But in my case the peaks and valleys, pinnacles and pitfalls were all quite literal... quite literal indeed.

 

I vowed never to relate this tale, for fear of it being disbelieved, to protect not so much the innocent as the guilty, and to insulate myself from the scars, both acutely visible and those far worse tucked into the hidden resources of the soul. But... it's been nearly three weeks since these events transpired, and after all of this time, I can see no harm in telling the tale now. But be advised, gentle reader, that proper ladies and the youthfully innocent should read not a sentence further, lest their charm and fragile sensibilities be too rudely assailed, and many an unquiet night lie in wait for them ahead.

 

Those of you that know me... and that will be almost all of you... as I set up at over 400 shows and conventions every year, and have had welcome chats and camaraderie with each of you on more than one occasion. But I digress. As you are all aware, I am one who seeks out the truly "rare". No... not the gold-macrame hologrammic-image one-in-200 variant kind of rare... I'm talking about the real deal... those comic curios so scarce that may a collector is unaware they even exist.

 

So it was inevitable that eventually my collecting/dealer interests led me to this point. One of my favorite artists has always been the obscure, often uncredited Ramos Jorge (pronounced hor-hay). A South American by birth, he eventually migrated to the Philippines where he found work, mostly uncredited, with the Redondo studios, producing stories for Warren publications like Creepy and Eerie, among others. Though also uncredited, there is little doubt he was the genius behind the oft-reprinted picnic-adventure classic, "The Titanic Pants". After a rumored dispute with Warren executives, however, Jorge quit and returned to the very remote South American village of his ancestors. It is also rumored that these ancestors were, in the 19th-century, known to be a prominent family of headhunters... a trade presumably abandoned to the dustbins of history. But a fun factoid nevertheless. Besides, rumors are like Hallmark cards... there is one for every occasion.

 

All of this you already know. What you may not know, however, is that once back home, the artistic bug never left Jorge. He eventually banded his friends and neighbors together, taught them the fundamentals of art and story, and in time began producing a line of comics right from this almost forgotten village. He named his company C-Bard publications... a wink to the idea of C-list celebrities, with this far-from Manhattan artists' colony satirically seeing themselves as the C-list of literary creators. Unfortunately, Jorge went too big too fast... cranking out nearly two dozen separate titles in little over a year. He discovered that distribution options from within the deepest recesses of the jungle were few, and no individual title lasted beyond 3 or 4 issues.

 

These comics now are almost impossibly rare. Few made it outside that jungle abode, and those that remained were subject to the ravages of high humidity and a litany of insect villains too long to list here. In all of my years as a dealer I had only been able to pick up a few miserably tattered issues of C-Bard publications. So call it passion, call it greed, but I knew I must acquire more. And in my mind I had become convinced... no obsessed... with the idea that in Jorge's own little village must be at least someone with a protected box of these obscure gems.

 

But I am not a rich man. Few comic dealers are. So how to finance such an expedition? The solution came from these very boards. A collector known only to his closest confidants as "The Sean" agreed to pay the costs of such a trip. Also, as a lawyer, he was invaluable in clearing rights and international passage to these remote and ecologically protected areas. But there was a caveat. The Sean has his own obsessions... and the trip was financed solely with the proviso we obtain signature-series books from the aged Ramos Jorge himself! It was agreed. But we needed a CGC-witness to accompany the trek. The Sean provided us with a legal intern for this task... a clerkish little man named Carson. The wheels were now in motion.

 

I won't bore you with details of all of the arrangements, nor with the drudgery of international flights, seedy hotels, bribes and the other necessities of long-range travel. Nor, for reasons that shall ultimately become clear, will I divulge exactly what ports we entered, the exact nation that was home to this village, the trails taken, nor even the name of that little village itself. It is enough that you know that our ground-trip ended in a small and sweltering river-stop. There were no more trails from that point on... too overgrown was the jungle for that. And too superstitious were the locals to tread a trail into that impenetrable expanse.

