Samuel the Inquisitor stood before the village council.

“You want to do what, again?” asked Farmer Shears.

“Inquisit!”

Farmer Shears turned to the village librarian, Ms. Kiwi.

“Is inquisit a word?”

“Of course it is!” Samuel said.

“I don’t think so,” Ms. Kiwi replied. “I think that you’re looking for the word ‘inquire.’”

“Oh, well that’s ok,” Farmer Shears said. He leaned back in his chair until it creaked and hooked his thumbs in his buttonholes while he let a magnanimous look spread across his face. “We’re happy to share information about our little village. What would you like to know?”

“Are any witches, demons or warlocks living in your midst?

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Have villains got you down? Have their henchmen run roughshod all over your azaleas? Have their schemes ruined your anniversary dinner when the restaurant had to cancel your reservation due to a gigantic robotic mole burrowing through its foundations? Have they cut you off in traffic and honked while doing so?

Hank Rockjaw is in the same boat.

When a mysterious enemy threatens the Rockjaw family brewery Hank must use his wits and his fists to cut through a web of intrigue and betrayal. Who can he trust? Is it the beautiful and mysterious Zelphia Dipthong? Or Roland Wu, his mysterious gardener? Or the Cult of Aristaeus, a mysterious motorcycle gang?

Clear your calendars, because from February 1st to March 1st 1889 Labs will be hosting Hank Rockjaw’s latest serialized adventure: Freedom Beer!

“They’re not worth it,” Myrna said. She put a hand on her husband’s metal arm.

It vibrated beneath her hand because his tungsten carbide cutting blades had wound up.

“But they’re sitting there staring at us,” Mining Unit 1041 crackled. “We have rights.”

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Coinciding with the SOPA/PIPA blackouts on January 18th (yesterday as of the time of this writing) the Supreme Court of the United States ruled that the United States Congress may take works out of the public domain and re-copyright them.

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I’ve written before about how I think the current copyright laws support the bank accounts of corporate upper managers more than they support the bank accounts of artists. Infinite renewal of an aging catalog means no room for new input. Copyright that outlives an artist’s direct dependents ain’t intended for the artist. Et cetera.

The same media industry wieners have purchased some proposed legislation (it appears that the sponsor of SOPA, Representative Lamar Smith, has some rich friends in media). The US Senate considers PIPA and the US House of Representatives considers SOPA but the two are at least fraternal twins. Many excellent arguments have been written against both pieces of legislation by people much more knowledgeable than myself, including the Electronic Frontier Foundation and concerned law professors. And the European Parliament has weighed in on the matter with a resolution expressing their concern.

Culture isn’t mine, and it isn’t yours, and it isn’t theirs. It’s ours. Publishers may act as a steward and many do an excellent job in that role, but come on, how many damn fantasy stories have been written about stewards overreaching and acting like jackasses and then the real king comes back and is all like “you’re a dick sandwich, check out this sweet crown?” We’re the real kings, the media lobbyists are the dick sandwiches.

If you’ve picked up any published editions of my books, you’ll know that they were released under a Creative Commons license. I’ve gone ahead and added the comparative license to content on this site as well.

“I said spread ‘em!” Officer Cory bellowed. With his other foot, he kicked apart the suspect’s feet.

He did so several times, as the lower half of the suspect’s body displayed dodecameric symmetry. Every time he kicked apart one set of feet, he’d actually force the other eleven closer together.

“And keep your hands on your vehicle!” the cop said. He handcuffed two of the suspect’s pseudopods together. The other fifteen pressed their tips to the smooth metal surface of its spaceship. The headlights of Cory’s police car bathed the forest clearing with light. The red and blue LEDs in the emergency light bar on the car strobed and gave the scene a tinge of the fantastic above and beyond the presence of the alien lifeform.

One of the pseudopods held a small orb studded with fat, finger-sized cylinders. Cory reached up and knocked it away. It thudded into the grass.

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