contents 6. . . . . . . . . Art by K.R. Fantulin @ktzart (Tumblr) 7. . . . . . . . . Art by Can Richards @cancan.jpg (Instagram) @CanCan_jpg (Twitter) 8. . . . . . . . . Cricket on a Stick by Lisa and Humbug @vesselester (Instagram) @happy_humbug76 (Instagram) 12. . . . . . . . Cosplay by Emily/Garden Variety @probablypartypoison (Tumblr) 14. . . . . . . . Art by Werotos @werotos (Instagram) 15. . . . . . . . a girl and a village on fire by Reuven View @9voltsurgery (Tumblr)
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16. . . . . . . . Art by Eve @AdrenalineRevolver (Quotev) 17. . . . . . . . Art by Emily/Garden Variety @probablypartypoison (Tumblr) 19. . . . . . . . Art by Wiz @wizzysp (Instagram) 20. . . . . . . . Purgatory: A Transmission from Party Poison to the Zones by Kelso @stoplightglow (Tumblr) 23. . . . . . . . Art by Katrina @knpinkish (Instagram) 24. . . . . . . . Art by Jeremy @killljoys (Tumblr) 25. . . . . . . . Live Like We Want To by Eve @AdrenalineRevolver (Quotev) 26. . . . . . . . Bli/nd by Lia @aliaitee (Tumblr) 27. . . . . . . . Art by Ellie Paige @cutie_pie_illustration (Instagram) 28. . . . . . . . Family by Punkvamps @punkvamps (Tumblr) 30. . . . . . . . zoneless song by Chaos Magnet @a-moment-of-such-peace (Tumblr) 32. . . . . . . . Art by Wilkeu @wilkeuart (Tumblr) 33. . . . . . . . Art by Bandrenoranges @bandrenoranges (Tumblr) 34. . . . . . . . Keep Running by Cool Thunder/Masha @cant-miss-being-humxn (Tumblr) 36. . . . . . . . Art by Ollie @maldecorum (Tumblr) 37. . . . . . . . Art by Shannon JH @CorvidaeRex (Instagram) 38. . . . . . . . Art by Mikiichiuart @mikiichiuart (Instagram)
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39. . . . . . . . Make It Home Even If It Kills You by Alexis @Im_not_here_no_one_is_here (Instagram) 41. . . . . . . . Art by ID @cosmic.paint (Instagram) 42. . . . . . . . Memories in the Bifrost by Adrenaline Anxiety @once-in-a-lifetime-you-were-mine (Tumblr) 46. . . . . . . . Art by Z @realskeletron (Instagram) 47. . . . . . . . Art by Floral Droid @floraldroid (Instagram) 48. . . . . . . . Letters to the Killjoys by Cool Thunder/Masha @cant-miss-being-humxn (Tumblr) 50. . . . . . . . Art by Andrea Paranoia @andykilldiot (Instagram) 51. . . . . . . . Run for your mind by Giulia Luotto @giulia_bxnditx (Instagram) @blue-berserk (Tumblr) 52. . . . . . . . Art by Wyrm @gummy_wyrms (Instagram) 53. . . . . . . . Art by Reuven View @9voltsurgery (Tumblr) 54. . . . . . . . Art by Tay D. @yellowknitsweater (Instagram) 55. . . . . . . . Art by Mac Modean @ierohero (Tumblr) @macmodean (Instagram) 56. . . . . . . . Art by Roscoe @tinygaygird (Tumblr) 57. . . . . . . . That Time the Trans Am Ran Out of Gas and I Had to Walk Back to the Diner by YukiPage @yukipage (Tumblr) 62. . . . . . . . Art by Finn O’Reilly @cfinno.draws (Instagram)
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63. . . . . . . . Art by Jenny Iridescentoracle @iridescentoracle (Instagram) 65. . . . . . . . Echoes by Chaos Magnet @a-moment-of-such-peace (Tumblr) 70. . . . . . . . Art by Andrea Paranoia @andykilldiot (Instagram) 74. . . . . . . . May Death Never Stop You by Lucian Clark @TinyAwoo (Twitter) 77. . . . . . . . Art by Rory @pumpkingnome (Instagram) 79. . . . . . . . Art by Saoirse Wong @batteryblvd (Instagram) 80. . . . . . . . Art by Trash Child @trashchild.jpeg (Instagram) 81. . . . . . . . Art by Amanda C. @amandavey.art (Instagram) 82. . . . . . . . Letters from the Curators
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a girl and a village on fire THE SCREAMING ENDS WHEN THE MEMORY’S ERASED BY THE SYSTEM THAT GAVE THE COMMAND the fire spread across the small town on the edge of the capital and people ran out into the graves Firing Squads for Children Execution for the Masses within half a minute of the first terrified shriek, she was stowed away under the stairs, in a hatch, behind a box. she waited she waited until it went silent six hours and she rose, she wriggled out and searched for survivors the entire city had been kissed by death’s lips and the sun was starting to hide behind the desert that spread in every direction her parents lay in half zipped body bags and their names were neatly printed it was a planned attack the screaming forever rang through her dreams and that fateful day another scorched village, more burnt bodies and smouldering building to refresh the palette and a single survivor and once again A Girl 15
