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August 2013





Wagner Souza

The Make-Up Artist.................................................05 Writer: Alexandre Winck Artist: Mario Mancuso, Lillian Lis, Lucas Villaça e Thiago Heinrich

Legends..........................................................................15 Writer and Artist: Bira Dantas - Cor: Fabio Vardi

Dark Eyes, Eyes of the night..................................22 Writer: JB Alves - Pictures: SXC.HU

The Guest......................................................................29 Adaptation and Artist: Berzé

The Cursed Ones ...........................................................38 Writer: Pat Kovacs- Artist: Cesar Reis

The Spawn....................................................................45 Writer: Jerônimo de Souza - Artist: A. Lima - Colors: Rodrigo Garcia

Fabiana Servilha (Interview)........................................50 Writer: Alexandre Winck - Pictures: Diody Shigaki/PR

You Shall Know The Truth and the truth shall set you free....................................60 Writer: Francisco Tupy - Ariist: Mario Jun

The Prisoner Of Fire (conto).......................................72 Writer: Marcelo Martinez - Pictures: SXC.HU

Password.......................................................................82 Writer and Artist: Carlos Henry - Colors: Fabio Vardi

Devil´s Farm...............................................................87 Writer: Daniel Vardi - Artist: Mhick Holderbaum

Industrial Angel - The origin................................94 Writer: Alexandre Winck - Artist: Daniel Lucavis


04-21-81 Artist: Marcelo Coelho Colorist: Paulo Damas..........................86 Artist: A.Lima Colorist: Rodrigo Garcia......................................93 Artist: Marcel Bartholo....................................................................


Authors From The Absurd


o make author´s comics doesn´t make it an obligation to make “staring at the sunset” or “slice-of-life” kinda stories. Nothing against them, by the way. But it´s as the name implies: what differentiates that kinda story is the author, not the genre or the style. A horror, science fiction, crime, fantasy, manga, children, superhero or even erotic story can be done with as much creativity, meaning and passion as a more intimist or daily life one. Don´t take my word, read masters like Alan Moore, Hayao Miyazaki, Charles Schultz or Guido Crepax. In this issue, we´re joined by two masters who´ve never been academics´ darlings, neither have pretensions of destroying mass culture. But they´re authors in all that´s important, incomparable references in what they do: the two greatest icons of Brazilian horror, Coffin Joe and Devil Tony, are together for the first time in the same comic book. And, if that´s still not enough, we´ll have an interview with award winning filmmaker Fabiana Servilha, a story by the acclaimed Bira Dantas and the premiere of a new character, the Industrial Angel, created by performance artist Hernestro Vincent. Tales From The Absurd is not a comic book about the human existential anguishes or the miseries of everyday life... or maybe it is. But we talk about those things using werewolves, demons, zombies... As another great comics author, Neil Gaiman, would say, all fiction is, to some extent, fantasy. As realistic as they try to be, authors always “reinvent” reality in a way or another. And only fiction has the power to materialize everything our imagination conceives. Our most delirious dreams and nightmares. Join us in one more journey towards the strange, the surreal and the bizarre. Maybe among those macabre fantasies, you´ll recognize some of yourself and the world and reflect about it. If you don´t, it has monsters, blood and boobies. We´re authors, but we´re not made of stone.

Alexandre Winck - Editor submissions@contosdoabsurdo.com.br




THE MAKE-UP ARTIST Just mascar a little a. not sluPretty, tty!

e rose Antiqu tick, lips t iful bu beaut rete. disc

A liq to wipe uid base skin lo that dry hide th ok and e spot s.

Writer: Alexan dr e Winck Artists: Mรก rio Ma ncus Villaรงa, Lillian Lis o, Lu cas and Thiago Heinrich

Done. All eyes will be on you, babe!


My name’s Memento. I’m a tanatopraxist. I know, sounds like the name of some kinda wizard or something. Popularly, I’m called “make-up artist for the dead”.

In reality, it’s a more complicated job than that. And a pretty important one. Our duty is to make the deceased look their best in front of their loved ones.

Everybody wants a look of peace, of serenity. As if they were sleeping. Even if that person had a horrible or slowly-agonizing death. Even if that person were a major league motherfucker in life.

it’s not just having the stomach for it.this job demands a lot of dedication, attention to detail and patience.

in order to look perfect at the funeral, the body must be embalmed, get make up and, in some cases, be restaured.


Some cases are pretty tough. Accident victims. Violent crimes. Disfiguring diseases. no one wants to see a bullet hole or a tumor

In these cases, we make face reconstruction. We apply elastic prosthetics to replace skin and sew it up.

Even so, in some situations it’s better to make it closed casket.

Works miracles.

Everybody asks how you put up with seeing dead people on a daily basis. We get used to it. Becomes second nature.

I was told this one’s pretty intact. Just a little make up should do it.

Damn. Never seen a dead one smell so nice. Did the family bother to put on perfum before sending her? Holy crap!!


She’s so hot! Must be the most beautiful woman I ever seen! Looks like a celebrity!

No sign of injuries. Must have died of natural causes.

Family remembered to put on perfum but no clothes? Weird.

Skin still rosy. Not pale at all. Could she...

No pulse. Chest doesn’t inhale or exhale. She really looks dead.

But no rigor mortis whatsoever. Still warm.

All firm...


All soft..