 

The rest of the journey had to be made by boat. We were told by the locals that we needed to seek out The Tub, and were pointed in the direction of a particularly unkempt series of docked craft. I never did know if "The Tub" was a reference to the boat or the man, but it made no difference. The boat, if such an accumulation of gray half-rotted boards and a rickety steam-powered boiler can be termed a boat, was named The Muncahusen. Its skipper was a German named Gutman, famous in his own sort of way for globe-trotting in search of avian artifacts. But he fell on hard times, and this corner of the world was the welcome mat to hard times.

 

Gutman was an eighty-page giant of a man... twice as thick as an ordinary fellow, and filled with lots of stories we all had heard before. So we soon set sail... or rather, set chugging down that fabled river also to remain unnamed. It was an experience I wouldn't wish even on an eBay image-swiping swindler. Insects the size of softballs tore at our flesh relentlessly. (Okay... perhaps I exaggerate a little bit... but the point is made). The heat was oppressive, and the smell from that fetid river nauseating. One dared not seek even small comfort such as the dangling of a toe in the water, as men did not fish these waters... the fish instead sought the tasty morsels of human flesh.

 

One dark night, and all nights were as dark as pitch, made even what little sleep we could catch beneath the mosquito nets impossible. There was from out that black morass a cry. But not a cry like any of the dozens of screeching animals to which we had become accustomed. It was more of a voice in the night. From what direction it came we cannot say, but it was strange muffled anguished voice, both guttural and choked with an almost fungal softness. We never knew from whom.. or what... it came... but it is a sound that will haunt me forever.

 

But we continued ever down that yellow syrup of a river... besieged by heat, winged and biting assailants, and maybe worse, the endless re-tellings of Gutman's own prior adventures. Once you made the mistake of showing interest the first time, you were trapped. He was a man, as he often reminded you, who liked talking to a man who likes to talk. Though he seldom afforded the opportunity for one to do just that.

 

But... time passed, however slowly, and eventually the day arrived. We took a turn off the main river and worked our way down a small tributary. So narrow it was, that in places the overhanging moss brushed our faces as we stood on the deck. Eventually the waters slowed, and then stilled, as we entered a claustrophobic little lagoon. Gutman disembarked and met with a couple of villagers at the end of the lagoon. These were small bronzed men, but powerfully built. They talked in their language, and we hoped Gutman was eliciting some information rather than recounting his exploits.

 

After he returned we packed a few things... little enough that we could reasonably carry them in that hellish heat. Carson was not a sturdy man to begin with, and I more than once feared for his health... but he trudged on with only minor complaint. We were led in good time to the village itself. The locals more or less ignored us, with only the occasional curious glance as they went about whatever work their day required. We were expecting someone to greet us... someone who could direct us to the residence of Ramos Jorge himself, if possible. But for awhile, no one showed.

 

But eventually, he did arrive. We were expecting a native chief, though even in this remote area that perhaps is too archaic a term... a village mayor, or equivalent of a councilman, might be more politically correct in this century. But instead we got him. I did not recognize him immediately... his already small frame gone gaunt from however long he had sealed himself away in this dank and septic world. But soon it became clear. He was a former comic dealer of Scot-Dane extraction named McDuyck. I say former, as many years ago he was ostracized from the collecting community under accusations of micro-trimming. McDuyck never admitted to the charges, but his days as a wheeler-dealer were over. Soon he disappeared from the convention circuit and was never heard from again.

 

Yet here he was, in all of his glory. If glory is an emaciated little man, prematurely balding, with an insistence on employing an outdaded pinch-nez for the benefit of his dark and darting eyes. Even Carson seemed the picture of health by contrast. But soon it became evident McDuyck was in his glory. As he welcomed us in cryptic fashion, we strolled toward his hut noticing the locals turning their eyes downward as he passed, some even bowing to their knees. What strange hold this unprepossessing outsider held over these proud fishermen was unclear, and I must confess, remains unclear to me to this day.

 

Once in the hut, and the customary introductions made, we found that McDuyck, like myself, had also come long ago to seek the C-Bard collection(s) that gnawed at my psyche like an impatient tapeworm. Somehow, and I may have lost track of his actual reasoning through the barrage of rapid-fire chitterings that erupted from this corrupt but lonely man like a caffeinated chipmunk... but he elected to stay in this shadow of existence, far away from his accusitory peers.

