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BREAKING EGGS

a Jack Reacher adventure [don't get your hopes up but I have given it a shot]

Heartlands, a no-account place at in the Midwest. When petty thief Jack Knave is murdered, the obvious suspect is a loner picked up on the city limits. But when that man's. Name is Jack Reacher, the authorities get a lot more than they bargained for. A lot.

The prosecutor's name was King. I could read it on the laminate strip on the left side of his chest. I figured him for a usual smalltown asshole. I could read the DA's name, too. Her name was A. Liddell. I wondered what the A stood for. The badge looked real good right where it was. Better than King's badge. It was over her breast. I kept reading her name. She caught my eye. I kept looking. You can't put a man in jail for reading a badge. And I wasn't going to jail tonight. Not tonight, and not any other night. Not in Heartlands.

"Witness reports you were carrying a tart in your hand," King said.

I said nothing. He hadn't asked me a question.

"What were you doing with it?" He was getting mad. That was fine with me.

I said nothing. Then shrugged. No percentage in dragging this on. "I was eating it," I said.

"It was gone when you were picked up by Officer Dum."

"I guess it was in my mouth," I told him. "Or it was being broken down by enzymes and acids into more simple structures. Depends what time he picked me up. The nutrients could have been in my lymphatic capallaries by then."

Liddell was smiling. Her smile was like sunlight. "Where did you learn that, Reacher?"

I laughed. "West Point is a college." Then I shrugged, and nodded to a sheaf of paper in her hand. "That's the ballistics report on the victim, right? Rabbit?"

She raised her eyebrows. "I was a cop, of sorts," I told her. "Homicide."

"Was? What have you been doing the last three years?"

"Working in a bar," I shrugged. Her eyes asked how working in a bar could keep me in such great shape, so I told her. "I figured out a method of washing the glasses and opening bottles that exercised every damn muscle in my body."

Her breathing was deeper. I could see she was imagining me pulling the caps off bottles, swirling fresh liquid inside a dirty glass. Like she wanted me to pull her cap off, swirl some stuff inside her... glass. Something like that.

My look told her to bring the report over. She tilted her head. It was like the sun coming out behind a cloud. Then she walked over to me. I could smell some feminine stuff in the air. Perfume. She was wearing some kind of stuff. A dress, I figured. Blue. And one of thoe white things waitresses wear. I guessed it was called an apron. She'd look good without that apron. And the dress. She could keep the perfume on.

Her fingers touched mine. They were like the sun touching my fingers. Hot, but good. I butted the papers into shape.

"Did you read these?" I asked King.

"Of course I read them," he snapped. He was getting steamed. I liked it that way.

"They tell you I'm not the shooter who killed Rabbit", I said. "Clear as day follows night."

* * * *

"Go on," said Liddell. She was looking at me. I liked that look. It would look better without the five and a half feet of courtroom and two inches of maplewood screen in the way between us, and with the dress pooled in the sunlight on her bedroom floor, and my hands somewhere between her feet and her shoulders. I think you know what I'm saying here.

"I want some coffee," I told King. "A pint of it. Or a quart, depending on what containers you have."

"We only have tea," he said. I didn't know what tea was. Something English, I figured. I don't know anything about English stuff. I don't, honestly mate.

I shrugged. "The bullet entered Rabbit's skull at the front," I told her. "But look at the wound. Ripped the skin into a star-shape. A soft-point .22 did that. I'd say a Dodgson Lewis, converted for a smaller jacket."

A guy across the courtroom nodded. A black guy. Looked like he knew something about the blues. You don't get to be a black guy on that side of a courtroom without knowing something about the blues. I liked him immediately. Just wanted to tell you that. So you'd know.

"That's an exit wound," I went on. "My guess is the bullet came out at the back, left a clean, neat hole, no tattooing or cavitation."

The black guy nodded again. I figured him for a jazz musician. Black guys I meet are usually jazz musicians. I could see respect in the way he looked at me. I nodded back.

"In other words, the bullet came out of his skull the other side, and left an entrance wound. That was a looking-glass bullet. I don't own a looking-glass gun, never have, never will. So I'm walking out of this courtroom, because you haven't got a case, King."

