Ten Cent Comics, Issue No. One

Issue No. 1 - "The Ends of the Earth"

February 11th, 1961. New Orleans.

The rising sun casts a warm glow over the French quarter. The city still rages with parties started from the night previous, Mardi Gras spirit bleeding over the end of Fat Tuesday, spilling its guts over the start of Ash Wednesday. Despite the festivities below, an aging detective sleeps fitfully in his tiny apartment. He spent his Mardi Gras drinking himself into a ditch. He hasn’t felt festive since he’s been back from Korea.

His name was Wesley LeBlanc. At least he thinks so. Sometimes he forgets. It's hard to remember your own name when you’ve been dissolving at the bottom of a bottle of bourbon for the last 8 years. His service ended in the spring of ‘53, much of which he doesn’t remember- at least beyond the decorations. The military jacket tucked in the back of his small closet is adorned with all manner of pins and patches, the significance of which nonexistent to those not regular to the army. Of which he certainly wasn’t anymore. The booze has helped the guilt of what he did in the army slide right out of his body over the course of 8 quiet years.

Two years. Two years he’s been back home in the quarter, and all he’s done is get his old job back at the detective agency, lose said job, pour all of his savings into starting his own firm, and subsequently lose most of it to loan sharks and bar tabs. None of that matters to him though- at least not at this very moment. What does matter is the fact that he’s managed to miraculously fall face first onto the floor without consciously even trying to do so. Rolling face first off his twin sized bed- he lands chin first on the hardwood floor of his sparsely decorated apartment. All the commotion is just enough to make him partially open a single eye- his vision hazy from last night’s binge, now today’s hangover.

He grumbles to his feet, barely able to stand. Where are his pants? He doesn’t know, at least not yet. He stumbles over to the windowsill, thinking some fresh air will rejuvenate him. Last night’s air lingers in the wind, still thick with booze and the mixed odor of half a million festival goers. He nearly hurls over the balcony when something catches his eye laying in the middle of the street. A pair of waist-size 36 dress slacks. He looks down at his currently undressed bottom He takes a moment to process what he’s looking at.

“Well shit.” he coughs out, eyes now fixed on his woefully discarded pants. Seems he had a better Fat Tuesday than he initially thought.

No point getting mournful now though- he has other pairs of slacks. Not a clean pair, but he wasn’t planning on leaving the house today anyways. Nor does he ever really. For him, nursing a hangover is a multi-day endeavor. Starting with ordering in from creole joint down the street, followed by 16 hours of sleep, and ending with another binge that bleeds over into the next hangover. And thus, the cycle would continue. He needn’t worry about his work- he hadn’t had a case in over a full quarter’s time. That was irrelevant though, he was perfectly happy living on his meager pay from his stint in the army and whatever loans he could fish up. For the time being, he was living comfortably at the bottom of a bottle of booze, drinking himself into a puddle day and night.

All of that was about to change, however. Throwing his childhood fuzzy robe over his shoulders, Wesley tentatively stepped out into the hall. At this hour, even in spite of the festivities, the building was a ghost town. His neighbors either fitfully sleep a night of drinking away, or still out- face down in a ditch somewhere in the crescent city. He stumbles down the way to the entrance hall, the receptionist also gone fishing, probably out at some dive. Wesley checks his mail, most of which is rubbish. A letter from his estranged mother, a notice from his landlord, a crummy mail-in a sweepstake. But the final thing he pulled caught his eye. A clean, manilla envelope, unlabeled, and sealed with wax. The fancy red kind you only get on letters from prestigious academic institutions.

Had he applied for some ivy league? Most certainly not, he was far too gone, his brain pickled by the hundreds of bottles of bourbon he’s run through. No, this was something else. The envelope was heavy, thick, and smelled of French vanilla. None of the other mail in his hand mattered now, and upon getting back to his apartment, he immediately stuffed everything into his overflowing wastebasket. Something in his gut told him that in this envelope, was the key to fixing his life. He scrambled to find his letter opener, lost amongst the sea of trinkets covering his desk. He finds it sitting inside an empty coffee mug with a toothbrush, an old fountain pen, and a candle lighter. He didn’t even have any candles.

After carefully tearing through the red wax seal with the dulled blade of the letter opener, Wesley clears some space on his desk, flicking his nearby novelty cowboy lamp on. A relic from his youth, spent listening to audio dramas on the radio ‘round the living room at his childhood home in Queens. Back then his father was still in the picture. Ironic, the man fell into alcoholism all the same after his time in the Pacific. ‘Spose it really is “like father like son.”

With the light of the Renegade Rider, and his cheaters on- Wesley began to read the message, typed out on expensive parchment paper.

“Dear Mr. Wesley Leroy Leblanc II,

I am incredibly sorry to inform you that, at the time of this message's transcription, your father, Sir Wesley Leroy Jackson Leblanc, has just recently passed away on the 8th of this month…”

Ouch. His old man, dead on his birthday. He would’ve been 65? No, 66. It doesn’t matter really. After Wesley left for Korea he and his ma’ divorced, and he hadn’t heard from him since. Wesley continued reading.

“I, Robert Blackwell, was a close associate of your father. From my understanding, he has been absent from your life for some 10 years before today. It is unfortunate then that you will not have a reunion on this mortal plane.

Regardless, he left instructions in his last will and testament that you, as his only surviving next of kin, be given total control of his estate in Anaheim. His only instructions beyond that point were to contact a man named Sandy Cooke once you arrive here. He lives in Hollywood Heights. It is of my understanding that he is a famous motion picture director…”

Estate? Anaheim? Hollywood?! Wesley was dumbfounded! For his entire life, Wesley had known his father to be a frugal man, and an east coaster at that. He claimed he would live and die in New York City. Yet here he supposedly was across the country in the city of stars with an estate? Wesley could scarcely believe it.

“There will be an auction of various elements from your father’s “private” collection happening on the 15th of this month. Many of his close friends and colleagues here in California will be attending.

He made it very clear in his will that you must be present. Attached to this letter is a ticket for an express flight out of New Orleans leaving for Los Angeles. If all has worked out, you should be receiving this the day before said flight is set to depart.

I expect to see you here, and I am looking forward to meeting you in person.

Regards,

Robert Pilate Blackwell.”

Wesley stared blankly at the paper for a long time. He couldn’t believe a word of what he had just read. His father, a man who he had known to be a near dirt poor, staunch east coast family man and alcoholic, had somehow managed to live a secret life of luxury in the 11 years of his absence from Wesley’s life. All up, it seemed like a big crock of bullshit.

“What a load of crap this is-” but before he could finish his sentence, he flipped the piece of paper to the other side. True to Blackwell's word, taped to the back of the letter was a plane ticket. It was marked as an outgoing flight from MSY to LAX. It was scheduled to leave at Noon on the dot tomorrow, the 12th of February.

Whether he liked it or not, fate had decided that we would have to reconcile with his father after all.

END OF ISSUE NO. 1