Hardass Insect Bosses, Comic by Dan Smallegange

 

#comic #written and #drawn by #dansmallegange, copyright Daniel Smallegange, all rights reserved 2026.

Gutter Sprawl, Fiction by Daniel Smallegange, from The City: Tales From the Post-Post Apocalypse

Gutter Sprawl. Morning.

The sleep of the innocent, not a sleep granted I. No, my slumberous sighs depict a more sinister cut of the human condition. Groaning-moaning-stirring. Squinting up into bright sunlight increases the unpleasantness in my pounding head. Time to fade back. Yearning for the welcome night I sleep again, face wet from the puddle in this most fashionable of gutters. At least no rain falls. Small mercies. Sleep.

Waking of a sudden with fiends pressed upon me, and find pockets turned out and I am being searched most roughly by gruff and unfriendly hands. The gutter my kingdom, violated!

“Ruffians! Scum-shite!” I roar and cough, more cough than roar.

But they find nothing, oh sweet nothing my darlings, but my lumps and bruises from the brawl last night, which is only foggily recalled. Scurry they do like the starving dogs they are, to and fro, fro and to, away from boot-swings and claw grasps. Certainly and certainty: I penniless by the end last night. Therefore, no pennies for them, ha-ha, no.

“Bastards of bastards. Dogs!” says I.

But the kick in the ribs those retreating violators, rag dolls and reeking of rum, do instill as a parting gift pains something vicious. Hatred stirs behind the foggy haze of blurriness as I try and refocus my eyes. Hatred towards the pocket turner-outers, though no mortal wounds to my industry or economical scene did they achieve. That kick in the ribs does smart however, as earlier eloquated. The coughing fit resulting is terrible and for a time I cannot stop.

Wincing, rubbing tears away and opening my eyes I am greeted by pain once more in the form of sunshine. Crawl and fall back, retreat! And so closing eyes tightly to escape the enemy sunlight. But then ominously said sunlight is removed, stolen, gone, vanished. Shadow replaces it, too quick and dark to be caused by any cloud.

“Better for thy head brother. Better live than dead,” someone says, from above, close enough to likely be the cause of said stated shadow.

Wincing, blinking open blurry eyes. All is clouded, or more shaded. The sun exists yet, but blockethed by man-shade. Alarming shade where none was before and a voice attached. Man shaped shadiness now speaking to me directly once more.

“Let me stand here friend, that you may bathe in the sweet elixir of the shade my lean and tumble frame might provide.”

Squinting now into the black shadowy figure, emblazoned, surrounded by bright.

“Be it Hugo? Jones? Calibre? Or a murderer, catalyst, or filthy copper?” I sputter or spew.

“Aye, ‘tis Calibre, fit and back from the highways,” the shade casting man says. “You, my friend, are more the worse for wear then last out stares did meet.”

Calibre, home from the highways. Oh dark traveller Calibre, back from the wastelands. ‘Tis Calibre the tall and bony, multi-grinned and gold ear-ringed. Wiry, hard Calibre. One I might call friend. One whom helps me up with a wincing.

“Calibre, the gutter my kingdom, violated,” says I.

That kick inflicted does hurt. Might have caused a broken rib. Perhaps just cracked. I groan, he talks, we walk.

“Not far my pretty ancient,” he says. “We’ll sort you out yet. Don’t worry. All you need is the warming love of whiskey.”

A house of ill ends and happy repute we make to for the breaking of our fasts, regaling one another with different species of phlegm and cough as we labour to move there. Life has been as kind to Calibre the highwayman as it has to I. We are a pair for certain, blessed with bad fortune and unholy desires, but at least breathing yet. And the air and mechanics of movement seem to cure both my spleen and ribs alike, or at least a little bit. The more I walk the more able I feel at any rate.

“Whiskey you say, eh? I can if you’re buying,” I reply, to which he nods; to which I cheer, if somewhat raggedly.

“Better than your worst foe’s blood, better than a lover’s bite, sweet whiskey," says Calibre, wistfully.

“So, what brings you back to this sick old city then Calibre?” I inquire.

“Women,” he says.