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PURGATORY: A TRANSMISSION FROM PARTY POISON TO THE ZONES The Devil don’t exist in the zones. All ‘Joys know that. I ain’t so sure there’s a Heaven. If there is, I don’t know any dustbaby who’s gonna make it up there. People tell me I might. They call me the Second Coming. I tell them to watch me wipe blood off my trigger finger, then we’ll talk. Maybe there ain’t a Heaven, but dammit, this sandplane better not be Hell. Wherever the end of my blaster takes those Dracs, that better be Hell. Some of you are old enough to remember: wafter Better Living buried that last Bible — didn’t burn, didn’t destroy, if you can’t see it then it ain’t real — we had to start over. We tell the company this, they paint us faithless. They ink us evil. They name us Enemy. The lying and murdering only count if you do it in technicolor, they claim, if you can broadcast it after the weather and before the financial report. Old religion, new religion, no religion. What they don’t understand is that if you have 20
no idea if you’re gonna wake up in the morning, it don’t matter what the fuck you think is up in the sky. You’d get down on your knees and pray, too. Maybe there is no Big Guy up there. You’d be hard-pressed to find a Killjoy who believes in that anymore. But even when we started over, we had to wet our fingers and draw with the ashes of something — our religion is one of holes in your chest and sweat in your eyes and stains that never come out, of running and killing and hating and forgiving. Our Garden of Eden is the inside of a sandstorm, a grainy haze of crosses that don’t mean a damn thing besides to mark that we lost another one too young. We have Pride in the way we hold a blaster to someone’s head until they’re chanting our name like we didn’t just pick it out from the back of a skin mag, Greed in how we paint over dead ‘Joys’ masks and call them our own. Envy and Sloth when we forget who the real enemy is and turn our blasters inward instead. Lust when it’s not enough to only taste the blood on our own burnt lips. Gluttony in the Waveheads blistering under the sun, Wrath in the thirteenyear-old who got ghosted last month just because she was wearing white and dipping her toes too far past the city limits. 21
Squint a little. The old and the new — they don’t look so different anymore. Above all else: put faith in each other. In your engine. In your spray paint can, in your dusty radio, in the broken strings of your guitar and the callouses it gives you because you play it anyway. Let it trickle into your boots like the sand. Into your bloodstream like the radiation. Get it under your fingernails. It’s dirty, it’s dangerous, and it’s all we have left. I don’t give a damn what you believe in, so long as you stand for something. If we live in Purgatory, we die in it too. Destroya, if you’re listening — we need you.
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Live Like We Want To i’m punk rock, baby! walking through the hallways with revenge blasting through my headphones. we’re rebels, all of us. we kick the shit outta the system, rip a hole in our tights and skateboard through the spacetime continuum. we’re living one day at a time, so we better make it last. i’ll see you in hell when you finally fucking die (you’re way past due) and it’ll be my win, your loss. every day I’m a different person, because fuck gender and fuck you too. it’s my shitty life and I’ll live it the way I want! we’ll fall asleep on the roofs of our cars, where we can reach up and touch the very stars. there’s lots to learn out here, but make sure you bring your platform heels. because style’s not a choice, it’s everything we are. we’ll flip off authority, scream until we can’t anymore. we’ll live like we want to, and NOBODY CAN TAKE IT AWAY FROM US!!!