"The shooter was clearly identified," King blustered. "He was tall."

I'm tall.

"He was white."

I'm white, on the surface. Some say that being black goes deeper than that. It's all about if you can appreciate the blues, if you've known what it is to be alone for awhile. I exchanged looks with the guy across the courtroom. Saw he knew what I meant. It was a look that said, damn right brother.

"Witnesses described a big guy."

I'm big. Really big. Spectacularly big. I've got a ridge of muscle I'll tell you about later. Remind me, OK.

"He had a bald or shaved head."

My head's shaved. Not bald, though. I'm forty-one next year, and got a full head of hair. Not bad. Not bad, huh.

"I'm giving you an exit strategy, King," I told him calmly. "You can let me walk out of here, and I'll take down your shooter, no rules and no legislation. Or you can leave here in three pieces."

King made a stupid move. He sent Dee and Dum at me with six other police goons. It's been a long time since I was scared of an eight-on-one. Those are the kind of odds I like.

I calculated their positions. Evaluate, process, then act. That's what twelve years in the military taught me. From Dee's posture and stance I could tell he was going to lead with a right swing, then try an uppercut, then stand back and scratch his nose. I could see the twitch building in his left nostril. His shoelace was slightly undone. He'd trip on it in six seconds. I stepped aside and rammed my elbow into the bridge of his nose. I should tell you about that bone sometime. It's called the temporal bone. Weakest in the human body. Real interesting. Makes a mess when you hit it hard. I can hit real hard. I hit Dee even harder. It was probably the hardest hit of my life. It hit him like ten freight trains. He went down. My calculations were right. His friends were behind him as he fell, at just the right angle. They tumbled like skittles. They groaned on the floor, rubbing their bruises. I didn't feel anything about it.

"Let's go," I told Liddell. We walked out of the courtroom. I knew that next to a courtroom in any town is a clothing store. I bought tan chinos, shirt, white boxers, socks. Changed in the back and stuffed the tan chinos, shirt, white boxers and socks I'd been wearing in a garbage can. No reason. Just felt like it.

"Stay down," I told her. I turned and fired. The shooter was where I knew he'd be. The black guy's wisdom had told me that, with his eyes. He'd glanced up toward the wall of the courthouse. Told me with that look how he respected me, and appreciated my attitude towards black folks.

Shards of eggshell, some a foot long, some more like eight, nine inches, shattered down. One of them pierced King's left eye and penetrated his brain. Blood bubbled up from his mouth. I didn't feel anything. One less asshole in the world.

Liddell kissed me hard, long. So hard it would have hurt a smaller, weaker guy. Her waist was probably two-thirds, three-quarters smaller than mine. I'd ask her later, get the proportions right in my head. Part of me wished I could see her without all that skin, fat and muscle in the way. She must have great-looking kidneys, and a cute liver. That could wait, too.

My hands looked huge on her body. They could have crushed her breasts. But I wasn't going to do that. I liked her. We stumbled into her car, wild with passion. I put some music on in my head loud as we made love. Best kind of stereo. You can crank it up as high as you want. I laughed when I thought of city guys spending money on a shiny new stereo. I started playing "Circle in the Sand" in my head. Belinda Carlisle. The 12 inch version. Actually more like 11 and a half inch, if you measure it. A circle in the sand sounded pretty good to me just then. Preferably with Liddell in it. On a beach. Somewhere hot. Out of that stupid dress and wearing something less. A bikini or something. Oh yeah. Mm. God.

"Are you OK, Reacher?" Liddell asked. I'd been drifting off, lost in my own thoughts. Her hand was touching somewhere between my thick slabs of pecs and my massive thighs. It felt pretty good. Better than pretty good. It felt very good.

Later we had egg for breakfast.

I, MAN

a meta-maxi series by new-media superstar Grant Morrison

"I, Man" is a comic book event unlike anything the DC Universe has seen before... and an obscure corner of the DC Universe will never be the same again! Pop magician Grant Morrison brings his own brand of genius to the unlikeliest of heroes, making you see old friends in a new light... and introducing new trademarked properties to the DCU, one of which may earn a short-lived mini-series of his or her own, penned by Warren Ellis with editorial rough notes by Grant Morrison himself.