 

The conversation as it must, soon led to the C-Bard books, and to the actual location of Ramos Jorge himself. But McDuyck would have none of it. Not this evening, at any rate. But he assured us all would be revealed the following day. Instead he insisted on light conversation, and he was thirsty for information on collecting trends... he new nothing from the years he had stowed away in this jungle. He had a steely-eyed cold command, even despite his nervous, often percussion-like style of speaking. If I drifted and missed some point he was making, he made not the same mistake with us. He absorbed every word, swished it in his mouth like fine wine and took it in. Only once was his demeanor shaken, when I recounted how a specific issue of New Mutants could be worth hundreds of dollars in high grade. But, he stammered, all issues were in his dollar boxes when he abandoned the convention circuit years ago! I wasn't sure he even believed me, until his eyes grew narrow and focused, and then he muttered something that chilled me... he knew a way, he revealed like a man sharing his Lost Mine treasure map for the first time... how he could guarantee that one's 9.4s could be made into 9.8s... every time. I quickly changed the topic, and somehow we ended up debating which publishing house did the best job of producing Disney comics. Everyone agreed, of course, that Dell was champs. But the debate centered on second best. As Carson and I presented the virtues of Gold Key and Gladstone, McDuyck angrily leaped to his feet and pounded on the table. Pounded on the table with a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, and shouted "Boom Studios! Boom Studios! Boom Studios! Boom!".

 

With that, I knew it was time to turn in. And as odd as it sounds, it was the first perfect sleep I'd had in days, though I suspect there were qualities in the native drink we'd had at dinner that might have contributed to it. The next morning was to be filled with wonders, I'd hoped. And sure enough it was. But like the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.

 

Carson was excited, which was unusual for him. After all, today he would get to verify the signings to be done by Ramos Jorge on some of the most rarely seen comics known to man. He would be the envy of other CGC witnesses. But when we exited our huts, it was clear today would indeed be full of surprise... but not necessarily in a good way. McDuyck stood outside in the village square and waited for us. This time he was flanked by two seeming giants. Tall, lean and as gaunt as the small-statured McDuyck, these men stood just shy of seven-feet tall, and each held an upright, and seeming unnecessary, spear in their hands. Their skin was much darker than the other natives, and they bore an air of the Haitian about them. The spoke not a word, but stared forward with unseeing eyes. Yet with the slightest wave from McDuyck they seemed to know his bidding. Appropriately enough, he referred to them simply as his Lewtons. And they followed us silently as McDuyck led us to Jorge's hut. The other locals were nowhere to be found.

 

The hut was a bit larger than most, but singularly untidy, with open holes in its roofing. It was clear no one had lived here for some time. As my eyes focused in the mixed light I noticed a large rat stared at us from atop a heavy chest in the corner. It did not flinch as we entered, and McDuyck informed us the rat was tame, named Sumatra, and was a favored pet of the late Ramos Jorge. It took a moment for his words to sink in. Late? I stumbled back a bit. McDuyck informed us Jorge had passed a year ago, of natural causes. The villagers still fed his pet rat in tribute to him, and it stayed on in his hut. Carson was crushed. The Sean wasn't going to like this. Not one bit.

 

I felt all of this time and effort had been wasted. I was despondent to put it mildly. But then McDuyck smiled a thin-lipped little smile. Ramos is gone, yes, he said. But his legacy remains. He then scooted the rat from off the chest. Inside the chest was a small strong box. McDuyck handed it to me. I opened it. I admit my hands trembled. An almost fresh quantity of air hushed out from that box and challenged the jungle squalor.

 

There inside, was a run... no... a complete run... of all 64 C-Bard issues. They were crisp. Their pages were impossibly white. They were magnificent. It could have been sweat, or it could have been tears that channeled through the grime on my cheek. Maybe we would never see them signed... but these were clearly the highest-grade C-Bards in existence. I only wished for a pair of white gloves to touch them with. But I could not help myself, and ever so carefully flipped through them. McDuyck grinned and took greedy satisfaction in my satisfaction. Finally, he had respect. Finally he was on top of the game again. Yet through all of my delight, something nagged at me. Something small and almost insignificant, and I hated that it was even there, though I knew not what it meant. But still smiling with my joy, it dawned on me. And I began a closer examination, hoping that my face showed none of the fear that was beginning to grip my throat.

