Cyrus stood next to Kelly. Both of his hands reached towards an unseen sky. The skyscrapers of Rupture soared above the trio. A massive pressure hull hovered just out of reach of the skyscrapers – although a gangly tourist standing on the highest tower could touch it – and above that skin flowed a million tons of ocean.

“Do you know that he’s the mayor?” Kelly asked, careful not to push her skin against the cold line of the blade while she spoke.

“Sure. How ya doing, mayor?” The robber flipped through Kelly’s wallet with one hand. “You need to bring richer guests down to Rupture.”

“Sorry. She’s a scientist.”

“That’s okay.” The robber dropped the knife and took off down the street.

Cyrus kicked the knife into a storm drain. Kelly hyperventilated.

“We were just robbed! And you didn’t do anything about it!” She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against a lamp post.

“Not yet. But I will. I’m planning my next election campaign around being tough on crime. I’ll be the toughest.” Cyrus made a serious candidate face: half concern, half stoicism, all bullshit.

“But you didn’t fight the robber right now!”

“That wouldn’t do any good.”

“We would still have our wallets.”

“Think of it as a campaign contribution. Besides, Rupture is a secret underwater city. You can’t hop on a bus and get here. Nobody drifts through here. A car doesn’t break down outside of the city limits and the driver comes looking for a mechanic. The Immigration Committee hand-picks the citizenry. We send them invitations printed on paper with gilt borders. They’re very nice. You should see them. Practically card stock.”

“What are you telling me? And why did the robber say something about guests to Rupture?”

“I’m saying that I personally invited every criminal here. If you don’t have crime, you can’t get elected on a platform of being tough on crime. Without being tough on crime, what would I run on? The issues?”

Kelly pushed herself off of the lamp post. She took a step towards Cyrus, her eyes narrowing.

“You brought me to Rupture so that I could get robbed and you would rack up more points for your mayoral campaign?”

Cyrus shrugged and glanced sideways.

“Not exactly. I didn’t want you to get mugged. I did actually want to show you Rupture. But I won’t look a gift robber in the mouth.”

Kelly punched Cyrus.

“Thanks,” he said around a mouthful of blood.

The Moral: our secret underwater societies won’t be free until we rid them of corruption

“I can name it whatever I like. I am Cyrus C. Cwiggus, and I am the mayor of Rupture,” said Cyrus. He had spent the last hour attacking a piece of paper with a pen, and only looked up when he thought Kelly had struck a telling blow against his plans. The last time he’d moved his head was forty-five minutes ago.

“You’re going to get sued. Remember that video game Bioshock? It had an underwater city. Named Rapture.”

“The vowels are totally different.”

“What about the name Rupture? That doesn’t sound like it would stay very…dry.” Kelly looked out the curved, fisheye window of the undersea research station into the murky twilight beyond. The word ‘Rupture’ made her think about the massive pressure bearing down on their fragile shell of concrete and steel, and the millions of gallons of water waiting to rush into the gaseous sanctuary that they’d built down here. Kelly knew why Cyrus kept a curtain over his window.

“All of our city ordinances will be printed with water-soluble inks on tissue paper. That’s how dry it will be. A Bedouin nomad could come visit and die of thirst.” Cyrus looked up and grinned. “Now shut up about all that. I’ve done something important. I’ve finished the official city seal for Rupture.”

He pushed the sheet of paper across his desk. Kelly picked it up.

“You spent an hour drawing a stickman with a fork menacing a pack of eyeballs?”

Cyrus got up from around the desk. He leaned over her shoulder, breathed in her ear and pointed at the illustration.

“No! This is me, the Mayor of Rupture. This is my mighty trident, like what Poseidon used to pitchfork seaweed into bales to feed his seahorses int he winter. And that’s a school of fish, not eyeballs. Eyeballs don’t even look like fish.”

“No, they don’t,” Kelly agreed, and handed the paper back to Cyrus.

“I”m beginning to think that you don’t believe in Rupture.”

