The premise of Helmet Head is simple: Young Jewish motorcycle cop Peter Fagan inadvertently stumbles into the path of someone or something that stalks bikers and leaves them headless. Although there are plenty of outlaw bikers in the story, the killer targets anyone on a motorcycle. Right after he dispatches a member of the local southern Illinois biker gang, he pursues Fagan with frightening singleness of purpose. He pursues Fagan all the way to the biker hangout, a rundown, out of the way bar, where Helmet Head doesn’t kill anyone. Instead, he orders a drink. When the bartender refuses to serve him, he leaves. This sets the tone for a rather long stretch.
The action kicks into high gear again in the last third of the story, and if you can get past the mad scientist angle and the obligatory damsel in distress, it’s a fairly entertaining ride. The climactic conflagration is a smorgasbord of horror movie clichés – which might have worked, despite the rather offhanded way one of the main characters dies, if it weren’t for the rather anti-climactic (and inevitable) scene in which the villain meets his end.
Mike Baron is a good writer, and that shows early on in Helmet Head – and based on my extremely limited sample of self-published works of fiction, Helmet Head is the best-written one so far. The first few chapters are tightly paced, with just enough colorful metaphor to give the narrative depth. But good writing and good storytelling are not the same thing.
Helmet Head apparently started as an idea for a “slasher film,” and that unfortunately also shows. Unlike a non-stop action film, a good novel, even a slasher/horror/thriller novel, requires some characters with depth. Even if you don’t like the characters, you need to have some sense that they are real. For good or ill, you need to care what happens to them; otherwise you won’t keep reading to find out. This can be accomplished in a number of ways, but interspersing the main story with unrelated stories from the characters’ pasts only works if it gives the characters more depth or motivation or something that gives the reader a sense of empathy. In the case of Helmet Head, it just gives the characters … well … pasts. Fagan’s early life and Jewish heritage are apparently supposed to be significant in some way. As it turns out, not so much.
Helmet Head reads like a screenplay padded out to make a novel. The pieces just don’t fit together very well. The pacing is uneven. Aside from the occasional overly long asides into the various characters’ back stories, some scenes just don’t seem to make any sense at all. What does Fagan do after the biker gang takes off in pursuit of the monster that has just chopped off the head of their friend and tossed it through the bar window like a basketball? He goes in the back room of the bar and … takes a shower. Freshly showered, he “… stood in the doorway and scanned the room as he’d been trained to do.” This is because the entire bar is a potential crime scene … one in which he’s just taken a shower. And only after that does it occur to him that maybe he should find a vehicle and get the hell out of there and do something, anything.
To be fair, maybe I expected too much. I’m a big fan of Baron’s work on the comic book Nexus, which seamlessly weaves action, drama, humor, and moral conflict into compelling storylines. The most enjoyable aspect of my brief tenure in the comics industry was working with Mike on that book. Unfortunately, those qualities are sadly lacking in Helmet Head.
Our pal and (very) occasional ComicMix contributor. high-energy comics writer Mike Baron (Nexus, Badger, Punisher, Deadman), has written us a novel and has taken it into the ether.
Helmet Head has been published as an Amazon e-book, available via the Kindle app on all computers, smartphones and tablets. It costs $4.99, which is pretty good for a full-length novel. Helmet Head is a horror piece that started out as a movie concept developed for movie director Ian Fischer about a monstrous motorcyclist who rides around the Little Egypt area in central America lobbing off the heads of other bikers and, one supposes, the occasional saluki, all expressed with the subtlety and sensitivity we have come to expect from the talented Mr. Baron.
For example, Mike refers to Helmet Head as containing “scenes of graphic violence that would gag a dog off a gut wagon.” It’s got plenty of bikers, high-holy-horror and senses-shattering action that certainly will thrill his many fans. Clearly, this is a date-night kinda novel.
Baron’s tome is the first of a trilogy – Whack Job comes out later this month and Banshees winds up this arc after the first of the year. And can a comic book adaptation be far behind?
Did I mention there’s Nazis in the story? There’s Nazis in the story. How can you go wrong?
You can gawk at Helmet Head’s interior or actually purchase the book by merely clicking on this link.
Author Mike Baron, creator of Nexus and Badger, has released his first prose novel, Helmet Head for Kindle.