No!! What the fuck am I doing?! I can go to jail!! I’ll never work again!! I got wife, I got kids, I got--

Ah, what the hell! They left me alone anyway.

My God!! Even down there... Warm!! Warm and... and wet...


This is-- it’s amazing! Never felt anything like it! Feels like I was asleep and only now I woke up! Only now I’m really alive!

Hah! I feel even her nails on my back! Slut...


How dare you violate Coffin Joe’s sacred territory?!

You thought she was beautiful, didn’t you? Couldn’t resist her!

Holy shit!!

Me neither.


“I was in this party. Bored. Hollow.”

“Hearing the same old unfunny jokes. The same boring chats about work.” “Drunken yuppies bragging about made up lays and making high school boy passes.”

“That’s when I saw her.” “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And I speak from many, many years of experience. You have no idea how many.”

“For a moment, I thought I had ended my search. ”

“She was magical. Clever and funny. Sexy in the simplest gestures.” ”I had found the perfect woman.”

“The illusion didn’t last long. I soon realized she was a futile and shallow woman. A bimbo.”

“Everything about her was artificial. She had silicon on her breasts and buttocks, liposuction, colagen on lips, botox on forehead, even intimate surgery.”

“Even her sensuality was enhanced by Ecstasy.”


“She played men. Insatiable. Uninhibited.”

“She kicked them out as soon as she got what she wanted: name brand clothes, jewelry, perfum...”

“Well, I loaded her up with presents too. A lot of beauty and hygiene products.”

“You know make-up. Must know a lot of those products contain heavy metals, like lead and mercury.”

“Just like many perfums, shampoos and mouthwashes have alcohol.” “ I just had to increase concentration and disguise the smell.” “Increase absurdly.”


That’s right--

W-wait... If you-- It means--

she’s not so “irresistible” anymore.

Think you’re better than her? cuz you’re a loser who lives paycheck to paycheck, got a wife and little kids? Cuz you go to church on sundays?

Just proved you’re not. You’ve had that necrophiliac fantasy for a long time, haven’t you?

Even when you fall asleep in the middle of sermon “You make a living “But mortality brings out the ugliness we all have to face one day.” trying to make death look pretty.”

“See beyond make- up, Memento!”

“Face the dark hollow abyss of that soul!”


We have no idea what happened, Mrs. Elvira.

Official cause of death was a panick attack-induced heart attack.

In English, he died of fear. Your husband’s always been a hard-working, easygoing employee. Never complained about working with the dead.

The craziest part’s what he did to his own face right before.

The End


By Zeus!

There she is, down the cliffs! Fabio Vardi

Steep descent!


I must be cautious. The giant harpy has its nest around here...

Thanks to the Gods, I shall save the captive!

Any minimal noise may alert the monster!

But Aeolus decides to complicate everything...

... and spreads the scent of the hero!


Athena's plague!

I'll use Pan's flute to save myself and that princess in chains!

Thanks to Pan!

By the specters of Hades! This one was close!

By Hephaestus! I'm doomed in this furious Clash of Titans...


Damn you!

I tell thee the same!

These monsters are tireless!

Turned into stone. This can only be the work of...


Thou and thy princess shall be mine!


Thou art dead, little one!

Or am I?

I am bronze, idiot!

Gorgon only transforms flesh into stone!

Saved by my victim's blood...


I shall set you free, princess!

Hurry, Pegasus!

I shall release you from all perils!

But... thou art so cold!

I cannot believe! Cold and stiff...


Thou art a sculpture! Oh, perfidious gods... What artist sculpted thee? Phidias? Policletus? Agasias? Alcamenes...


w er e


Dark Eyes... Eyes Of The Night. JB ALVES

To me, that morning seemed shapeless as it slowly emerged. My eyes, whitened and lifeless, make a sad attempt at opening as my head spins towards the horizon that breaks through the window. I feel the first rays of sunlight bathe my body and, slowly, Lazarus-like, my life returns as I recollect everything that happened. I returned from my last trip, it was already past 2 A.M. and I had just left the immense city of São Paulo and was already far down the countryside when my car´s tire suddenly got flat. I was desperate at first, for I had no spare tire. However, used to the area and to that same weird and exhausting road, I decided to take a chance with the last few miles till the nearest gas station. intending to, who knows, get help to settle and get me out of this hole I dug myself into. “No problem!” - I bravely thought. I´ll walk there, listening to some groovy tune in my phone and, at the station, I´ll call a friend to come help me. Slowly, after putting on a jacket to protect me from




the cold and closing the car, I started to journey alone in that deserted road, lightened by an immense Moon that glew relentlessly under a fogged sky. Step by step, I crossed dark areas and, as I listened to the local station, I´d be watching the distant shine of the stars, as I tried to understand how come trees, so beautiful during the day, were capable to create crawling shadows that possessed such a terrifying semblance. And, as I imagined claws and fangs made from the branches, I started thinking about a colleague who had been mugged in that area. I got the feeling that I shouldn´t take too long. Walking by myself at that time couldn´t be any good. As I thought of that, a strange chill went down my spine, making me suddenly peek back, because, for a fleeting moment, I realized that so-


meone was behind me. Scared by that possibility, I uselessly searched, but all I saw were the shadows of the trees that shook in the wind as if they cackled at my cowardice. “What an idiot! Scared of the shadows!” - I thought as I turned up my radio´s sound and kept my walk. However, even making such an effort to distract myself, my ears throbbed at full power as they followed the sped up pace and propelled by the loud beats of my heart.