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BLi/nd Keep smiling, What you can’t hear can’t hurt you Ignorance is bliss The world is dying People crying, Governments and society always lying BLi/nd You’ll live blindfolded Holding the bat Not able to use it Creativity is the weapon Art Is The Weapon So many people fighting internal battles, Should I stay blind? BLi/nd Stay BLi/nd or Face the consequences Better Living, Better You. 26
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zoneless song icy boiling your throat far past the point of being dry how long have you been wandering? three days? a week? longer? it doesn’t really matter time means nothing in the in-between the zones blend into each other and it is impossible to avoid l osing any sense of sanity all you know is that you need water it has certainly been too long since you had it hell, you would drink from an acid pond if you came across one it would burn, and the hellish delusions which would plague your mind would scare you shitless but at least your parched throat would feel like something at least you could feel something other than emptiness you suppose you should figure out some way to know where you are, but the batteries in your gps died long ago and even if you could get it to work destroya knows if anyone in your crew would be able to find you, if they were ghosted in the firefight you think was what started you running in the first place, but perhaps you just started walking you can’t really remember 30
your body aches with the pain of a million zap burns, your legs feel more flimsy than the cactus needles which stab through the bottoms of your dilapidated combat boots they once could withstand the acid rain but time and sand have worn them down and now the shoes that were oh-so shiny can barely keep out the chill of desert nights you’re so tired, your feet feel as if they are made of bricks and you just want to give in to the temptation of sleep even if for just an hour curled up on the side of route guano then you can keep moving then your body will have enough energy to drag itself the last distance to doctor d’s to safety, to warmth, to provisions you’re sure to find him out here somewhere find a smooth patch of sand it feels like lying down on a pile of feathers you thank the phoenix witch that you have long since lost any sense of the cold numb to the bone, your blood feels like fire yes, this is nice this is what you needed your weary eyelids drift shut as you fall asleep to the sounds of lost ‘joys searching for the path home and you finally give your soul over to blissful darkness. 31
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Keep Running 1. I can’t really believe it. We let her go. In our defense, they were too strong. “Keep running.” Korse’s voice still echoes in my head. “Keep running.” The Girl is gone. “Keep running.” We cannot keep running. We have to go get her. Even if it costs us all four of our lives. Killjoys never die, as long as someone remembers them. “Keep running.” It’s gonna be okay. 2. Go! Just go! Get out of my head. “Keep running.” She’s here. Take me! “Keep running.” Stop this. Stop. “Keep running.” I can’t! Don’t you dare say it again! “Keep running.” Whatever.
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3. “Keep running.” What? Ghoul said that I woke up in cold sweat. I don’t remember that happening. “Keep running.” 4. “Keep running.” I think I’m going insane. Kobra asked me if I’m fine. I really don’t know. 5. “Keep running.” We’ll save her tonight.
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Make It Home Even If It Kills You That night seemed to last forever And every time he looked down, there was blood in the sand (You’re seeing things. That’s a shadow) He didn’t even think he existed anymore. Just a transparent fragment, a ghost A figment of your imagination Eventually just gone in a snap (Gone. Gone? Gone.) He’s not sure if he’s dead yet No. Not yet. Theres... light. In the distance
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Memories in the Bifrost It’s the middle of the night when I wake up in a cold sweat feeling like there are dozens of eyes watching me. I peel my sheets off of my body as I sit up, trying to adjust my eyes to the light. I can hear the steady breathing of the four people who might as well be my family quietly sleeping next to me. Jet Star is softly snoring, an even in and out pattern that reminds me of home. It reminds me of long nights up sitting outside the diner drinking cups of Lord’s Drink in midwinter, the hot milk and honey mixtures burning our tongues. It reminds me of safety, of happiness, of being content. I stand up, flinching as the floorboards creak underneath my bare feet. The Girl stirs at the sound, murmuring a soft, “What’s going on?” to me.
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I whisper to her, “Go back to sleep, kiddo,” and she mumbles incoherently back at me before rolling back over and going quiet. I sneak out of the dark building as quietly as I can, sighing as I breathe in the familiar night air. It’s almost too quiet, but I haven’t heard crickets or frogs during the night since I lived in the city. The car is parked close enough to the diner that I hope my estimate is correct before climbing up the hood and standing on top of it. Cherri Cola pulled up the hood after using it last time, telling me that, “You’ll thank me later.”