 

Each of those magnificent issues... each and every one of them... had been micro-trimmed! Not even micro-trimmed professionally, such that even me, with all of my years in business, might not notice. But trimmed with what were clearly the only crude tools a man in a jungle could manage to obtain. I was sick, and the pallor showed in my face. MyDucyk's smile vanished and his face grew red with rage. "No!" he screamed. "They're 9.8! 9.8!" he shrieked. I fell back weak and weary against the bed post. "You just couldn't leave them alone", I mumbled. But then my hand felt something just underneath the bed. I pulled forth a portfolio case and curiosity, even in my grief, compelled me to unzip it. McDuyck was not paying attention as he stomped around the hut defending his beloved comics.

 

In that unzipped faded leather case was something truly awe-inspiring, and so unexpected I gasped like an EC word-balloon. There before me was the original art to the complete story of "The Titanic Pants". If a complete run of untampered C-Bards was the Holy Grail, what could describe a find like this? McDuyck stopped his tirade and stared straight at me. There was a moment of silence. Then.... "Noooooooooooooo!" he bansheed, and diving at me ripped the portfolio from my hands. He then rose and scampered from the hut, Sumatra leaping out of his way barely escaping a trampling.

 

"After him!" I shouted to Carson. We tore from the tent and saw McDuyck and his booty running up the hillside. At the far corner of the village we also saw the hulking forms of The Lewtons as they began shambling toward us. They won't be hard to out-run, I thought, and nothing could keep me now from pursuing that portfolio. The narrow trail ended at the top of a small ridge. McDuyck stood wild-eyed, his pinch-nez having fallen off somewhere along the way. He was at the entrance of a large dark cavern. "Follow if you dare!" he shouted as we approached. And then in an instant he turned and vanished into the inky black, grabbing one of a set of lit lanterns that were waiting beside him, and presumably, for us, as well.

 

I said nothing could prevent me from pursuing that portfolio. But that was before that imposing gaping vacuum stood before me. Claustrophobia and the natural fear of the dark stopped me in my tracks. But now it was Carson who was a crazed man. All of that long hideous voyage down river, all of the hope and anticipation, and then the despair followed by the utter madness that was McDuyck... it had taken a toll on Carson. "I need to bring something back to The Sean", he stated with even emphasis. "Or my career as a CGC witness is over!"

 

"Don't go in the cave Carson!" I cried. But it was too late. And so I grabbed a lantern and followed him. We moved slowly over the damp-slimed surface of the cavern floor, but could clearly hear the footsteps of McDuyck echoing ahead of us. Eventually we opened into a larger sub-room within the cavern. As Carson strode forward he stopped, and wheeled back on his heels. I moved up beside him and we held our lanterns in front of us. Before us was a large hole in the cavern floor, whose depths were undetermined. I accidentally kicked a stone into it as I looked, and no sound from its landing ever reached us.

 

There was a laugh. We turned. McDuyck was above us on a ledge, beside a huge round boulder. "If that didn't finish you, this will!" he declared. He began pushing on the boulder, held in place only by the smallest point of contact against the cave. There was nowhere to go, The large boulder, rounded to perfection, would pursue us down the halls of the cave with nary a turn-off. But time, jungle-fever, and the consumption of madness had taken it's toll on McDuyck. Designed for a strong man to unleash, McDuyck could not dislodge the boulder into its intended path. As he pushed with what might his weak frame could muster, his foot slipped on the moistened ridge and he tumbled off and onto the cavern floor beside us. The portfolio flipped into the air, its pages flying out and fluttering like sleepy doves down, down into the abyss beside us. Our lanterns caught the white as they disappeared one by one into the all-encompassing dark, and were gone.

 

We turned to McDuyck. Blood was seeping from a wound in his head where he struck a stone. He was staring toward the abyss, his wild flitting eyes now wide and foggy and gone all Milland, staring not at us but through us and into some terror-filled beyond. The sweat on his upper lip trembled, and I leaned in close as he whispered... "The Jorge... the Jorge...". And then he was gone.