What an idiot! Scared of the shadows!” I thought as I turned up my radio´s sound Faking fearlessness and making use of a strength of will I did not possess, I forced myself to believe that such a feeling was only part of my imagination. So, I kept slowly moving towards the station. I was already quite tired, it´s been four hours by car and another hour walking. Those trips could kill anyone,

but a growing and strange fear bred from my heart and that gave me new strengths that made me race towards the light of the gas station. Suddenly, when the lights were close, as if out of nowhere, a dark, shapeless figure, with big dark eyes, appeared in front of me. The glow in his


eyes was like two scorching flames that seemed to consume my uncautious thoughts. However, his speech was sweet to my ears and invited me to rest a little. His face remained hidden amongst the shadows and his body was merely a half-incarnated wraith. Scared by the sighting, I tried to look around seeking help, but the station and the road no longer existed, the wind had ceased and the shadows were everywhere covering me like a suffocating cloak. I turned my body towards that hideous yet attractive voice and again I faced those big dark eyes that watched me. Who or what was that? What creature under the heavens would have such eyes? It was in the middle of those conjectures that the creature moved so fast I had no chance


to see his figure as he lassoed me in his arms. I felt indescribable pain when claws pearced my arms and I felt my neck get soaked in blood, while my gurgling throat uselessly tried to scream.

Even As His Teeth Got Buried In My Throat, I Kept Hearing His Strange Whispers In My Ears.

Even as his teeth got buried in my throat, I kept hearing his strange whispers in my ears. So, as he yanked away all my fears by the room he opened in my neck, he´d promise me dreams and desires, riches and ruin. In spite of all that, all I could wish for was one thing, that this nightmare ended at once. It was as if he agreed to my request, that I simply blacked out. It was with the sun awaking my body that I opened my eyes and realized I was lying in my bed, exactly in my room, with the necrophile´s chant fading from my ears.


How did I get here? I don´t know! All I know is my car was in the garage, with the flat tire. And the only thing that made me believe it wasn´t all just a dream was the marks of claws and teeth that I carry on my arms and neck. I can´t take a shot at any reasonable hypothesis for this strange experience. All I know is I´m feeling a little more alive by the minute, even not knowing how or why. When I get to sit on my bed, I´m really certain something attacked me. For that thing, in spite of seemingly acting without a predetermined aim, had left its footprints all over my room, here and there, amidst small puddles of coagulated blood. And as soon as the new day rises in my window, I finally accept that the night belongs to him and that the choice of life or death of us, human beings, is nothng compared to the memory of those dark eyes in the middle of the night. The end...

...Till the day ends and the night returns to feed again!



here he is, may say so Oliveira, that big boy with the blond mustache and blue gaze, who was a travelling collector,“cometa” (“comet”), and now is a reporter. In fact, that was the last collecting trip he´s made, and it horrified him so much he changed his life and occupation. He himself accounted this tale to me. Here I give it for the cost, with nothing of mine.

Adaptation and Artist: Berzé


At the fall of a rainy afternoon in March, arrived the collector, extenuated and starving, to a vendola (small store) at the side of the road, the long fastidious road, through the fields, that goes from Altenas to Machado, at the south of Minas (Brazilian Southeast state). Alongside the store was the living home, small, rough and dirty, of an old Portuguese couple that settled there and sold the products of their small crop, cultivated in their tiny lands, and the theft brought at night by the neighborhood slaves.

An inn, wasn´t the use to find there; Altenas was one légua (distance measure, about 4,8 kilometers or close to three miles) away and the owners said carelessly that it was no hosting place. But, with Oliveira... ... it was a special situation: he already had his very exhausting eight léguas, and tick´s hunger, and then, with such a load of water, there was no way to keep going. He asked for shelter and supper, all paid for he added.


- Supper, can be arranged - said Zé Manuel, the old tavern owner; there the bed is harder, since we don´t entertain guests for sleepover.

And with his gaze he consulted the wife, the big, rubenesque, morose woman, mushed behind the counter.

- No, not for that - she opinionated; give him Jequim´s room...

- Well reminded - agreed the store owner - we have over there a now unoccupied room, that is our boy´s, who´s been away; down there to Carmo Do Rio Claro; has bed and mattress, which is what one needs to sleep... if it suits you...


- It suits me, it suits me - quickly accepted Oliveira. - And give me something to eat; I´m starving! As supper was served, he desarretou (removed harness, saddlery from) his beast, kept the harnesses in the room they selected for him, cojoined with the front´s little room and with a window pointing to the road; took the animal to eat grass, a closed ittle amount, very close; and got back to take care of himself.

Before he sat at the table, however, where beans,sprout and canjica (sweet corn pudding) were already smoking hot, asked them to bring him a sieve. - A sieve? Ora essa!

(typical Brazilian expression,similar to “I’ll be damned” or“what the hell?”)!


-It´s for a precisão (necessity)!

They brought him one, and he then took from his pants pocket a pack of money, a roll of rain-moist bills he took, and spreaded over the sieve of the taquara (a kind of bamboo) the large bills, two hundred, one hundred fifty thousand réis (Brazilian currency of the nineteenth/early twentieth centuries), a good half a dozen contos (millions of réis, a lot of money). Took the sieve to the border of the table that the towel didn´t reach, and initiated serving supper on the blue china plate, with the iron spoon. As he took a spoonful to his mouth, was surprised by,at the door of the little room,the fired up gaze with which they devoured the extended bills, the old Portuguese woman and her husband, who came in with a bottle of wine.