Which of the heroes may earn a short-lived mini-series? The truth will be revealed in "I, Man"'s shattering epilogue!

PROLOGUE: I, MANN #0, coming October 2006

For George Eimann, a bald, washed-up loser living in a small town outside Bradford, the UK, today's breakfast was going to be the same as any other. He didn't count on the sudden appearance of Kay Sane, a quirky, bohemian girl from the year 2012 who tells him she's channelling the ghost of Philip K Dick! Kay reveals that George is the Emperor-God of a microscopic universe peopled by the Mini-Eggs... a world that can be revealed by reading the back of cereal packets backwards and sideways, using five-dimensional glasses! If Kay's right, George's breakfast egg is the centre of a miniature solar system, and all the "fictional" character on his cereal products are more real than his own life?!

Is George a nobody, or could he be the greatest hero a tiny parallel earth has ever known? Only the back of his breakfast products will reveal the truth, in "I, Man" #1, the epilogue that smashes together universes you never knew existed!

CAP'N CRUNCH #1, November 2006

In the first episode of the stunningly complex, centuries-spanning, interconnected saga of George Eimann, Grant takes us back to the Golden Age Cap'n Crunch. Let him tell the story: "I met this amazing guy in Los Angeles last year. He was walking towards me, and because I was on K I thought he looked a little bit like Cap'n Crunch off the old cereal boxes. [laughs] So I forced him to wear this hat, and moustache and shit, and sit down talking to me as Cap'n Crunch, you know, 'what do you think of Frankenberry? Do you get along with Tony the Tiger?' The character just came fully-formed from there."

Though the tale begins in the innocent 1940s, Crunch's life is soon turned upside-down as he's propelled into a parallel universe by the mysterious George Mirrorman! (Cult internet fans are already debating whether Mirrorman appears reflected in the glass behind his reverso-self, George Eimann, #0, p10, panel 4 ~ see http://www.barbelith.com/faq/imann0.php )

The naive Golden Age hero, trained for fisticuffs against Japanazis, is immediately out of his depth as he struggles against Nar'tho'lep, a stag bettle god the size of the solar system who wants to bring K'haos to the world! Based on an authentic fever dream Grant had in 1999, Thailand. Pages 1-5 by Frank Quitely, 6-24 by Kevin O'Neill.

CAP'N CRUNCH #1, if folded along line B, may provide visual annotations to HOSTESS TWINKIE #2 (forthcoming March 2008).

COUNT CHOCULA #1, January 2007

"I just wanted to put the final nail in the coffin of Grim'n'Gritty," confesses Grant. "Count Chocula is my last goodbye to all that dark shit from the 1990s. Heroes should be light and fun again."

Count Chocula, Frankenberry and Boo Berry live in the Castle of Dreams, on the other side of the Plain of Secrets, guarded by friendly ravens and talking pumpkins. But when George Mirrorman steps through the Glass of Looking and sprinkles peyote in Boo Berry's breakfast, the whimsical lords of Sleep realise their world is a giant egg, and it's about to be cracked, releasing a horde of K'haos gods with the heads of stag beetles!

"It's basically a massacre," smiles Grant. "Karen told me DC had bought just the rights to all the Kelloggs characters, and I thought I'd kill a few of them off before starting afresh. So we see Snap, Crackle and Pop, who are these kid-adventurers like the Three Investigators, getting their balls cut off while their sidekicks Toucan Sam and Coco Monkey are roasted over a fire. It's hilarious. This is the kind of idealistic, fun stuff that superheroes should be all about. If all comics were like this one, they'd sell like pop singles."

Cult underground creator Morrison expanded on his vision during a recent cyberpunk convention at the ICA, London England: "Basically, I'm making comics for the PS2 generation. This one's going to cross over bigtime... you're going to get rappers sampling it for record sleeves, Japanese schoolgirls wearing Boo Berry trainers. GMWord is in discussions about a Saturday morning cartoon based on this one episode. We're talking seven figures. And I've got all the rights to associated likenesses, which is nice. Should pay for the new estate in Sausalito, so the missus is a happy bunny, and I'll get my jet."

