Elk’s Run super-fan Mike Storniolo set up a My Space account for Elk’s Run that already has a couple of handful of members (40ish) and will likely be the place where we’ll be giving previews, talking up the project, answering questions and dropping the occasional hint. Come on by, should be fun. I can’t post for the first seven days, apparently, but if I could I would say I finished the issue 5 letter page tonight and sent out my notes for the last couple of pages of issue 6. Seriously, every issue gets better than the last. The script for issue seven is the tightest fucking thing I’ve ever read (kudos to Josh), the art for issue 6 is the sickest shit I’ve ever seen (kudos to Noel) and the finished art for issue 5 is the most beautiful complete package yet (kudos to Scott). Elk’s Run is shaping up to be tits-ass-balls which, as you can imagine, is really good.

Posted some more of the novel yesterday. And over here it’s Moose time…

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I’ve mentioned Joe Tomo’s cigar shop plenty of times already on this site. Joe Tomo was this old guy that ran a cigar shop on the corner of Hicks and President Street. He was a neighborhood guy through and through – been around for years, everybody knew him and loved him. He ended up selling his business to this cat Sonny and his wife Nancy who turned the place into a shithole. But when Joe ran the joint it was the Jesus.

It had everything a kid my age needed. Comic books, jelly rings, water guns, coloring books and crayons, Nestle Crunch bars, the occasional G.I.Joe figure, blue balls, softballs, jacks, chalk – I don’t even know if the dude sold cigars.

We’d go there with out allowances and blow it all, coming home with tootsie roll pops, Charleston Chews, a Superman comic and a packet of water balloons. Joe would always light up when he came in, big-ass smile across his face as he calls out or names and asks how parents are doing. He’d sneak an extra jelly ring in our bags and maybe even give us a free candy bar and send us on our way with instructions to give our mother’s his regards and remind them that lotto was at 20-million this week.

He was such a nice guy. I sometimes feel bad that we were always stealing from him.

Nothing big, really. Candy, super bouncy balls. While one of us was distracting him and talking to him about how school was going someone else would stuff his pockets with whatever the fuck he can get his hands on. Occasionally we’d get ballsy, go for a whole candy bar or a toy harmonica but for the most part we took the five cent candy.

We stole from him all the time and I guess you can say that we got cocky. One day our friend Brian decided to make with a couple of King Cones. I was distracting Joe when I saw him look up, his face completely changed, as he calmly says to Brian (who’s at the door), “That’ll be three dollars.”

Brian froze. We all did. Do we run? I was of the mind that I could sell Brian out; he’s the one with the King Cones in his hands. After a tense little silence Brian finally works out what he considers to be his best coarse of action.

“I didn’t pay for these?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Three bucks.”

All Brian had to do was pay Joe the three bucks and we were in the clear. It might not have been the best play but it was effective and effective was good enough if it got us the fuck out of there.

“I don’t have three bucks.”

Fuck. Fuck you, Brian. Joe just keeps his stare steady, this man is a pro at shaking people down, he knows how to play it.

“How much do you have?”

Brian didn’t see the trap. Joe wouldn’t have sold them to him for less than three bucks, he was just hoping that, well…

“I don’t have any money.”

Even at the age of eight I knew this dude was the biggest idiot imaginable. Joe didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, He played this shit like Clint Eastwood – just cool.

“Put them back and go home.”

That’s it. Put them back and go home. Brian put them back and we slowly slinked out of the store. We stayed away for a while but next time we saw Joe he was back to normal, friendly and sneaking candy in our bags. We didn’t steal from him anymore, obviously, but he never seemed to suspect us of even trying.

I kind of think that Joe always knew we were stealing from him. He was a neighborhood guy, old-school, he was probably of the mind that kids were supposed to steal and as long it was the nickel candy he was fine with that – after all our moms more than made up for it in lotto tickets – but the King Cone went too far. He laid down the law with a stare and made his message clear – he was confident that it kept.