About Mike Baron’s Helmet Head: He was just a rumor to the one percenters–a monstrous motorcyclist dressed all in black who rode the back roads of Little Egypt cutting off the heads of other bikers with a samurai sword. But on one terrible stormy night, Deputy Pete Fagan discovers that Helmet Head is all too real and filled with a fury that won’t be satisfied until his demonic sword drinks deeply.
A print edition will follow from New Pulp Publisher, Airship 27 Productions. As soon as the details become available, All Pulp will share that news here.
Cover art is by Joseph Arnold who will be providing nine black and white interior illustrations for the Helmet Head print edition.
This was it. Ragnarok, Armageddon, and Doomsday rolled into one. This was the premier of Batman: The Killer Croc’s Revenge, the latest installment in the greatest movie franchise of all time. Christian Bale as Batman. Gary Oldman as Chief Gordon. Lindsay Lohan as Rachel Dawes. And Sean Penn as Killer Croc.
Wayne Callard stood in line with 1500 other Bat Fans waiting for the Cinegrande Cineplex to open its doors. Wayne had been waiting in line for nineteen hours. He’d camped out on the sidewalk the previous night, swathing his bulk in two double-sized down-filled sleeping bags on a foam mattress. Wayne was five feet seven and weighed 350 lbs. He’d been born Cicero Wayne Callard.
“Man,” said Manny Ramirez standing next to Wayne and blowing on his hands, “I hope they open the doors soon! I could use a tube steak!” Manny wore Bat sneakers and a Batpack.
“Haven’t you heard?” Wayne said. “They pulled all the hot dogs. The fat content was too high.”
Manny regarded Wayne dubiously. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“No sir. The mayor signed the executive order yesterday. He doubled the food tax on all fast food items and mandated the removal of such items as hot dogs, French fries, jalapeno poppers, and deep fried cheese curds.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me!” Manny wailed. “What kind of dumb fuck would do that?”
“An overreaching municipal, state, and federal government that seeks to control all aspects of our lives and treat us like children.”
“I been thinkin’ about that hot dog all night! It’s the only thing that kept me going!”
“Hang, bro,” Wayne said. “I got you covered.”
A shout. A huzzah rose up the line. They had opened the doors. It was ten-thirty in the morning. Excitement was palpable among the faithful, overwhelmingly comprised of adolescent boys with a few sullen adults shepherding their cubs and hapless girlfriends in tow.
Two security guards met them at the door. “Please deposit all liquids, foods, and recording devices here. Sir, would you mind opening your coat?”
Wayne dutifully spread wide his bulky pea coat revealing a round mound covered with a nicely pilled argyle sweater that had belonged to his grandfather. The guard looked away and waved him through.
“Sir, would you mind opening your backpack?” the guard said to Manny.
Manny slipped it off and flipped open the lid. “It’s a Batpack.”
Tickets were nine dollars for the eleven o’clock matinee, twelve dollars for shows after noon. Wayne got his ticket and waited for Manny in the lobby where the snack counter was doing a brisk business in popcorn made with sunflower oil and available with virgin olive oil, tofu on a stick, and fruit smoothies.
Manny entered the lobby. “Ahmina get a Coke and some buttered popcorn, okay?”
“There is no buttered popcorn. It’s available with sunflower oil and olive oil.”
Manny’s jaw crushed a toe. He looked toward the refreshment counters which resembled festival seating at a Who concert. He resigned himself to water. Wayne took off at flank speed. It was imperative to get your seats first and fish for food second. By the time Wayne and Manny gained the theater, the plum rows eight through twelve were taken with sniveling, squirming, texting, snarfing boys and men in a state of perpetual shiftiness emitting a low rumble of conversation punctuated by invective.
Wayne took the third seat in the 13th row except it was labeled the 14th to avoid the onus of superstition. Manny sat on the aisle. The big screen showed a ruddy, cheerful Santa Claus in coitus with a reindeer, guzzling Coke and shouting, “Shake, it Prancer, you hot bitch!” It was a Very Special Christmas.
During the trailer for Punisher IV – Marvel 0, a flat top and his date, who looked like Betty from Betty & Veronica, entered the aisle causing Manny to swing his legs to the side. Wayne had to stand and even then it was like squeezing by a mattress stuck in the doorway.
“Do you smell McDonald’s?” Betty whispered to her date.
“Shhh!” Wayne shushed. Dude gave him the stink eye but Wayne ignored him. The troublesome couple sat three seats away. They watched a trailer for Zits, the new Will Ferrell comedy in which he plays a child/man forced to grow up when he takes over the family summer camp. They watched a trailer for Grits, the new Adam Sandler comedy in which he plays a child/man forced to grow up when he takes over the family plantation. They watched a trailer for Pits, the new Ben Stiller comedy about black holes.
