Wax. Who knows what it is, or what it does. Who knows how it shows up in our ears, or what it whispers to us when we sleep. Who knows why wax will not burn, but goes soft and runs from the fire as if it were a living thing. Who knows if wax is a living thing.

I once made a little figurine from the wax surrounding a Babybel cheese wheel, and named him Douglas Martin. He was red, two and a half inches tall, and I tried to bring him to life like the Indian in the Cupboard. I performed a black magic ritual on the roof of my middle school, placing Douglas Martin in a small pine box with (3) howls of a hound, (1) feather of an old crown, and (6) virgin yo-yo strings. I called to heaven above and hell below, “Give life to my waxen, cheese-wheel friend! Let him walk with the spirit of a man, let him roar with the spirit of a hungry tiger. Give life to him, O Wretched Ones, propel him to our mortal plane with your fearsome, unknowable power!” A shock of lightning ripped through the air and set the pine box ablaze. A soft, ashen rain followed, like a post-coital sigh… and there. Reaching through flames sent from beyond, a miniature red hand. Beckoning me. My approach was slow, filled with wonder, filled with unholy terror. I looked to the fiery box, “…Douglas Martin?”

“No,” the voice said from within, “You shall call me… Wes. And together, we shall make comics.”


[[Note: This is all completely true. -Wes]]