I grab the side of the roof and clumsily hoist myself up onto the top of the building we’ve made our temporary home. I sit in the quiet, looking up at the small crescent moon. I know that in only a few hours that alarm clock radiation we call our sun will start to rise over the sand, glinting off the Bifrost, but maybe- just maybe- I can get a few hours of quiet before it does. It’s no use trying to go back to sleep now. Once I’m up, I’m up. “What are you thinking?” I whip around, smiling and letting out a breath of air I didn’t know I was holding in when it’s just Kobra. I shrug and he smiles a small smirk. My little brother sits down next to me, tucking his knees up under his chin. I wrap an arm around him, squeezing his shoulder. “Why are you awake?” I sigh, lying down on the roof and looking up at the starless night. I haven’t seen a star since the city either. Kobra lies down next to me, placing a hand over mine. “I couldn’t sleep. Had another nightmare,” He nods. “What about you?” He laughs, closing his eyes. “You know how I get, Poison. Heard the little one wake up. Did you wake her?” I smile, nodding. 43
“Yeah, I think I bumped her when I stood up. She’s never been a very deep sleeper, though, so what can you expect? Did she get back to bed alright?” “Yeah, I think so. She didn’t move when I came out here, so I don’t think I bothered her,” We lie in the quiet, both tangled up in our own thoughts. That’s how our relationship has been for a while now. We don’t tend to talk, we just enjoy the other being next to us. I don’t know how much time passes as we quietly rest. Long enough that the sun has just slowly started to appear and I almost think he’s fallen back asleep when he breaks the silence. “Do you ever miss it?” I frown, sitting up. He sits up as well, looking me in the eyes. “What do you mean? Miss what?” He sighs, playing with his shoelaces. “Everything. The city. Mom and Dad. Everything we once had?” I think about it for a second before speaking. “Not really, no. I mean, if we hadn’t left we never would have met Jet and the Girl. We wouldn’t have met Ghoulie,” I hear a laugh, and we both look over our shoulders to see Ghoul climbing up onto the roof and walking over to us. 44
“What about me?” The three of us laugh, and helooks at me. “Mind if I join you?” I shake my head, motioning next to me. “Be my guest. I was just saying that I don’t think I miss ol’ Mr. and Mrs. Poison that much. Do you miss your parents?” Fun Ghoul shakes his head. “Don’t remember my mom. I mean, Dad and I were out of there within my first three years that I remember anything. One morning I woke up and he was gone. Luckily Dr. D found me, and then we found you guys,” I smile, resting my head on his shoulder. “And then you found us,” He ruffles my hair, causing the three of us to laugh. “Ghoulie, I’m glad,” “Yeah?” I nod. He smiles, wrapping an arm around me. “Me too, Poison, me too.” Then we just sit there in silence, watching the sunrise. Safe, happy, content.
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Letters to the Killjoys 1. Everything, and I do mean everything, is going to be okay. The Witch watches over you at all times. She keeps your soul safe. Don’t talk to her, though. Your dreams aren’t real. Whatever you saw last night was not real. The radiation, the sand, the city, they are never the same. The only real thing here is you. You can never doubt the fact that you exist. The Zones are not your home. Maybe you made it past zone 7. Maybe you’re in the city right now. It does not matter. I hope you know that. Now take a deep breath and acknowledge your existence. You’re here. You are thinking, therefore you’re alive. I am not who you think I am, and that’s fine. 2. Everything is going to be okay. We live in a time when still being able to function - more or less, at least - almost feels like a privilege. Every night you wake up in cold sweat, scared of drac patrols roaming in the zones. “I’m just paranoid,” you tell yourself. You lay down, trying to fall asleep, but the feeling… you shiver a little at the thought. You dismiss your instincts once again. All the previous nights were calm, why wouldn’t this one? You’re not even sure if there’s dracs out here at night. You betrayed yourself. Your intuition never lied to you before, yet you still don’t trust yourself. 48
3. Everything is going to be okay. Have you ever held someone’s hand? Has something ever felt like the only thing keeping you from disintegrating? At that moment, you realized that everything… depends on that. 4. Everything is going to be okay. Someone loves you. Even if there’s no one beside you. Maybe they’re dead. They still love you. I’m still here for you. Maybe not for long. I think you’re amazing. The zones wouldn’t be the same without you. 5. Everything is going to be okay. Do not let them take you. I repeat. Do not let them take you. Whoever they may be. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9… 10. Open your eyes. You are here, and that’s important. Maybe even the most important thing at the moment. She’s here. She’s with you. 6. Everything is going to be okay. Chase your dreams. Run beyond the radiation. Some of us ended up here without thinking. I can’t remember how I got through. 7. Everything is going to be okay. Don’t trust anyone here, unless you grew up with them. 8. Everything is going to be okay.