Finally, after ads for plastic surgery and whole grain crust chicken and sun-dried tomato pizza, the lights lowered and the feature began. Manny stared at the screen in fascination until the smell of a Big Mac got his attention. Wayne nudged him and passed over a Big Mac.
“What? How?” Manny said, pleased and delighted.
Wayne reached down and pulled a portion of his belly away from himself like a lid. “Prosthetic belly,” he whispered. “Costume store. Got the Big Macs last night in Jersey. Kept ‘em warm with body heat.”
“Shhhh!” Betty shushed harshly.
I know what you’re thinkin’, Wayne thought to himself. In all the confusion, did he pull out two burgers, or three? The question you’ve got to ask yourself, lady, is do you feel lucky?
Batman had a utility belt. Wayne had a prosthetic belly.
Wayne and Manny ate their burgers. Dude immediately in front of Wayne turned in his seat. He had a buzz cut and a ring in one ear and through his nose. “Dude, like that burger you’re eating is totally horrendous. Take it outside, why don’tcha?”
Other young men swiveled to see the object of wrath. Wayne deftly tucked the rest of the Big Mac into his cavernous maw, chewed and swallowed. Reaching into an inside pocket of his pea coat he withdrew a canned Coke, popped the lid and drank copiously. He belched like the Mother of All Bullfrogs. He rolled it out like a black furry carpet. It just kept on rolling. The belch caromed off the ceiling frieze and tumbled ‘round the room.
Onscreen, Batman foiled an attempt by the Punisher to crash his movie.
Buzz Cut jabbed a finger at Wayne. “Why don’t you get up off your fat ass and go sit somewhere else?”
“Yeah!” said his sidekick, Li’l BC.
With a sigh Wayne heaved himself to his feet and motioned for Manny to do likewise. He had not come to rumble with Nazis. He had come to see the movie. He and Manny moved further upslope until they found two seats in the narrow aisle next to the wall.
Onscreen, terrorists had taken over Gotham Tower and were jamming all radio, Internet, and short wave transmissions. In the theater, a gang of twenty-something boys sitting behind Wayne and Manny had seized control of the 18th row and jammed transmissions from the screen by hooting, making noises, and throwing Junior Mints.
A Junior Mint bounced off the back of Wayne’s basketball-sized head. Wayne slowly swiveled with a steely glare. The obstreperous ones studiously watched the screen on which Bruce Wayne was fending off Poison Ivy’s attentions.
Another Junior Mint sailed past. Giggles emanated from the 18th row. Wayne didn’t bother to turn and look. With a sigh of resignation, he gripped his arm rests and heaved himself from his seat. My city bleeds, he thought. He ponderously made his way up the aisle toward the 18th row.
“Oh oh,” they joked. “Look out now, here he comes!”
“Beware the Fat Fury!”
Wayne wondered if the benighted ones were even familiar with Herbie Popnecker. Without looking at them Wayne reached the 19th row and turned in. He sat behind what he took to be the ringleader, a dude in an Oakland hoodie, pants down his ass and BKs on the back of the seats in front of him as if he weren’t the issue of wealthy white mandarins on the Upper West Side.
“You smell something?” the White Negro said.
“Yeah,” said one of his minions. “Something stinks.”
The White Negro turned to confront Wayne, whose knees were up against the back of the seat. “Whassup, you fat faggot? Why don’tcha move your bulk somewhere else, know what I’m sayin’?”
Wayne reached into his belly prosthetic and brought forth a halogen flashlight and a water pistol filled with dog urine. “Please turn around and enjoy the movie for which you paid nine dollars.”
Onscreen, Batman confronted a crazed Killer Croc in the act of planting a bomb.
Offscreen, the White Negro said, “Or what? You gonna make me?”
Wayne turned the flashlight on the White Negro’s face. He squirted dog urine on the White Negro’s shirt.
“There,” Wayne said. “Now you have a smell to complain about.”
The White Negro heaved himself over the back of his seat and attacked Wayne with both hands, delivering blow after blow to Wayne’s prosthetic belly. The White Negro’s fist penetrated several of the twelve thumbtacks Wayne and pushed through the front of his sweater. Stinking of dog urine, the White Negro stared in horror at his bleeding fists.