So coveting was their gaze, in the young man´s soul echoed a chill of fear, and a shimmer of foreesing. Quickly, right there, he decided to be cautious, regretting the imprudence of showing them both so much money.

As he finished supper, stated that really early, at the break of dawn, would go ahead to Altenas, so he´d leave the hosting paid for, they told him good night, and he went in, with a grease candle, to Jequim´s room. 33

As soon as he was alone, put together the bills he had spreaded on the sieve, shove them back into his pocket, and right when the house settled into silence, around midnight, jumped out the window, with harnesses and suitcase on his head, went to the closed grass crop, saddled the beast and rushed towards the city, under the beautiful moonlight that rose.

Was barely lost in the distance the trotting of the beast that carried the collector, when a new animal stampede sounded off in the store´s terreiro (area, territory); it was another horseman, who jumped out the saddle and quickly unharnessed the lombilho (kind of saddle) he came on and with a sucking of his bushy lips ordered the animal towards the field.


- Diacho (old Brazilian expression, similar to “damn”)! My window´s open! he mubled to himself. - Better! I come in without knocking and waking up my folks at this time.

And, holding on to the window sill, jumped in, taking the lombilho, the baixeiro (yarn piece, part of the harness, over the horse´s back) and the break (part of the har-

ness, used to drive the horse), and right away closed the window, for the cold was no laughing matter.


Coming from the bed, at the bottom, one could hear the compassed and strong breathing of good deep sleep. The prowler approached, guided by the respiration of the sleeping one and by the faint clarity that came from the room, where the other prowler, crouched and shaking, sustained and veiled with her wrinkled hand, a vinegar lamp.

Suddenly, in the silence of the habitation, sounded, creepy, repeated, fast axe strikes, one, two, three, many, regular at first, than random.


- C´mon! Bring the light! - mouthed off a strangled voice.

As soon as the light hit the bed, a horrendous mass of bloody clothes and flesh, two muffled screams mingled their horror:

Came into the room the other prowler, the fat old lady, with the lit lamp.

- Jequim!

- Oh son! Oh my boy!

Out, in the desert road, flew the Bacuraus. Like lost souls.



Writer: PAT KOV


Ohini¹ Mahamaya² rose her eyes to the church tower, after she managed to wake from her stupor thanks to the bells´ tolls, which indicated it was midnight. The fresh blood-stained clothes and the abs area-placed hand denounced the fight, engaged a little before. She should be satisfied. It´s been days on the hunt till she found the vampire. For days and nights, she heard the homeless from that area of the town, their stories, their fears. The night before, she´d been at that same place and had been witness to the moment of despair from one of the homeless ones, whose small daughter had been yanked out of her arms by the son of Satan. Mohini 1 sneaked down the empty and dark streets till stumbled into a chilling scene: the son of Satan drinking from the girl, leaning her tiny and fragile body against a factory´s wall. The Huntress got too late. The girl´s approach made him jump over the garbage cans and disappear down the dark streets, leaving the child´s body behind, as it crumbled, al-





ready lifeless, down to the filthy ground. Return by the same path she came from, carrying the child´s corpse in her arms, was akin to entering her own soul´s dark abyss. Only at that moment she had grasped the meaning of the “Carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders” expression. Couldn´t avoid the feeling of impotence that overwhelmed her. It´s as if everything she´d done in life made no sense. Not when there was so much cruelty in the world. The tears rolled abundantly down her pale face, spilling on the child´s body. But nothing, nothing prepared her for the anguish she´d endure as she delivered the corpse to the mother. The cries of desperation were more than her eyes could bear. It was more than she could stand! She sworn to end that! Promised herself that would put an end to the Cursed One! Strangely, that night, prayer came hard to her. The vampire had done more than drink blood and scythe a life. He took away a big portion of Mohini´s unshakable faith. These memories from the night before, right now, seemed to have ocurred a century ago. - It´s over. - Her voice came out broken and quasi-asthmatic, reveaing the superhuman effort she summoned to breathe.


The tears rolled abundantly down her pale face, spilling on the child´s body Stared at her own clothing covered by the Cursed One´s blood and attempted a brief gaze behind. The son of Satan´s rotten blood painted red a good portion of the street. She had to call the Society, needed someone to come and take what´s left of the vampire´s corpse. She lacked the strength. Something burned in her stomach area. During the battle, the Cursed one had metamorphosed his own hand into sharp claws. He stroke her a single time on the solar plexus area, tenths of seconds before her katana cut through the air, taking away the vampire´s head. She slid her finger down the abs area and stared at her own hand. Had no nerve to look at the wound. By the abundant blood that covered her fingers, she assumed the cut was deep. Mohini leaned her arms against the wall, supporting her head on cold concrete, attempting to get her strength back. That´s when the sounds of steps became closer and closer. Out of control, she turned to the stranger who approached and walked towards him with shaky steps.

- Help me. - The hand squeezed the abdomen, without getting to stop the bleeding that soaked even more her clothes, already red from the blood of the Cursed One, streaming luridly, sprinkling red the dark stones of the street. - I think I´m not okay... Her eyes scanned the man standing next to her. Her ability to perceive auras was pretty obfuscated by the pain she felt. She knew to be in front of someone with extraordinary powers, but, at that time, she couldn´t distinguish what kind of gift was the one he possessed. Shut her eyes and said a whispered prayer, pleading God that he weren´t another son of the darkness.