“Rupture might be a cool idea but you have two problems: the first is that nothing of that scale has ever been tried. The second is the name. Sorry. I’m not trying to be a killjoy.”

“No! Not at all. Every city needs problems. A mayor of a city without problems is just somebody sitting behind a desk. I would get bored. Actually, can I tell you a little secret?”

“Of course.”

“You have to promise not to tell anybody.”

“I promise.”

“Really promise! For real!”

“I do! What’s your secret?”

“I’m already the mayor of Rupture.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have already built Rupture. We have already held our first elections. And I was elected mayor,” Cyrus said, his voice conspiratorial.

“Do you have a fever? It will take a little time to get you up to the surface to see a doctor but if you’re sick, we’re all sick, and we need to see if Bernard has any ibuprofen to help.” Kelly frowned and her mind wandered onto logistical problems.

“No, no. I’m fine. Do you know why I keep a curtain over my window?”

“Because even though the window keeps out millions of tons of water it is permeable to thought that you’ve spent the last several weeks working, living and playing in your own grave?”

“No, it’s because that curtain is the only thing keeping Rupture a secret. Now it’s you and the curtain.”

Cyrus pulled the curtain aside.

The skyline was distorted by the water and the window but was unmistakable.

“We are under the ocean.” Kelly felt behind her for a chair. Finding none, she sat down on the rubberized floor and put her head between her knees.

“Are you okay?” Cyrus asked.

“That is a skyline.”

“Yes.”

“Under the ocean.”

“Yes.”

Then Kelly remembered that she was a damned scientist.

“Show me.”

“Okay.”

In an odd coincidence for the creator of Hank Rockjaw, I wasn’t able to get the latest chapter of Freedom Beer up on time yesterday because I had been punched in the face too hard, too many times last Sunday.

Long story short, on Sunday I was doing a boxing drill. I’m still inexperienced and my partner wasn’t being as careful as they should have been with the force of their punches. While I didn’t have any urgent symptoms, I went to the doctor on Wednesday and he told me that I had probably suffered a minor concussion.

The headache has been coming and going, mostly going, but during my writing time it was coming right for me.

I’ll chalk it up to research.

I think that Hank would approve.

Some writers work at their best in low-stress environments, like a secluded cabin. Other writers prefer the constant murmur of bars and cafes.

I work best with a series of minor emergencies pulling me along. Once I’ve built up my savings a little more, I’m planning to hire a part-time assistant to stand behind me all day and flick lit matches into my hair.

And now there’s a new way to support my goal of being slightly on fire at all times! With the help of the talented designer Ashley Hay, I have produced a tshirt based off of the Chronocyclops story in the Guide to Moral Living in Examples.

Because of my silly ideas about labor rights and the environment, the design is printed with PVC-free plastisol inks that are manufactured in the USA and silkscreened onto US-made Royal Apparel organic cotton tshirts – now with 100% less sexual harassment or weird tumors!

The store portion of A Path Fantastic isn’t quite ready yet. If you are jonesing really hard you can email me and we can sort out something where I meet you in an alley and pass you a parcel wrapped in brown paper and inside that parcel might even be a tshirt but I’m no snitch. Otherwise, the store should be available soon!

And Hank Rockjaw tags along behind it.

Freedom Beer, the newest Hank Rockjaw serial, begins today. My publisher, 1889 Labs, is graciously hosting it for its run. I’ll be posting entries Monday, Wednesday and Friday from now until February 29th.

There will be fists, beer, mystery, beer, jet fighters, beer, intrigue and beer.

If you don’t like Valentine’s Day, then this book is for you.

And if you do like Valentine’s Day, then you should also like this book because you seem to be the sort of person that likes things.

Who is gunning for Hank and the brewery that’s been in his family for generations? Who is behind the mysterious Saint Secaire Brewery? Is it Josh, former sweatshop owner and former punch recipient, trying to exact his revenge on Hank for ending his exploitative business? Or is it Zelphia, Josh’s enigmatic attorney, who arrives unannounced at his home?

And why is this book cover so fucking awesome?