We — Mark 9 and I — wanted to share the tenth(+) anniversary release of Cold Brewed into print, so we’re re-releasing the digital version (outside of scrolling, it doesn’t format well for e-readers). Feel free to support the team as the episodes release. One way to support is to order a print copy directly from your preferred bookstore:
If you have another preferred bookstore, let me know in the comments.
Another way is to subscribe — I’ll send cash on to the actors and production team:
WHAT IS THIS?
Cold Brewed’s 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:
Previously on Cold Brewed:
“You’ll end up in a ditch,” she said.
“Spent grounds always end up in the knock box on an Emerald City Tamper.”
“Then you’ll want to know what I found.”
“Spent grounds?” I asked.
“Wilson. Yeah, he’s dead Jett.”
“Where?” I asked.
“That old highway’s remains.”
No fun in the way Wilson’d died. Hadn’t ended clean.
Behind his body, in the dead grass, something shady caught my eye.
Chicory.
Wasn’t a local roaster. It’d been some scorched new batch who burned beans in huge doses and stomped on it with chickory to undercut mom and pop prices.
That’s how it starts and it never ends clean…
004 — “Milker”
Slammed that crooked roast down hard enough to make him jump.
“Will you quit it, Jett? You’re so loud all the time.” He cleared his phlegm-clogged throat. “I’m still tweaking from a frap rush.”
“Try again,” I said.
“Morning, Murder Face,” he said.
“It’s afternoon, Milker. Don’t call me that.”
“Yeah, yeah sure. Well what can I do you for?”
“Who’s been frothing the shots?”
Milker swung his head in a slow downward crescent and rubbed his eyes. “Dunno. What’re you talking about, Jett?”
“That look a half pound of pure to you?”
Both hands of his shook as he poked the blown bag. He took out a piece. “Yeah, yeah sure. Well this’s half chicory, Jett.” He stared out the window.
“Milker, you’re losing your edge.”
“Noper nope. Neverhave, neverwill.”
”Really? We’ll see: what’s an ouce going for?”
“Three,” he said, “without a doubt.”
“Not bond price, spot price.”
“Twelve on the street. Without a doubt. Without a doubt.”
“Okay,” I said. “Would you cough up twelve for an ounce of this shit?”
He stared up at me, eyes puffed like an allergic reaction. “Well Jett I just… I just don’t know anymore, Jett.”
I snapped my cap. “Let’s ask the tower for a second opinion.”
“Not the tower Jett. Please stop.”
“STOP JETT!”
“Hold on just a second.”
Guess the Locarnis love leaving huge wrenches and boards around the joint.
No fears.
The marble held the cold in the air like a meat locker.
I’d counted on Milker for several cases, counted on him to work here day in, day out.
Counted on him never to kick his addictions.
To drag his dirty feet till the last moment when he’d finally yield up and squeal.
”Seriously STOP it. Stop it just stop! Please stop. Please, Jett, please. Please. I’m asking nice. I’m asking, Jett.”
“Milker? You ready to talk? Cause I will—” I gripped his cheeks tight and forced him to look up.
”Yeah, I’ll talk. I’ll talk.”
“If you don’t give me what I want, I’ll make sure you dose nothing but poor man’s lattes for the rest of your rancid life, got it?
He nodded. At least I thought he nodded. Could’ve been me shaking him from the collar up. “Okay,” he said, “Word’s there’s a new brew.”
“Go on.”
“He goes by Bearded Lady.”
“Drum roaster?”
“Noper. Does it in huge batches. Bringing them city roasts into town.”
“Tamping the town.”
“Yeah,” Milker said. “Hear the Bearded Lady pulled a couple local roasters and their whole chaff short. Burned most of the labs and hid the good rigs in storage. Dunno who’s next.”
“Wilson,” I said.
“Wilson? He only doses, ain’t a roaster. Doesn’t—”
“Wasn’t a roaster.”
“Pulled short?”
“Yeah. Even so, when he dosed, only dosed local.”
“There is that…”
Some burly voice called from behind me. “There a problem?”
“Nah,” I said, “he just doesn’t have the kinda stones I need. Too soft.”
“I can get you what you need,” said the voice, “all the best in marbleized… stone.”
A tamped town.
A burnt local roast with chicory.
A murdered doser.
Now shady figures at the Locarni factory. I wasn’t about to ask for that kind of help.
“I’m good,” I said. “Have a nice day and all that jazz.”
“Be seeing ya.”
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We — Mark 9 and I — wanted to share the tenth(+) anniversary release of Cold Brewed into print, so we’re re-releasing the digital version (outside of scrolling, it doesn’t format well for e-readers). Feel free to support the team as the episodes release. One way to support is to order a print copy directly from your preferred bookstore:
If you have another preferred bookstore, let me know in the comments.
Another way is to subscribe — I’ll send cash on to the actors and production team:
WHAT IS THIS?
Cold Brewed’s 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:
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