“Women?” I enquire.

Roars Calibre: “Women!”

We share a laughter as it is more economical that way than to each spend our own.

And we have arrived at the most lovely and enchanting place of sustenance and abuse, the one indeed intended by Calibre as our destination. Whiskey, coffee and food. Calibre and I sit and brood, drinking the barely drinkable coffee and loving it as if it were our very mother’s milk. We discuss our future roles in one another’s lives, we divulge our recent mal-histories and howl like jackals in shared delight at the humorousness of our ill-fortune and ill-repute, resolute in our frankness and also our guile as we dip our bread in the egg and bacon grease, happy as a couple of pre-revolutionary Tsars.

There are hooded monks at the bar, sipping mead, looking more sinister than monks ought ever to look, one leering madly at the lass on his lap, her bare breast agleam with the grease from his meal. Other groups and individuals lounge about, the usual scoundrels mostly. Oldsters sip drinks and talk about the old times in one area while across from them a group of techno-punks smoke pipes and debate the existence of something called an Underzone. A hunchbacked dwarf snoozes in a corner, his head on his table, his hands clasped around a cup of tea. Three dice lay near his cheek in a pool of his own saliva. Others weep and others sing, each with emotion. Many, having abandoned emotion as too luxurious a commodity years or weeks ago, simply sit and stare. We pay them all no mind. This is a safe haven for all, at least at this time and date.

Our stomach’s full and Calibre seeking women, myself alms, we leave the place and we part our ways, but first firmly committing to future debate, debacle, distinction, distortion, delights of all kinds. He with a smile walks off into the shade, myself out and into the now less formidable bright. The sun is shining and glorious. And I only wince slightly as I move, less-limping now. With belly full instilled pride I make my way fearless out and in to the day.

Photo of the author, approx 2008.

Gutter Sprawl, by Daniel Smallegange, copyright 2025, all rights reserved. From the collection The City: Tales From the Post-Post Apocalypse by Daniel Smallegange, available on Amazon, etc.

On Dealing With Zombies, comedy by Daniel Smallegange

 

'So, I was dating this girl, but she had a one track mind. Like, all she could think about was 'Brains, brains...... BRAINS.' At first I thought I wasn't smart enough. But then I realized she was a zombie.'

Does this remind you of you? Don't feel self conscious friend. We've all been there. Everyone in a secret evil society bent on world domination at one point or another tries to develop some terrible serum that will raise the dead or convert the living into unstoppable, if smelly, killing machines to further a ~ you guessed it ~ quest for world domination. That or you happen to go on a blind date with one. Either way, when they turn on you things can get a little tricky. So, that's why, here at the Society for Evil, Debauchery and Kitten Appreciation, we've developed a helpful little list of helpful hints in order to help you help yourself out on that annoying day when you've been over-run by pesky plagues of brain hungry undead zombie killers.

Oh, and before you get all self righteous and mightier than thou and bleat on and on in an annoyingly whiny voice about how 'blah, blah, blah, it's morally wrong to raise the dead' and 'blah, blah, this is what happens when you play with God's immaculate creation' and 'you should have built a proper containment facility', well, you can just take a naked flying leap ass first in the general direction of an oversized meat grinder that has not even been disinfected in nary a week and get off our cases already please and thank you very much!

Ahem.

It is vital to not get caught up in any blame games when it comes to the 'Grrrr, grrr, brains, brains' clique (especially if you are to blame). Just keep reminding everyone of that and get out there and kill some zombies already.

Therefore and with much ado The Society for Evil, Debauchery and Kitten Appreciation Presents:

The Helpful Hints Guide at Helping People Help Themselves Get the Zombies the Heck off 'Em and Out of Their Back Gardens at Least Anyways.

1) First of all deal with the people blaming you for unleashing hell on earth into an otherwise normal shopping mall, suburb or whatever. This can be done easily enough by locking them in a room with some new acquaintances. Namely the zombies. That will shut them up in a hurry! You are happy, zombies are happy, everyone wins.