The manager, a pale young man with a ponytail, came up the stairs with his own flashlight which he shined on the whole sorry scene. He sniffed. “Okay, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you all to leave. Your ticket money will be refunded out front in the lobby. Let’s go.”
The White Negro turned on him in wounded innocence. “But we didn’t do anything! This fat fuck started messing with us!”
Wayne remained seated. “They threw Junior Mints at the back of my head. I’m sure a police search will reveal the Mints.”
“What’s that smell?” the manager said.
“Smells like dog piss,” one of the minions said. He had the makings of a fine detective.
“All right, that’s it,” said the manager with newly found authority. “Out of here right now or I’ll stop the film, turn up the lights and call the cops.”
There was some grumbling but when two more ushers appeared with flashlights on the landing below the White Negro resignedly got to his feet and led his minions out the door. “It sucks anyway.”
The manager turned his flashlight on Wayne. Wayne turned his flashlight on the manager. “You too,” the manager said.
“Moi?” Wayne said. “I have troubled no one. I have thrown Junior Mints at no one. I merely seek to watch the movie which is ruined for me now, ruined I say because of incessant interruptions and the obstreperous and contumacious nature of your clientele.”
“Let’s go,” the manager said. “You can get a refund in the lobby.”
Wayne rose with dignity. “Fine,” he said and waddled down the stairs, pausing only to glance at Manny, who dutifully joined him. The two lads soon found themselves nine dollars richer individually and out on the street.
“Now what do we do?” Manny said.
Gazing at a poster for The Bourne Natural Killers, Wayne deduced their next move. “Come on. We’ll make our own movie. We’ll shoot it on my phone.”
I first saw Nexus at one of those ancient Chicago Minicons we used to run at the beautiful and even ancienter Congress Hotel. The Minicon was an intense show held roughly every month, no matter the weather or the proximity of the latest Chicago Bears game. We had about 75 dealers tables, admission cost 75¢, our dealers and attendees drove in from a 350 mile radius, and the whole thing was over within five hours; less, if the Bears were playing that Sunday.
Our guests came from a similar radius, and frequently you’d see Jill Thompson, John Byrne, John Ostrander, Joe Staton, Paul Kupperberg, and a dozen or more at the tables near the entrance… as well as more than a few who were breaking into the business. Mike Baron, who lived about 80 miles north in Madison Wisconsin, was one such newbee, and when they launched their magazine-sized Nexus #1, he and artist Steve Rude gave me a copy. I consumed it that evening, and became a fan. Big-time.
Maybe a year later, Mike showed up at the Minicon dressed as The Badger. He looked and acted perfect in every way, as though Mike Baron was The Badger. This set my spider-sense tingling.
When their publisher went blooie, I aggressively pursued the opportunity to pick up both titles for our fledgling First Comics company. Both fit our line perfectly: superheroish but not traditional superhero, with a cutting edge provided by a writer and by artists who each had an evolved worldview. Like most of the best creative talent in all endeavors, Mike and Steve had their own individual connections to reality. Badger artist Jeff Butler was, as I recall, pretty straight-forward.
So when I came to actually negotiating terms with the defunct rights-holder Capital Comics, First Publisher Rick Obadiah and I drove up to Madison – Rick went to the University of Wisconsin and knew all the words to “On Wisconsin,” which helped us get a great table for lunch – and had our meeting in the offices of their now former-art director, Richard Bruning. Yeah, Rich is an old fart, too.
We were able to resolve all issues except one, and that one was so minor I can’t remember it today. I recall it wouldn’t have affected Capital Comics at all, but it would give First some needed flexibility. I held firm. So did Capital publisher Milton Griepp. Milton turned to Rich as a mediator, and Rich said he understood my concern. Bless you, Rich. Milton still held firm.
Mike decided he had enough. He walked over to the window behind Milton and opened it, proclaiming he had had enough of this shit and was going to lower himself out the window and hang there until we reached a deal. Then he started to lower himself out that window.
Did I mention the window overlooked the Wisconsin state capitol building?
At that very moment, I wanted to publish Nexus and The Badger more than I wanted oxygen. I sat poker-faced, Rick looked at me in shock, and both Rich and Milton were sort of… dismissive. As if this sort of thing happened with Mike every day.
“Well,” Milton said to Mike who was hanging out the window behind him, “if you feel that strongly about it, I’m okay with this.” Mike came back into the meeting room and we had a deal.
No matter how good those comics were – and Nexus and Badger were very good – that meeting was better. These guys possessed unique minds, and they put their heart and soul into their work.