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Run for your mind run, fight, get ghosted repeat party, drugs, poison complete highways, fridays, death hold on high guard, graveyards, night dawn claps, hidden tears, drive fast, gas runs out drama queens, laser beams, scream and shout filthy water, dirty hands, gasoline shots sand, dust, whatever, we got nightmares, flashbacks, blood on our hands pills and triggers, no sleep for revenge no black, no white just blurred lines you’re here in the zones so fight for your mind
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That Time the Trans Am Ran Out of Gas and I Had to Walk Back to the Diner The rising, pearlescent spires of Battery City loom far in the distance, flush against the cloudless blue sky. Glinting and winking in the sunlight, they look like sparkling jewels settled along the horizon, waiting for some eager soul to scoop up and covet. It’s a gleaming spectacle of purity and majesty, unparalleled by anything within ten thousand miles. By the Witch’s rusty shopping cart did Party Poison wish he could set a match to that trash heap and burn it all down. He salutes the whitewashed hellhole in his customary fashion, flipping out both of his middle fingers and summoning up whatever saliva he has left to spit on the ground, before continuing to trudge along the trail of tire tracks etched into the ground. Approximately five miles behind him, the Fabulous Killjoys’ Trans Am sits, slowly collecting dust from the wind, gas tank as dry as Party’s mouth. When the engine of their pride and joy sputtered and finally heaved its last breath, Party had swore so loud that his voice came reverberating back to him from the mountains, mocking his sorry plight. Muttering the worst words he could think of under his breath, even making up ones that just sounded harsh, he had laboriously yanked the crusty roof over the top of the convertible. After securing it in place, Party had written a message in the thin layer of dust covering the windshield: DO NOT STEAL. BLAST SOME DRACS AND MAKE SOME NOISE INSTEAD (OR ELSE). For the first hour or so, he had mentally cursed everyone he could think of, including himself, for not filling up the fucking car before he went out on his bi-weekly water
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run. The plastic five-gallon jugs rest devoid of water in the backseat. It wouldn’t surprise Party if they would be partially melted by the time he got back. He sure as hell feels like he should be melted by now. Now, as in three hours later, he is somewhat calm, content to march through the Zones until he reaches Route Guano. Then, it will be a straight shot back to the diner, where he can chew out Fun Ghoul for using all of the precious gasoline on a midnight excursion yesterday with the Girl. Then again, maybe he won’t yell at them; he fondly remembers how sweet The Girl looked after Fun had brought her back home, fast asleep, and how Fun’s tired eyes were full of starlight from staring into the vast heavenly expanse. He can almost convince himself that tramping through the Zones in the heat of the day is worth it. Almost, but not quite.
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Party becomes painfully aware of the dirt in his socks, gritting between his toes. The sun is beating down on his candy red hair, partially fueling the throbbing inside his skull. He reflexively reaches up and wipes his brow, but the blow-dryer wind took care of any sweat that might have formed. Instead, Party’s fingertips come away with a thin coating of dust, which he absentmindedly rubs between his index finger and thumb. Mouth clamped shut to protect his throat from the dreaded dryness, he breathes heavily through his nose, which is slightly hindered by the mask pressed firmly over his face. His efforts only slow the effect that the torrid air is having on his throat. What he wouldn’t give for a damn bottle of water. Or vodka. Literally anything liquid, he would drink; besides piss, of course. He wasn’t that.
He wishes he had listened to Jet Star and packed some supplies, instead of just up and vamoosing. But he just had to get away from the diner, the Fabulous Killjoys’ homebase, for a few hours of peace and quiet. Kobra Kid and Fun are in the middle of a prank war/grudge match, spanning five days and counting; it all started with some argument about a toothbrush, before eventually escalating to the two knuckleheads laying intricately planned traps for one another, then chasing each other screaming through the diner when said traps were sprung. Well, Fun is the only one who screams, out of anger at the used motor oil dumped on his head, or out of the sheer terror that comes with being pursued. On the other hand, Kobra is silent both in his fury at his boots being filled with firecrackers, somehow rigged to go off when pressure is applied, and in his laser focus as he worked out the best place to hide until Fun cooled down and the whole cycle could start again. Party loves his family, but sometimes they can be a real pain. The wind whips around Party’s ears with a greater intensity, drawing him out of his thoughts. It rustles the crispy vegetation, stirring the loose grains on the desert floor. He hopes that a haboob isn’t sweeping his way. There hadn’t been any radio report from Dr. D about volatile weather before he left, but there could always be a last minute warning. These types of storms tended to spring out of nowhere. A little ways ahead of him, a sharp glint of color catches his eye. The breeze had kicked up enough dust to reveal a bright object poking out of ground, just by the edge of his tire tracks. It was only through sheer luck that it didn’t get run over by the barreling Trans Am. As Party draws near to it, he