2) What to do when you meet a zombie?
Pretend to make friends with it by offering a drawing of a brain as a nice present. Then when it's licking the paper or otherwise admiring it smash its brains in with a shovel. Note: It is important you do not eat the zombie's brains in one of those 'Huh, how do you like it, eh? Not so much when I do it to you, eh, asshole zombie?' moments as you will likely get infected and become a zombie yourself. That happened to Roger last Thursday. He will be missed. But it was fun smashing his skull in with a shovel. And good exercise!

3) Also, if you are on a date and the person keeps lamenting a lack of brains on the menu and orders and extra raw steak and keeps admiring the size of your brain-pan you might be in zombie country. If they ask if they can 'give you a quick brain massage from behind in the lavatory or perhaps your car' you may indeed want to call it an early night and head home or indeed, out of state. Especially if their arm falls off before the entree arrives, or their eyes begin to run down their face during coffee.

4) What to do when a loved one gets bitten by a zombie?
Get a shovel and smash their brains in and find someone else. You didn't like them that much anyways, let's be honest. And with the world overrun by zombies any remaining humans you now meet will be much more attractive. Just don't let them know you're to blame and they'll likely be happy to do their duty and help you repopulate the earth.

5) What to do when your doubles partner turns up all zombied out?
Smash their brain with your tennis racquet. Actually, this goes for all zombies you come across in most situations. You don't necessarily need to use a tennis racquet however, just whatever's on hand. Preferably something sharp and heavy to smash their brainstems. In fact, you can get away with doing this to normal people who you find annoying and/or have attractive partners as well. Just ask them to go for a nice walk, just the two of you, and later tell their husband/wife, 'oh, yeah, them zombies got (insert name here). Nasty business. Can I perhaps comfort you at all? How about a nice bath pour deux'. Just make sure you clean any of their loved one's blood off of you and wipe that smile away before you present the 'awful news'.

6) What to do when zombies are wrecking your garden?
A zombie scarecrow was recently tried out, but didn't really have much of an impact. The zombies just tried to make friends with it and were happy to have another person to groan to. However, the zombies themselves do do a wonderful job at scaring away crows and raccoons and such. Positives in everything, right. But, if you really don't like the undead hanging out and decomposing on and around your vegetable patch or prize winning Gardenias then we suggest sending the person you least like in your group out to lure them away. This can be done by waiting for them to fall asleep and then shoving them out the door. If they're quick enough they'll lead the zombies a merry chase away and then everyone's happy. Just make sure you lock the door after you shove them out.

7) When would be a good time to visit my mother's grave during a zombie epidemic?
DO NOT visit any graves or graveyards during a zombie epidemic.

8) How do I protect myself when having sex with a zombie?
Don't have sex with a zombie you sick, sick, sick bastard! God, you make us so sick! You sick sicko!

Sincerely,
The evil MGMT.x

Written by: Daniel Smallegange, copyright 2015, all rights reserved.

Our Man Jack, Poetic Fiction by Daniel Smallegange, Taken from The City: Tales From the Post-Post Apocalypse

Our Man Jack

Spoken of with facetious proclivities is our man Jack. They’ve said he’s descended from lords and Czars or empirical mathematics.

“I am not all about the violence sordid, but the artistic destruction need be recorded.”

So said our man Jack.

    Our man Jack sat and brooded, as we danced and cavorted. What he wanted: change for the train, fare from the city. What he got: us speaking to him with facetious proclivity.

“Beware of atheists!” someone shouted. “And men driving large trucks.”

He sat and stared, our man Jack, as we linguistically danced, made poor attempts at romance, sat as if in a trance, but his smile grew and lingers, to this day it does malinger. But I do digress, we were such a mess, all full of festive glee, slight and amusing hypocrisy, for our man Jack, who’d been so hard done by, oh so hard done by. Listen man or woman, listen to the cry, the cries of all those been done hard by. They gnash their teeth in the streets of Kensington as all the whores go by, proffering their wares as we and Jack do sit by and by, laugh and stare at whores proffering their wares. And those gnashing pull out empty pockets and pull out their hair. We watch the whores and we do compare, some among us haggling for an honest fare.