I’ve had a lot of interesting situations with both Mike and Steve since: the real story of Sonic Disruptors is one that I will tell one day, now that everybody involved is no longer with DC Comics. And I’ll share just one story about these guys.
One day, I’m at First Comics and I get a call from Steve. “Hey, man. It’s the Dude.” Yep, it sure was. Imagine Maynard G. Krebs as one of the most talented artists in the world, circa mid-1980s. “Hey, I, like, just got a call from Rich Bruning! You know he’s out in Hollywood now!”
“Yes, I know…” I responded, waiting with bated breath for the Dude’s next words.
“Well, Rich told me he was working on the Nexus movie, doing all kinds of great design work.”
At that moment, I knew two things: 1) There was no Nexus movie, and 2) If I just shut the hell up, I’d find out what’s going on and probably have a wonderful ride. The Dude continued.
“I guess you forgot to tell me, huh? I know you’ve been busy.” Steve wasn’t pissed at all; he assumed I had a busy schedule and would have gotten around to it. This realization, even though it was based on a very faulty assumption, showed more thought and consideration than I’ve seen from a great many creators. I was genuinely moved.
“So, I gotta ask you, what’s up with the movie? Can I work on it?”
Passing up a great straight line, I sucked in all the air in my Evanston Illinois office and slowly let it out. “Steve. Listen up. Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘pulling your leg’?”
“Yeah, sure. That’s like somebody’s playing a joke on you, right?”
“Right, Steve,” I replied.
“So… you’re saying Rich was playing a joke on me!”
“Yep.”
“Oh.” Without pausing he added “Hey, that’s great! Really funny! Thanks for telling me!”
In today’s brand-new episode of Black Ice, by Mike Baron and Lee Oaks, Neil learns a lot from his new friend, Spot. Spot can’t talk, but there’s a lot it can do. Will Neil be able to use this knowledge? Will he be able to use it in time?
Credits: Mike Baron (Writer), Lee Oaks (Artist), Bob Pinaha (Letterer), Matt Webb (Colorist), Mike Gold (Editor)
In today’s brand-new episode of Black Ice, by Mike Baron and Lee Oakes, Captain Neil selects a new title, and welcomes new allies. Can this possibly be a good idea? And what’s going on in the volcano?
Credits: Mike Baron (Writer), Lee Oaks (Artist), Bob Pinaha (Letterer), Matt Webb (Colorist), Mike Gold (Editor)
In today’s brand-new episode of Black Ice, by Mike Baron and Lee Oaks, the Prince takes the Helmet to which he believes he was born. The King and Queen learn of their son’s alleged death. And, oh yeah, there’s dragons.
Credits: Mike Baron (Writer), Lee Oaks (Artist), Bob Pinaha (Letterer), Matt Webb (Colorist), Mike Gold (Editor)
In today’s brand-new episode of Black Ice, by Mike Baron and Nick Runge, Neil’s motorbike is gone, along with Prince Crom. With it, our heroes may have lost the war.
Can Neil show them how to make another bike? Does Mark Twain hold the answer?
Credits:Bob Pinaha (Letterer), Matt Webb (Colorist), Mike Baron (Writer), Mike Gold (Editor), Nick Runge (Artist)
Black Ice, the action-adventure fantasy by Mike Baron and Nick Runge, returns today with a brand-new chapter.
Neil Kofsky drove his motorbike through an inter-dimensional portal and right onto a battleship that flies through the air. After dueling with a Prince with an attitude, Neil finds himself (and everyone else on board) attacked by an enemy he doesn’t know and doesn’t understand. And now ….
Credits: Bob Pinaha (Letterer), Matt Webb (Colorist), Mike Baron (Writer), Mike Gold (Editor), Nick Runge (Artist)
The premise of Helmet Head is simple: Young Jewish motorcycle cop Peter Fagan inadvertently stumbles into the path of someone or something that stalks bikers and leaves them headless. Although there are plenty of outlaw bikers in the story, the killer targets anyone on a motorcycle. Right after he dispatches a member of the local southern Illinois biker gang, he pursues Fagan with frightening singleness of purpose. He pursues Fagan all the way to the biker hangout, a rundown, out of the way bar, where Helmet Head doesn’t kill anyone. Instead, he orders a drink. When the bartender refuses to serve him, he leaves. This sets the tone for a rather long stretch.
In today’s brand-new episode of 
In today’s brand-new episode of 