Mohini - Sanscrite, means “daughter of illusion” .


Mahamaya – Sanscrite, means “The Big Illusion”



Chapter Two The history of humankind has always been paced up by struggles in the search of power. It´s been enough there´s someone with greater skill to, soon afterwards, subjugate the others. Some received power by earning it, but others took it through the most vicious schemes. Most of time, the struggle for power to control the masses and territories was - IS - motivated by vanity, favorite child of pride.

Millions of “ lambs” have been lured to “slaughterhouses” and killed so that their lords could rise to the thrones And these struggles always vary in form and intensity, but they all start with a tiny, insignificant thing: intrigue. There lies the sparkle that llights up the planet! And those who seek control don´t stop for anything, neither the common sense in the voice of God, which is conscience; nor when it´s necessary to spill innocent blood. Lives are expendable. Thousands won´t make any difference, especially when it´s a being that spreads like the plague, such as the human one. Therefore, to reach the power that is desired, intrigue is spreaded, mistrust is fed, traps are set and the lambs head towards immolation. Millions of “lambs” have been lured to “slaughterhouses” and killed so that their lords could rise to the thrones, so they´d acquire power, riches and were seen as the True God on Earth; Our history gets down to that. Only puppets that are raised and slaughtered, most without the slightest clue that they´re


only expendable means for others to enjoy what they obtained at the cost of their lives, of their integrity, of their blood. But, sometimes, some of us get sick of that... Ironically, it was a very pleasant night. There was Moon and stars in a majestic, immaculate sky. Even the excess of artificial light and tall buildings wasn´t enough to take away the sight of a peaceful evening. And that, by itself, was already a sign that something was really, really wrong. There were no peaceful nights in big cities! And the fresh breeze, always so welcome, didn´t just bring up a fresh feeling, but the rotten odors from the filthy corners and a stench that overpowered the others, for it was as fresh as the breeze that carried it: it was blood, and freshly spilled one! Finally, he managed to arrive where he seeked. The trail of blood was a blatant indicator of that: a long stripe covered the cobblestone pavement, which led to a medieval church compressed between the skyscrappers. He arrived, maybe too late. - I think I´m not okay... Henrique arrived in time to reach the girl, before she collapsed down to the ground. She was covered with the

Despair compressed her chest, the wound throbbed unbearably, but there he was. stenched blood of a Cursed One, indicating that she managed to accomplish the mission they arranged to her. She was already unconscious, perhaps dying and, when he settled her on his arms, noticed the pearcing in her womb that bled abundantly. Maybe it was too late to save her... but he´d try, at least. And, even if it weren´t possible, wouldn´t leave the immolated lamb there that night. Lifted the girl in his arms and, taking one last gaze upon that eerie scenario, dematerialized, teleporting both to a reliably secure place, away from Cursed Ones, Societies and churches. Chapter three Nearly fading out, Mohini´s eyes opened a little more, beaming a different, golden glow, the remains of a smile hiding momentarily her expression of pain. Despair compressed her chest, the wound throbbed unbearably, but there he was. The candid, soft expression and those eyes, the kindest pair of eyes she had ever seen. His aura seemed different from both mortals and creatures of 43

the night. It was a mashup of different tones that, in the end, resulted in a multicolored mix that danced around his body. Did it dance, really? Or maybe was it only the weakness that took her over, leading her by hand towards death, her own death? Without any strength, Mohini passed one of her arms around his neck. The other hand, placed over the wound, seemed too tiny to compress the deep cut. Stared down, watching the strange effect of the two pairs of feet stepping on the pool of crimsom liquid, her blood.

The location changed radically. It was no longer the stinky, building-infested downtown of a concrete metropolis. It was no longer a pleasant temperature night. On the other hand, it was also no longer the dangerous place filled with darkness and traps. Henrique, with the unconscious girl in his arms, had just teleported between the birches and foliage-deprived beeches of the Siberian taiga. It was full Moon and the clarity reflected on the yarn-like cloak of snow that covered everything. The young man took a deep breath, the cold suited him very well... he was home and no harm would come to him there. Even with the weight of the Huntress in his arms, it wasn´t hard to walk down the hallway of trees, his feet sinking in nearly ten inches of snow. At that point, he´d have to act without magic, due to the place´s protections. Arrived at the end of the lane and, before crossing an invisible line, what could be seen was only a desolate vastness. But, as soon as the young man crossed such line, the scenario changed again: where there seemed to be only a desert of snow, a white marble manor, whose towers had the domes shaped like golden drips. On him, the place´s

Pressing slightly her hand over the stranger´s neck, she felt he was capable of transfusing an unusual force, powerful.