Print run: 300.

SNAP, CRACKLE AND POP may return with a brand new look in SNAP, CRACKLE AND POP #1 (Summer 2008), based on something Grant Morrison once said, written and drawn by someone else.

Page 7, panel 9 of COUNT CHOCULA connects with TONY THE TYGER #2 (currently in note form, forthcoming ?? 2010). Otherwise, the issues are stand-alone, providing the ideal point for new readers to join the roller-coaster tale of "I, Mann"!

TONY THE TYGER #1 (March 2007)

Forget what you knew about Tony Tiger! Grant's re-visioning of the character is Fresh Prince of Bel Air meets Barney the Dinosaur! A streetwise African American teen, Grifta, is amazed when he robs a rich businessman and discovers a mysterious amulet... which becomes an amazing 7-foot orange Tyger called Tony! Is Tony a K'haos god, or the best friend a "fresh" brotha ever had? Warning: contains mature "street" language for adolescent readers, eg. Grifta says "Oh, sh@£, kiss my Black A$£!"

Let's let Grant tell the story of how he wrote this issue. "I just... wrote it, in five minutes," he shrugs.

Drawn by cult hit Ron Smith, best known from underground comix strip "Chronos Carnival" in Brit weekly 2000AD.

HOSTESS TWINKIE #1 (June 2007)

Back to the Silver Age, in a glorious pastiche of more innocent times! Written by Grant after taking an authentic "Ecstasy" pill, this issue introduces the grooviest of pop heroines on a road trip with her best gal-pal! Each page is fully self-contained with no connection to the one before or after, in what Grant calls "hyper-isolated" style. Drawn by Rian Hughes, it looks nice at least.

HOSTESS TWINKIE #1 can be read as a stand-alone tale, although a hastily-added page 24 by fan filler favorite Howard Porter introduces George Mirrorman again, and takes Twinkie to a darker alternate world in time for the shocking conclusion of HOSTESS TWINKIE #2!

GOLDEN GRAHAM #1 of 1 (November 2007)

What would happen if a man called Graham was drawn into Jack Kirby's world of the New Gods and became known as "Golden Graham"? Only Grant knows whether he will write this story. STAND-ALONE SPECIAL WITH NO CONNECTION TO I,MANN: A PERFECT ENTRY POINT FOR NEW READERS!

HOSTESS TWINKIE #2 (March 2008)

A new creative team heads-up a startling new direction for Hostess Twinkie, as our favorite Silver Age heroine finds herself in a tenth-dimensional prison. "I just got myself into a magik trance on White Lightning cider, cut out the captions and threw them down on Jim Baikie's finished page," Grant explains. "Just sorta stuck them down. I was feeling this real Burroughs vibe."

Touch your fingers to Twinkie's face on panel 4, page 3, and text a premium phone line if YOU feel a burst of psychic energy! Page 5 is black and white, so you can colour it in yourself. And in a groundbreaking experiment sure to be the comics event of 2008, Grant allows YOU as the reader to finish the story. The script ends on page 12 with the words "ah f&%k it", inviting every fan to write Twinkie's adventure in his or her own way! Jim Baikie gives up on the art one page later, in a bold challenge to storytelling conventions. Why not draw what you think should happen, too? This prestige edition retails at £7.99 (subject to inflation by 2008).

EPILOGUE: I, MANN #1

In the senses-overloading conclusion to Grant's meta-epic, we may find the answers to the questions threaded through the multi-levelled saga. Is George Eimann really the God-Emperor of the Mini-Egg Universe? What is his relationship to the sinister George Mirrorman? Which of the new-found heroes in this saga, if any, has any relationship to these book-end issues? This issue includes instructions for cutting and folding each page to construct an origami model of a hexagon, allowing Grant's characters to enter the real world in a three-dimensional sigil-model.

Forthcoming 2012.

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