We order a pitcher of sleep. We’ve all been running and have sunk too deep, are in too deep with bookies, mobs those who keep the keys, to our residences, our hearts, and dreams so far so we are not allowed even to sleep.

Our man Jack, he sits now, now leans back, smiles that smile and whiles it all away. His brain is lost away and at play behind the curtains of his drooping eyes, which are lovely but for that stye in the eye of our hurricane of pleasant loud and laughing hearts, underpinning the sigh in the tremendous eye of our despair we hide so well unlike our man Jack who is now becoming involved in a well manifested attack. Oh Jack we love you when you bend your tender heart to well meaning and irrefutable attack. He is our man Jack and when it strikes him he bends all will and logic to his hand so that none may stand and makes his magnificent attack against us, all our fake bravery, false modesty and joking camaraderie. We lap it up and know the truth, we are the uncouth and we love it, we so love it.

But our man Jack he does relax when we grow him a whiskey tree. With one sip his solemnity does slip we do see and he just sits as out on the street one of our number does meet a sister of mercy ~ wearing fishnets. Violence and a slap in the face as the band does take its place.

“There are islands out there where humanity does fare, better than this city, it is so shitty sometimes here,” pipes in Ryana, chief bassist, his voice fair and clear for all and one to hear, which we do, but pretend not to.

“He got his hand caught in a rope, no rope-a-dope, but switch turn an’ vicious.”

“Blade in the back, shiv turn counter attack.”

Watch our man Jack, as he sips from his whiskey tree happy as a flag at half mast at some ceremony. And there I sat, enveloped in black, as the merry conversation overtook me, overwrought me, bent and shook me. Pretty parties sallied by, past me and our man Jack smiling against the grain, who somehow gives me strength, stops up the pain, and don’t wanna cry no more. No, don’t wanna cry no more. Ambulance wagon arrives for the one who was shived in the thigh. Not his back after all, still can hear his muted sob-cry. All the ruffians scatter as if it at all matters, an’ even our man Jack, he’s disappeared. ‘Tis then I get the fear. Eyes agog. See what’s next through a film of fog. Outside are the non-entities. Inside where all is silence. I am a malcontent, do feel maleficent.

Our man Jack shouting from the throng: “Cybele was there. She’s at the bar talking communist. She said to say you are the grist and chaff, she sometimes gets caught in her teeth!”

That is when all mayhem broke loose. Blind-sided punch in the face to some hero’s disgrace. Once again, all mayhem broke loose. Our man Jack riding some hero on the back and smashing his pint on his skull. The whore that my friend had decided to order, shrieking such blasphemies, defending her order, scratching some punter a different face. Our man Jack he started to dance as bottles and knives are thrown and the first exhibition of the new show violence did make with its vehement kiss. Jack in such bliss, inflicting non-partisan violence with the flick of the wrist.

Away and escape my way of attack and of Jack the last I did see, waving his arms and eyes full of glee, diving head first and into the spree. His smile dear friends will never go away.

Our man Jack, spoken of with facetious proclivities. His smile grew and lingers, to this day it does malinger…

Written by Daniel Smallegange, copyright 2010, all rights reserved.

Photo of the author, circa 2010, Toronto, Canada.

Snail Moustaches, Written and Drawn by Dan Smallegange

 Snail Moustaches #comic written and drawn by Dan Smallegange, copyright 2018 all rights reserved.

The Beginning of My Epic Sci-Fi Comedy Noir Detective Novel 24th Century Dick.

                                                                         Chapter 1:

Of all the planets in the galaxy she had to crash into mine. In a fiery burst of splendour and mayhem she came, destroying all before her in a cacophonous rush of smoke and fire and burning debris of which, I would bet, the insurance won't even begin to cover. Also, the dry cleaning bill will be murder on my favourite pair of slacks...

But I am getting slightly ahead of myself.

<->

Being a private dick in the twenty-forth century, a gumshoe, an investigator, call it what you will, is far from glamorous, but when this woman crashed into the planet and into my life, well let's just say things got a little more interesting.