Pressing slightly her hand over the stranger´s neck, she felt he was capable of transfusing an unusual force, powerful. Or maybe it was just the proximity to his warm skin touching hers, cold, pale, vulnerable. Confused, the images around her spinned before diving into the darkness. A black cloak descended upon her eyes, stealing her sparkles of strength, which were exhausted, like her blood.


protections had no effect. The door, gold-covered on both sides, opened as he approached. At the hallway, two men and a woman in muhzik clothes², who stepped torwards Henrique, awaiting his orders. - Borya³and Sasha4, bring Huan Li5 immediately! Warn him that we have a seriously injured one! Katienka6, help me with the girl´s accommodations... The night will be long. The two men left to seek the Healer, while the matron followed the young man to a previously prepared room. It was warm and aseptic. With great care, he placed Mohin on the bed and soon the white sheets were stained with blood. Henrique gazed at her with grudge and concern. Huan Li, a Chinese wizard, typically dressed, entered the room at that moment.

dded and left the room. What he could do, had already done and now anything else was beyond his abilities. Henrique settled in his cabinet. As soon as he was comfortable in his chair next to the fireplace, a lady, also in muhzik clothes, came in carrying a platter with a teapot and bread. The man smiled at her. - Thanks for the care, Nina! I could really use some warm tea... - I knew you did, sir. The night was long and sleepless. Henrique didn´t shut his eyes even for a moment. He´d either be distracted by the crackling firepla-

- It´s a cursed wound, Mr. Huan! She got hurt in battle. The old Healer said nothing, simply approached the girl, staring closely at her. Turned to Katienka, then to Henrique. - Help me with the lady, Miss Katienka. When it´s all done, I shall speak to you, Mr. Heiselmann7. The young man no45

ce, or by the window, from which he´d see the blizzard. It was almost morning when Huan Li entered the cabinet. - We were able to stabilize her, Mr. Heiselmann. She´s still quite weak, but with care and medication she may survive. We just still don´t know about the long-term harm. The young man smiled, tired. - I knew you´d make it, Mr. Huan... Is she conscious? - Yes, sir. Henrique entered the room. Matron Katienka settled the girl between the pillows and, when she saw the young man at the door, put things together on the platter and left, greeting him with a wi-

ggle. The young man came in and stopped by the foot of the bed, staring, scrutinizingly, at the girl. After a few moments, of a nearly uncomfortable silence, he enunciated. - You´re the youngest lamb they´ve ever sent to immolation, Miss Mohini Mahamaya...

2 Muhzik – name given to the peasants of Russia 3 Borya – Short for Borys, in Russian. 4 Sasha –Short for Alexander (and other names), in Russian. 5 Huan Li – From Chinese, “logic/reason” and “Happy”. 6 Katienka – Short for Katierina or Catarina, in Russian. 7 Heiselmann – From German, means “powerful or Chief that dared go against pagans”.



That’s the only way this family ever gets together...

Colors: Rodrigo Garcia

Are there any mirrors in that house?

“The last thing I wanted to do was to get together with those losers.”


disappeared as if he never existed...”

You’re both cowards! I’m going after him...


sister didn’t end up in, like, Mars, but inside an active volcano...”

My face! My face’s disfigured!

“Fuck! Where the hell has our brother gone to?”


the mansion’s basement, they discovered a mysterious phenomenon.

Dammit, I think I broke my arm...


murderer one’s dead too...”

“My brother must have gone insane and become a psychopath...”


Help, please, somebody help me... You bitch with the pretty face!


hardly knew he wouldn’t be the biggest threat...”


flesh was torn and swallowed by the abominable being.”


was prepared to be cruelly eviscerated....”

No, dear God, don’t do that!

“I promised I’d never smoke a joint again...”


the being talked to me and left mr alone...”



all ready to face the wall?


been a couple weeks now...”


“But I

knew it was all over and


What the fuck is that?

was still traumatized by the events...”


The audience has chosen you, Tasmin!

“I thought I could keep on living this miserable little life of mine...”




FILMMAKER Horror is in Fabiana Servilha´s blood, both literally and figuratively. Her connection to the topic crosses generations, from her Spanish granma, a horror fan, who used to make shrouds, to her cousins who worked in a cemetery, which served as the girl´s playground. But also because, when she was eigtheen, was working as an extra for Brazilian horror film icon Coffin Joe. To “get in character”, she used a shaving blade to make - superficial, of course - cuts on herself for a cemetery scene where she was supposed to look sad, with a death wish. The filmmaker got impressed and even squeezed her belly with his already not so naily hand. He declared, “you´re good, come audition for my movie”.

CAST AND CREW Written and directed by Fabiana Servilha Cast: André Ceccato, Fábio Neppo, Valdano Sousa, Guest appearance – Débora Muniz. Make up: Fritz P. Hyde. Special Effects: Lande Ribeiro, Thiago Laion. Art Direction: Patrícia Peccin. Sound: J. E. Velludo. Soundtrack: Rafael Laurenti. Editing: Fabiana Santos Ferreira. Director of Photography: Neo Distortion. Producers: Thamirys Biribili, Eri Alves, Robert Avedissian, Fabiana Servilha. Executive Producers: Fabiana Servilha and Márcio Paes.