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stops and squats down, brushing the residual dirt away with his gloved palm. As the oblong object begins to take shape, realization accompanied by a twinge of sadness washes over him. He picks up the item and returns to his full height, turning it over in his hand to examine it in closer detail. Yep, it’s just what he thought: a killjoy mask. It’s a basic style model that can be bought off of almost any vender, not unlike the one that’s currently stuck to Party’s face with sweat and grime. He still vividly recalls the day he got his own mask from Tommy Chow Mein’s store; as a timid, shell-shocked kid right out of Bat City, he could barely look Tommy in the eye as he exchanged the money he had saved up for the paint and white piece of plastic. He will never forget that shiny feeling of true freedom when he had put the splatted mask on his face for the first time, flashing his true colors for everyone to see. The mask in his hand, though dirty, still shines with the colors of another ‘joy, a vibrant indigo with yellow stars encircling the eyeholes. The person once attached to this mask must be long gone, ghosted by Dracs or dehydration. Party gingerly tucks the mask into his back pocket and sets out again. There’s a mailbox along Route Guano between him and the diner, and he sure as hell isn’t going to let this poor bastard’s soul rot in the desert any longer. Finally, the tire tracks reach asphalt, and Party steps onto the pavement. It’s a welcome change from the loose, uneven ground. His aching feet could use a break and a half, but the sun isn’t getting any higher in sky. He can handle himself just fine in the dark, but he doesn’t want to worry the others too much. He has seen first hand how anxious the Girl gets during
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Kobra’s sporadic disappearances. When he turns up again days later, not even Party can pry where he’s been out of him. Although they’ve been waning over the years, Party still sometimes has nightmares of finding his little brother dead in a ditch after not coming back from one of those secret trips. ‘Course, he’d never tell Kobra about that. Party plods up to the mailbox that he had been watching get closer and closer for the past few minutes. Misshapen candles and faded flowers are strewn along the base of the brightly graffitied metal container, filled with mementos of dusted killjoys waiting to be taken by the feather clad Phoenix Witch into the great beyond. There has always a feeling of sacredness surrounding the many mailboxes littered across the Zones, even if Party sometimes secretly doubts the Witch’s existence. Still, it’s tradition, a way to honor the fallen. With the silhouette of the diner calling to him ahead, he resolves to finish the ceremony quickly. Taking a deep breath, he takes the forgotten killjoy’s mask out of his back pocket and slides it into the mailbox. He withdraws his hand and closes his eyes briefly. May the Witch guide you to freedom, away from the pigs and noise. Stay shiny. After opening his eyes, he gives a long final glance to the shrine; a shiver runs down his spine, and the sorrowful feeling follows him as he turns away towards a place to rest his head an a group of people he can call family. Towards home.
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Echoes She often remembers them in flashes, sometimes so brief that she wonders if they are truly memories or merely dreams of what might have been. After all, she was so little when it all happened that she could be making it all up in her head. They could all be fantasies of if they’d had more time, if she hadn’t gotten caught by those damn Crows, if they hadn’t decided to become martyrs for a pointless battle, if only they hadn’t been so reckless, and she had been braver, and help had come sooner, and she had fought back, if only, if only, if only... It doesn’t matter anymore, though, and dwelling on the past only causes her grief. And yet, some flashes are so vivid that she can’t possibly imagine them being anything but real: can after can of shitty, stale Power Pup that always made Kobra gag because of his hatred of the texture and the fits of cackles that Poison and Ghoul would fall into each time he pulled a disgusted face. Warm cuddles from Jet under desert night skies while on scouting missions, because no matter how many layers you wore, you would be fucking freezing. The first time Poison trusted her with a ray gun and she nearly shot him in the leg (“Next time, you wait ‘til I’m outta the way before you start wavin’ that thing around, you’ll put someone’s damn eye out and we don’ need another Jet!”) -- needless to say, he put a bit too much faith in her. The time that Ghoul 65
spent an afternoon trying to teach her how to read tiny shifts in Kobra’s expression, which ended with Kobra punching Ghoul in the face (“Fuck off, I have never once made that face!” “You would if you drank a lotta cactus booze!” “Why in the hell would I do that?” “Cause you’re a dumbass, Kobes.”). These moments will come to mind seemingly for no reason and are as fleeting as a breeze that doesn’t signal bad weather, but they are so specific that she has to believe that she is actually remembering them and that they aren’t figments of her imagination. The one thing she knows is a memory, though, is the one thing she wishes she could forget. Not a week goes by where she isn’t plagued by a nightmare of the day that the Fabulous Killjoys laid down their lives in a move she still doesn’t understand. Why didn’t they just let her die? She was one kid, and they were the heroes of the Zones, the guys everyone looked up to for inspiration of how to take on Exterminators because they just never stopped fighting back. They knew it was pointless trying to save her. Even she, in her naivety, had known that they knew it was helpless when Poison held her a bit tighter and longer than normal. She had pretended that they were going to win, but she could feel the slight shudder in his embrace, knew he was scared. And then the firefight. And the gunshots. Oh god, the gunshots. Bang. Right into Poison’s skull. Bang bang bang. Kobra collapsed to the floor. 66
Bang bang bang bang bang. Even through the slammed door, she could hear and see Ghoul shot to the ground. Bang bang bang. Jet, her last hope, falling backwards onto the Trans Am, as lifeless as the rest of them. And all she could do was put her hands over her ears and scream. She just couldn’t. Stop. Screaming. Each shot that hit the boys (because they really were just boys, not yet men) she had grown to see as parents felt like it ripped through her as well, and no matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut, she could see the bright bursts of light from each zap, and she didn’t need to be able to see the battle itself to know that they had lost, and badly. She knows that she somehow got to safety (she thinks Tommy and Show Pony rescued her, but she can’t be sure), that ultimately the mission was a success, but at what cost? The loss of her family, of her innocence, of life as she knew it. She sometimes wishes that she had died with them, because the memories are so hard to bear. They leave her drained, sobbing sometimes, and guilty, knowing that their deaths were all because of her, that they might still be alive today if it weren’t for her. She would take a thousand days of remembering their deaths, though, over the days where she can hardly remember them at all, the days when she can’t picture Poison’s face as he concentrated on