 

I don't know how we made our way back out as quickly as we did. But when we reached the entrance our hearts sank. The Lewtons stood erect at each side of the cave. We feared we were done for... but they never moved. They stared slightly upwards blankly, as if somehow they know what had transpired within, and without command they simply stood... and waited. We moved past them without incident. The village was still empty when we made our way to Gutman and the boat. We had to wake him from a gin sleep, but soon the engine sputtered and we were on our way. Neither Carson or I looked back.

 

I don't ask that you believe me. You may dismiss it as an old man's tall tale, or a whim of Halloween invention. Neither the casual flipper or flea-market seller can imagine such things. But us old time dealers... those of us who predate eBay... we all have stories to tell. Each of us has sought our Jorge, and each has met his McDuyck. Ask Gator. Ask Bedrock. Ask any of those dealers of yore, and if you catch them in an unguarded moment of conversation, maybe they will hint at their incredible adventures and lost discoveries as well. Many of you express the desire to some day open their own shop. To buy and sell collections. To pursue "the big one". It is a great profession. But there is a price to pay.

 

And I pay mine each night in that dim gray period between the waking hour and the deep slumber. And I will pay it as long as I live.

 

 

Cool story bro.

[marvelcollector]

I was game until the line that this all happened three weeks ago...

 

Think I'll wait for the movie.

[Badger]

Very nice. No head-hunters, voodoo (Jinn?), or zombies so it is only a B+ on content. Still, the effort and style is an A so it averages out to an A-. Much better than I could do!

[Azkaban]

That was great, best thing I have read today. So far

[Bookery]

Very nice. No head-hunters, voodoo (Jinn?), or zombies so it is only a B+ on content. Still, the effort and style is an A so it averages out to an A-. Much better than I could do!

 

Ah, dear reader, I must protest a tad. As one of those three ingredients you list is indeed in the story. (As are at least 18 cultural references, boardie in-jokes, and puns). It's designed not so much as a story as a seek-and-find.

 

Besides, what was there is there... I cannot control the content of a true story. Someday I may also impart my Adventure of the Red-Headed League (a complex tale of international intrigue involving a spectacular collection of Jimmy Olsens).

 

 

 

 

[mystrymachine]

When he mentioned those Disney Dells I felt goosebumps!

[Bookery]

I was game until the line that this all happened three weeks ago...

 

Think I'll wait for the movie.

 

Three weeks, three months, three years...

 

Time held no meaning in that feral forest. And I must confess, now back on the comfortable plains of Ohio, in-between bouts of recessive malaria, it still no longer has the sway it once did in my life. It changes your take on existence, that place. (Though admittedly, the loose affiliation I now have with time and space has caused a bit of consternation on those looking to pick up their comic files at opening on Wednesdays... of course, having not been there they cannot hope to understand).

 

[Buzzetta]

This reminds me of the time that I went to meet someone on Craigslist that had advertised a number of Marvel Silver and Bronze keys. I went to the meeting place and was standing outside ringing the bell when a couple of guys approached who were up to causing some trouble. They must have made the call as they knew I had money. They harassed me in this area as it was know that this was their marked territory. I got in one little fight and my mom got scared and said, "You're moving to your Auntie and Uncle's in Bel Air."

[godquest]

Very Nicely done. Fun Pulp read.

[HouseofComics.Com]

 

"Gutman was an eighty-page giant of a man."

 

I am so stealing that line.

[Real Elijah Snow]

What in the world? Is this fiction?

[ttfitz]

As I hit Page Down for the second time, I fully expected this saga to end with a truly horrendous pun, as all shaggy dog stories of note must do. In this respect, I was sorely disappointed.

 

But otherwise, a ripping tale!

 

[Bronty]

Legendary tale

[AJD]

“The mind of man is capable of anything.”

― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

 

Ha ha - yeah, I got a Conrad vibe too.

[the blob]

Those of you that know me... and that will be almost all of you... as I set up at over 400 shows and conventions every year, and have had welcome chats and camaraderie with each of you on more than one occasion.

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Did you clone yourself 15 times?

 

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Great stuff. Clearly you have extra time on your hands and need to reorganize the 100,000 comics in your 50 cent boxes.