OUR GHOSTBUSTER WHO YOU´RE GONNA CALL? That story happened a long time ago - Fabiana is 27 now -, but she always had to give her blood, one way or another, to become the award-winning horror filmmaker she´s now. Since she was a kid, had an interest for art in general and horror cinema in particular. However, she grew up in a family environment of simple, lowbrow people. Her father had several industrial jobs, such as mechanical turner and steelworker, and her mother is a homemaker. “They had this vision that artists always starve, so I felt like a black sheep, an alien, like the mothership was going to take me”, says the filmmaker. Even to watch her theater, music and dance performances they´d arrive after everyone else. Even so, horror seemed destined to be part of her life. Since the family was low income, a mandatory appointment in her childhood and youth was going to the Vila Formosa (district from the city of Sâo Paulo) cemetery where her cousins worked. She loved to pick blackberries there. Instead of Disney cartoons, she relentlessly rented horror movies from the 1980s, such as “Creepshow” and 52

“Night Of The Living Dead 3”. which, by her estimates, she must have seen no less than two hundred times. “I´d save the money from candy, which we still bought in bombonieres, to rent those movies”, she recalls. All over the place She tells that always wanted to be involved with cinema, but also with

Instead of Disney Cartoons, she rented horror movies from the 1980’s all kinds of art, from music, poetry and painting to magic. “I drove my parents crazy. They criticized me for lacking focus, because I wanted to do everything”. That passion would come up spontaneously. It was enough to listen to the piano music in the Charles Chaplin cinebiography starring Robert Downey Jr. and there it was, the next day she wanted to learn to play piano. “Then, my parentes would say, ‘first, there´s no place in the room for a piano, second, it´s too expensive, and third, what for?’”. She ended up studying a little bit of everything. Traumatized by her family´s discouraging attitude, to ensure her survival she decided to teach Arts Education as a base occupation. In music, she was even an illegal teacher at one point. Fabiana learned to play piano and cello by the Projeto Guri (Project Kid). In another school 53


already, she was studying harmonica when started teaching. “At one point, the teacher realized I could read music really well, asked me if I couldn´t stay after class to help a student, then the first time there was one, the second there were five, the third it was ten, till he offered to pay me on the side”. She also learned drums, guitar (both electric and accoustic), and keyboard and, a beatlemaniac, at one point had a band that played Jovem Guarda (Young Guard, an early Brazilian rock movement) and Rock in general. Late filmmaker Fabiana assures that, even with such a rich resumé, she´s considered herself a filmmaker for a long time. Even so, actual cinematic activity came

It was while she was shooting her script that she did the blade thing and made an impression on the filmmaker

relatively late. She begun taking free screenplay classes in culture workshops. She´d practically “steal” books from the local library cuz she´d borrow them and keep´em so long the school staff forgot she had them. That´s when she took her first writing class with Coffin Joe without her parents knowledge. “I always went towards horror, even in painting classes I ended up putting crosses and stuff like that in my paintings”. At the time, Joe was working in his movie “Devil´s Reincarnation”. “He selected my script, but in fact it was


a rip-off of ‘Pet Sematary’ where a crazy goth girl with a death wish asks a wish-granting grave to give her the stremgth to off herself, but then the kid from the grave shows up to kill her”. Even auditioned to play one of Joe´s seven wives - in fact, the filmmaker did get married seven times in real life -, but she got too embarrassed when it was revealed she´d have to take her clothes off. “I got frustrated cuz I wanted to work in the movie, so I was an extra”. Another time, Fabiana was working as a children show host when she got invited to visit director Sérgio Bianchi´s movie set and ended up working as an extra. She stayed a little too long and her father came take her by force as they were shooting a really crazy scene where she and a bunch of kids were destroying computers. “That´s when he asked me, ‘why do you still waste time with this crap?’ and there it was, now that crap was really going to be my life”. Always the alien. When she had a comfortable enough financial situation, decided to dedicate once and for all to horror cinema, even after giving two years to fine arts school. But even in the artistic world, Fabiana once again was a fish out of water. While studing at the Academia Internacional de Cinema (International Film Academy), where she got a scholarship for half of the cost, her passion for horror was not contagious to her colleagues, too “cult” for a genre that´s frown up by critics to this day. “Their thing was European films and I grew up watching Spielberg. At thirteen I couldn´t care less for ‘E La Nave Va’, I wanted to see John Carpenter´s ‘Christine’” The lack of interest was mutual. “I´d hear the others talking about their movies and it was really crazy stuff, like one wanted to portray a woman who threw up film negatives, things I didn´t get, I felt like putting a bullet in my mouth”. In spite of all that, she eventually got the academy people to know her and understand her better. Since she didn´t get to make her horror projects, worked in several shorts, making art direction and make-up. “When I talked about making horror, everybody would shit their pants cuz right away there´s make-up, special effects, and it can look pretty bad”. She ended up getting in touch with horror fanatics´communities on the internet to make her shorts. 55

She thought she finally was in “heaven” upon meeting NGO Cine Galpão (“Shed Cine”) project, which would provide all equipment for anyone who presented a serious film project. “When I found out about that, I thought I had it all, that I´d call all the genre nuts and it was going to be a big production company, make a movie a month, because having the camera, equipment, was everything”. She and her friends made a first version of her short “Vontade” (Will”) and got the approval. The short´s about a guy who goes out to the street in

the middle of the night in a mysterious search. As she shot the definitive version, the crew shot at streets in the middle of the night and got interrupted by police intervention. “Problem is, making the movie is just the beginning. Then you have to go after exhibitors, distribution, that´s when I realized it was all on me. A movie´s like your kid, you don´t just make them, gotta pay child support, take care”. Struggling, she managed to put the short in the festivals circuit, where it won several awards including the Estímulo Estudante (“Student Incentive”) one at the Cine Fantasy Festival in 2010. Paying for your sins



