Mark 9 and I thought the best way to share the tenth(+) anniversary release of Cold Brewed into print was to re-release the digital version online, since it doesn’t format well for e-readers outside of scrolling. You can support it as the episodes release in two ways. One is to order a print copy directly from your preferred bookstore:
If you have another preferred bookstore, let me know in the comments.
The second is to subscribe so I can send cash on to the actors and production team:
Cold Brewed is a a graphic novel told in photos about an alternate history where coffee and not alcohol was banned during the prohibition years. It’s an odd duck with a lot of third wave coffee lingo — we never knew, for instance, that Adam’s roasting in his over would turn into an actual coffeeshop and roaster. Video here for the making of Cold Brewed back in 2012, you’ll see our baby faces.
Without further ado, here’s the photonovel I made with Mark in my early twenties:
- Cold Brewed 001 — Hard Water
- Cold Brewed, episode 002 — Harmless Skinny
Phone rang.
I picked up. “Yeah?”
The line was silent.
“Hi-de-ho?”
No answer. A click sounded.
The sounds get to you.
The drips.
The smokes.
The boards shifting, creaking underfoot, threatening to split apart and let you fall into the abyss that is this city’s black heart.
Everything sounded broke.
Then there’s this other sound.
This knockat the door, that is.
002
Legs long as third shift, coat red as blood, and strawberry hair like thick syrup squirted into a world ground coarse and roasted dark. Well of course I opened the door.
“How are ya Jett?” she asked.
She looked good. Damn good . Almost forgot to say, “Scarlet.”
Shit, forgot the bags.
Had to use my back to shield her eyes from what needed hid.
She was looking around.
Snooping.
“See you haven’t rearranged the furniture.”
Why was she worried about furniture? She want me to move in or something? “Gives the skinnies like yourself no reason to come over,” I said. I took a seat.
“This skinny’s harmless, Jett,” she said. Then smirked.
“Tell that to Bready Moe. Tell it to my Avani.”
Her smirk faded.
“That was Avani’s fault, not mine. She shoulda spent more time on the roast before she jumped in like that.”
“Don’t grandstand me,” I said. “I ain’t no fathead, Scarlet. Avani was pulled short and you were the only one left in town.”
That was sort of true. My last case back in Emerald City, I found Scarlet lying in the cinders and embers, in the middle of the remains of Bready Moe’s roasting plant like a cardinal with clipped wings, grounded like, needing rescue.
“Most victims are.”
I scoffed and looked over at the table leg where I’d hid the bags. I caught myself as soon as I did it and looked up at something else. The ceiling maybe. The front door maybe.
“You on the drip?” she asked.
“You don’t ever quit…”
“Do you?” she asked. Her knee brushed mine.
“Do I what, Scarlett?”
“Quit?”
Why’d she care?
“I’m on the drip,” I said, “but I ain’t dosing.”
I was still pissed about spilling that mug.
“That’s good,” she said, “cause you can’t dose and grind at the same time.”
“Sure you can,” I said, “it’s called a doser-grinder.”
“Not for you, Jett. You’ll end up in a ditch.”
A ditch? What? That’d have to be one hell of a big ditch. “Enough about me. What about you?” Never could tell with this one — was she bright? Or just a share crop for some roaster and his chaff? Most skinnies do that too…
“What about me?” she asked.
“Are you already rationed out to some roaster, sugar?” I asked. “I gotta spell it out?”
She winced at that unspoken word: hooker. Then she turned away and stared out the window.
I waited until the sounds returned —the creaking boards threatening to give way, the drip coffee, the slight crackle of cheap cigarettes.
She sniffed, then got up to go out.
And I followed at first. Followed the train of that lip red coat. Then sick of following, I led the way like any gentleman would’ve.
Save the whole “ladies first” bit.
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