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dusting a pod of Dracs in as few shots as possible. The days when she can’t hear Ghoul’s excited whoops of satisfaction when his penchant for arson paid off and he exploded a Crow’s motorcycle, which were usually followed by a fist pump and a celebratory “fuck yeah!” The days when she can’t remember how it felt when Jet used to play with her fro, massaging her scalp and putting her hair in a dozen tiny ponytails across her head and calling her a little cactus. The days when she can’t remember quite how Kobra smelled (it was usually like cheap cigarettes and sweat and some probably flat soda from Tommy’s store, but what kind -- was it orange, or cola, or maybe grape?). Those are the hardest days, and the times where she finds herself at the radio station with no memory of how she got there, curled up under a table and cradling the box of Mad Gear and Missile Kid tapes that the boys had spent Destroya-knows how much on for her birthday one year. Doctor D keeps them safe for her because he knows that she can’t bear the thought of them getting damaged or lost. She knows that there will come a point when even the flashes disappear, when their voices won’t sound in her head anymore and she won’t be able to picture any of them save from the few crumpled photos that Show Pony keeps pinned to a bulletin board like a shrine in the back of the diner, reminders of heroes who fell too soon. 68
On days when these worries threaten to overwhelm her, she brings to mind days of hitting the red line, screaming the lyrics to whatever song they managed to tune the Trans Am’s shoddy radio to and just being totally free. She wraps herself in memories of Poison’s raspy yet soothing voice singing her lullabies. She pretends that the wind whistling around her is not wind, but whispers from her guardians, reminding her that she isn’t really alone, because spirits never really leave the Zones, particularly when it is next to impossible to lay them to rest because there aren’t items to take to the Witch’s mailbox. She knows that they are watching over her, and that, although the memories are simply echoes of the past, she will hold onto them for as long as physically possible so that they continue and their voices aren’t silenced.
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May Death Never Stop You Out in the Zones, death is unavoidable. It is everywhere. Whether you get dusted by some dracs, the sun burns you to a crisp, or your body just decides to call it quits, death is just around the bend. Motor Babies chase it. Crash Queens taunt it. Killjoys court it. Just as sure as the sun rises and sets, the shadow of Death looms. It’s just part of life out in the Zones. Nothing makes this more apparent than the Mailboxes. Stark reminders silently screaming in technicolor against the sand. Inside they hold the precious memories of those who have been taken by the Zones, waiting for the Phoenix Witch to lead them to peace. Gently laid to rest by friends, loved ones, and family. Maybe even by a caring stranger. Coffins covered in spray paint. No one knows quite where the Boxes came from. That is something ee may never know. Any explanation is plausible. Loneliness, madness, desperation. All possible reasons. The first people out of Battery City and into the Zones said they were already here, a testament to those who never conformed. There will always be those before us and those after us. Those whose ancestors never felt the siren call of safety, comfort, and peace that BLi promised after the Wars. Anything was better than that. 74
Did they come from the loneliness of a life in the Zones? Letters originally meant for friends and families left back in Bat City to people who might as well be dead? Did they come from someone thinking they could contact the Dead after losing someone to a Crow? Or maybe as a way for people to let their deepest and darkest fears and secrets be sent somewhere, anywhere but the vastness of the desert? Maybe they were created as a way to try to absolve them of the sins one must commit to survive in these irradiated sands? Or maybe they really are coffins. A way to bury loved ones and their memories when the sands can’t. A way to bury those who had to be left in the heat of the moment, those killed out in the fields. Leaving behind their memories and their trinkets as BLi collects their bodies. After all, it’s not about the friends you make but the graffiti they write on your grave. And what are the Mailboxes except grave markers covered in graffiti? Mass graves filled with memories. Death is the great equalizer. We all hope to find peace in Death. Regardless of whether or not you knew the group you got into a clap with, if no one comes to claim their dead, you do it for them. You bring their mask or their gun to a Box. You let the Phoenix Witch put their souls to rest because you hope that someone would do it for you. 75
Cause honestly, all we have are memories. Lights fade. Parties separate. Friends die. All you are left with is ghosts and memories. Maybe a memento or two. And the stories. Dear God the stories! They grow and take a life of their own and it’s like you’re not alone anymore. Their memories bring back new life and maybe, just maybe, they aren’t truly gone. You roll a trinket around in your hand. An earring, a can tab, anything to evoke the feeling that they are still here…somewhere. And so, the mailboxes are a testament to that too. Their stories. Their memories. Gentle containers of those memories, decorated beacons for the lost to come home. Phoenix Witch will guide them and they live on. They keep running. Everyone wants to change the world, but no one wants to die.
