"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Professor F

An obligatory credit scroll in the classic Capcom “Special Thanks” method might just go a bit like this:

Leksi K , for  giving me the confidence by example to continue avoiding the path of least resistance in my life; for reading and laughing at my drafts with me and even more specifically, pushing me towards the more difficult, and therefore great, choice of writing a title for each strip;

“BOW BOW BOWER-WHEELS” , for his innumerable tech donations and his more than consistent intellectual support;

SAW , for having been a positively major influence on my life and introducing me to gaming in the first place;

Winwood , for being such a damn cool guy to host my arrogant bullshit on his server, simply based on a cocktail of having met me a few times stirred gently with the hearsay of my character;

Nick V , for his excitement about my projects and for listening to me drunkenly speak of this particular one during it’s infancy;

Maddox , for being my first and still best example of the application of integrity to an electronically distracted modern world constantly producing a sometimes overpowering, yet always ubiquitous, amount of surreptitious horse-shit;

Squaresoft , for, up until it’s untimely demise, being a producer of interactive art that defined an era which can never be replicated and was then helping to prove, long before Halo or Call of Duty, that video games are viable;

MD Greggs , for being himself, i.e.: the whole reason my sense of humor and personal philosophy even exists de facto; the only person in my youth to have ever waited with bated breath to hear something that I’ve written, that credit being a mere atomic particle of the whole: “Just like a mirror reflecting the moves of your life and in the river, reflections of me”;

Mahlon S , for helping provide the personal revelation that chicken wings are a fantastic apparatus for main-lining various hot sauces, and more subtly, for being a physical embodiment of everything that I never want to be, thus necessarily pushing me ever increasingly fast down my now long chosen path away from it;

Everyone else that I personally know, but who I know also will never read this , for, by being who they are, supply me with more than enough anti-passion just by simply having snacked repeatedly on the Phony Bologna sandwiches that they attempt to serve me whenever their schedule permits it;

…and YOU.

Thanks for playing.


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