I was in the office trying to figure out a method for getting ketchup back into the little packages you get with take-out food, and quite absorbed, when the door flew open with a bang and in sauntered the most heavenly of bodies to ever travel the heavens, or crash out of them. In fact, parts of her dress were still smouldering and burned away, revealing quite a lot about the human condition. But she didn't seem to mind, and neither did I.

I gave her a quick once over while she patted down her more combustible textiles. I could see by the way she put her cigar out in my assistant’s uneaten Quiche Lorraine with side salad she was used to getting what she wanted. This accomplished she gave me back the once over, and with interest.

She surveyed the office next, this with the bored contempt of a well fed house cat, one who played by its own rules. Tactfully, she ignored both the smear of ketchup staining my formerly immaculate pair of slacks and the small fire her cigar had started in the Quiche Lorraine. You had to admit, she was a class act.

“Are you Molloy?” she asked.

“Who's asking?” was my pithy reply. “And what's the big idea barging into my office here, and also wrecking the whole street outside the place for five blocks?”

“My ship just crashed and I need a dick in a hurry,” she said.

I leaned back in my chair and smiled.

“Sure,” I said. “But I think you'd better buy me dinner first. See, I'm the classy type.”

“Perhaps I've come to the wrong place,” she said, starring down at me with an expression I was sadly becoming used to, one reminiscent of someone completely unimpressed and/or disappointed.

“Now hold on,” I said. “And yes I’m a Private Dick, or P.I. as we prefer to be called. And also, what can I do for you?”

“You're not offended by crashed space ships, are you?” she asked.

“Perish the thought. I’ve never really been that attached to this part of town anyways. Now, why don't you have a seat. I'd offer you some Quiche Lorraine, but it’s somewhat burning or at least smoking, as you also seem to be.”

“They say smoking's back in fashion,” she replied.

“Tell that to my neighbours with no eyebrows, or shops, or houses.”

“I thought you weren’t that attached. And I'd rather not. I'm trying to keep a low profile.”

“By crashing your ship and burning down ten blocks?” I asked, slightly exasperated and losing some cool.

“Five blocks at best. Don’t exaggerate, it makes you look pasty,” she said. “And I'm usually way more flamboyant.”

“Oh boy,” said I. “And please don’t set that chair on fire.”

I moved to the side cupboard where conveniently I kept a small fire extinguisher, just in case, some glasses, and a bottle of rye. She looked like she could use all three.

“You look like you could use all three,” I said.

“Your powers of deduction are impressive Molloy. It is Molloy?”

“Guilty. Present,” I said, which was the truth for both the latter, obviously, and the former, but that was several years ago and I got off with community service.

I handed her a drink and subtly put out the quiche with the fire extinguisher, this while she knocked back half a finger's worth of rye. Then I went to the window and examined the fifty-foot trench gouged into the street and surrounding buildings below, also the billowing wreckage of a spaceship parked unceremoniously at the end of it, smoking heavily. A parking enforcement-bot, partially on fire, was in the process of giving the ship a ticket.

“Smoking's in fashion now?” I said.

“What's that?” she replied.

“Never mind. Your ship is kind of on fire and smoking. Also, you're in a no parking zone.”

“It isn't my ship. I stole it,” she said.

“Oh boy,” I sighed.

“Yeah, so I got a case. You interested Molloy?”

“Well, that's great it's not your ship,” I said. “Let the owner pay up. I don't do parking ticket cases anyways. Say, anyone see you leaving it? Or, maybe like, entering this establishment?”

“They were too busy, you know, running and screaming, or whatever, burning, trying to help people...” She yawned. “I think I'm fine regarding that.”

“Well, that's good. At least you're fine,” I said.

She drained another half a finger’s worth of her drink and stared at me imperiously.

“Sarcasm doesn't become you Molloy.”....

Copyright Daniel Smallegange, 2024, all rights reserved.

My novel is available in print or as an ebook on all Amazon sites. If you would like to know when I occasionally make they ebook free leave in the comments section. Thanks, DS.

Buzzard and Rat Comic by Dan Smallegange

Written and drawn by Daniel Smallegange, copyright 2016, all rights reserved. Hey, if you like my stuff I put on here please leave a comment. Thanks