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Thank you to our ad designer, Werotos (@werotos on Instagram) for volunteering to go above and beyond to help execute the vision of this zine. All Better Living Industries ads featured were created by them. From the Curators: To the crash queens and motorbabies, Hello! My name’s Nat. For those of you who are active on Tumblr, you might know me as @ofkorse, @incorrectkilljoyquotes, @corruptedkid, or @inventingsongs. I’m a writer, a Danger Days devotee, and I guess a zine curator, now, too. I joined the Killjoys fan base around summer 2016. For those of you who were around back then, you’ll remember a time full of inspiration and constant creation. There were endless memes, headcanons, ask blogs… Our community has gotten quieter since then, but we’re still alive and kicking. With this zine, I really wanted to bring back some of that community engagement and spark. Seeing so many submissions of your best work made me smile. Even if you don’t consider yourself to be part of the fabulous killjoys fanbase, I hope this zine reminded you of your love for Danger Days, and you’ll keep it in your heart as we speed on through 2019. 82
Reflecting on this zine, I can’t believe it actually exists. Wow. This all began as a hypothetical that my co-curator, Kelso, pitched to me in an email, and now it’s a fully-realized creation. Who would’ve thought! But for real, thank you all so much for making this possible. Before this, I had never made a zine, or managed any kind of collaborative creative project. I had hoped some kind of community event would spring up in celebration of 2019, but I never imagined it would be like this. The art, writing, cosplay, and overall incredible creativity me and Kelso have seen from you throughout the past few months has been incredible. Speaking of Kelso: as you’re reading this, please take a moment to soak in some gratitude towards her for this entire project. The Killjoys Zine was her brainchild, and she’s put in an enormous amount of work taking in submissions, designing the finished product, and working with image formatting that I totally don’t understand. Her passion is beautiful, and I’m so proud to have worked with her. If you want to get in touch with me, you can find me at any of the Tumblr handles listed above, or at rosesandrecords@gmail.com. I’m always open to talk Danger Days! Remember, killjoys: the future is bulletproof. 83
Killjoys, Hi there, I’m Kelso! I’m so excited to share the Killjoys Zine 2019 with you. I hope you enjoyed. A little bit about the creation of the zine: The idea for the Killjoys Zine 2019 actually materialized in a run-down motel in the middle of nowhere, which I think is quite fitting. I’d seen the artistic community that sprung up around Danger Days and knew it deserved something special for 2019. I let the concept of a zine pinball around in my brain for a few days before reaching out to my fellow curator, Nat, and sending them a long, rambling email — considering we didn’t know each other that well back then, I’m still surprised they took a chance on me and agreed to help. I’ll always be grateful for that. I couldn’t have done it without them. Speaking of, I have lots of people to thank for helping make this zine happen: First off, I’d like to thank the artists, writers, and cosplayers who believed in this zine and made it come alive. Your talent is astounding and it was an honor to curate your work. To the readers, thank you for giving these pieces the attention they deserve. It’s obvious that so much time and love have been poured into each and every one of them. Consider reaching out to the creators of any works you particularly admired. It’ll probably make their day. 84
And of course, thank you to Nat. Getting to know them over the past few months has been one of the greatest times of my life. They’re a brilliant problem-solver, they’ll listen patiently to all my terrible ideas until something good comes out, and their optimism is infectious. I couldn’t imagine a better partner if I tried. Danger Days and the Fabulous Killjoys are, to me, a representation of the best things in life: Noise. Taking no shit. Spitting on corporations. Standing up for yourself and the things you believe in. Loving hard. Making art. And, of course, bright-ass tacky clothing. I believed all those things should be celebrated in 2019. I’m happy to say that through this zine and all of our contributors’ stunning work, I feel like we’ve thrown Danger Days the best party ever. If you’d like to reach out, feel free to message me at stoplightglow@gmail.com or on Tumblr @stoplightglow. Otherwise, I’ll be hugging Route Guano. Art can change the world. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Signing off, Kelso
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