The place stunk of blood and sawdust. As the butcher prepared my pop's order, I spun the creaky, lopsided comic rack. Batman, Spider-Man and The Hulk were familiar friends from Television. Riding home on my father’s shoulders, my jacket filled with Pork Chops and 35 cent adventures, I was drunk with excitement. But then, suddenly, without warning…
“Jason” my father warned, “Don’t turn around. Two-Face is right behind us.”
Aw crap, Two-Face was the worst of the bunch that chased us home. I held on tight to my father's sweatshirt as he broke into a run. After narrowly escaping certain death, I would gorge myself on meat products, four color funnies and, if I was lucky, a baby can of Budweiser to calm my 5 year old nerves.
Why do I write graphic novels? Because I want every child in America to believe Two-Face is going to chop them into little pieces.