Radiant Star is in several festivals in Brazil and worldwide But the toughest experience from her still early career was her latest short, “Estrela Radiante” (“Radiant Star”),which served as her course conclusion project for the academy. She recalls it started with a team of about thirty people who, one by one, abandoned her. “I was working with art film students, so it´s people who know very little but at the same time can be pretty demanding”. The issue of professionalism was plenty used to bring


her down. “They sent e-mails tearing me apart, like I was a monster, a freak, so a lot of people saw that and called quits”. Ironically, she says, the same people who demanded so much professionalism from her dropped out of the short. “I lost the cameraman, the photography department, production, about a week and a half from starting I had nothing, but I decided to show that it was possible, real Papillon, ‘I´m still here, you bastards’” She ended up calling people who were not film professionals and ended up getting the job done. “People became producers, got artists to make props, cuz no one told them it was impossible. You tell stuff to a film student, to them all´s impossible, can´t be done”. Among those who helped her make the project, she hi-




ghlights art director Patrícia Peccin. “I really thought she wouldn´t put up with it and she stayed till the end. Now, I´ll call her for every project I make”. Making the shoot doable was tough from the start. The filmmaker had to rework the whole script to please the location´s owner. “It had to be sci-fi cuz he liked it, had to be a space thing, had to have just a few characters, had to be in a ranch cuz he had one. We´d shoot next to his house but my crew couldn´t sleep there and shooting was in the middle of the woods”. Therefore, the story was about a guy who lives in the middle of the woods and finds a strange luminous object that falls from space. For the filmmaker, the experience was one of those “paying for your sins” experiences. The troubles and tribulations were worthy of an “Apocalipse Now”-like Redux. Due to lack


of extras, they had to call local hobos to participate; extras stole the art director; they offered booze to a local to get his mule to carry a log for six hundred feet; due to lack of lighting, when the artist sculpted the log that was going to be used for a mystical ritual, the crew had to use the lights from their cell phones; Fabiana herself had to take a little lantern with a cow sound from a neighbor´s daughter to shoot at night; the house that served as set had been demolished when they got back to finish shooting, about a month later, so they had to find another one with similar wall texture and get the same objects to get to do close shots at actor André Ceccato. “I had to change my editing every half hour, cuz everything changed all the time”. The weirdest story happend during the shooting of the ritual. They started singing mantras during the scene and, when they returned to the resort where the crew was staying to see the dailies from the

“I’m Still here, you bastards!” (Pappilon - 1973)

One of the filmmaker’s favorite quotes shooting, they saw what looked like skulls in the background during the ritual scene that, always worth noting, was shot in the middle of the woods, at night. “Everybody got scared and had to sleep in the same room”, she recounts. The next day, mysteriously, all the material had been erased and no one could explain how. In spite of everything, she thinks the experience of shooting so short on resources makes the filmmaker more focused on what´s really important to tell the story. “We couldn´t make this really beautiful pan to indicate a mysterious force following the lead, but then I thought, ‘what´s the point of that for the story?” They made then a much simpler version with the camera and a lamp following the actor and a sound effect to indicate the force.

sion, DVD, etc.”, she explains. The filmmaker´s getting international reputation with the shorts getting screened in countries such as USA, Mexico, Spain and Australia. She even got invited to shoot in Spain and Mexico, for an outdoors film festival, “but that´s all pretty vague yet, I don´t feel quite secure about it”. She knows the time to make a feature is coming. “I just wanna do it with more money, I don´t wanna relive the ‘Radiant’ experience, no fucking way. I know soon enough I´ll make a feature, but I feel there´s gonna be another short before, I like short stories”. She´s also creating comic book and illustrated novel stories. “Good thing about them is there´s no budget issue, you can do whatever you want, explosions, crowd scenes...” Partnerships are in her mind as well, but she still has a lot of stories of her own to tell. “Actually, I feel like stories exist on their own, I´m just a servant who tries to figure out how to realize them”. And that´s what she intends to keep doing. At least till the mothership calls.

Awaiting the ship The short´s also making a name for itself in the festival circuits. Among them, André Ceccato won Best Actor at the Artdeco Festival. “Festivals are important because you don´t get into the commercial one, so an award is a calling card to sell the movie for televi59












The Prisoner of Fire Marcelo Martinez

1. The five gentlemen


r. Steinberg is an old friend of my father’s. Last time I met him, I was on a business trip to Hamburg, where he lives since the passing of his wife. Always in a cheerful mood and very talkative for his advanced age, Mr. Steinberg welcomed me with enthusiasm and we were soon drinking a good German beer before the masonry fireplace in his old home. Naturally, our conversation drifted towards the subject of his collection. Mr. Steinberg happens to be a collector, since he was young, of bizarre, obscure, or otherwise curious objects. He spends a large portion of his free time corresponding with antiquarians, librarians and auctioneers in search of new pieces for his collection, which is already of a considerable size after all the years of dedication to it. We spent some time discussing the most recent additions to the collection, as well as the circumstances around each acquisition. He showed me one item, a very recent one, which hadn’t been yet sent to the keeper of his special storage. It was a photograph. The photograph itself was badly executed, and the scene it pictured, rather prosaic. In a dimly lit room with a parquet floor, five well-dressed men stood in a semi-



cirle, seemingly chatting. Every man in the group looked at the camera, with those whose backs were turned to the photographer glancing over their shoulders, with no intention to turn. Their facial expressions were the most curious feature in the photograph, showing a kind of strange satisfaction. I asked Mr. Steinberg what could have possibly held his interest in such a picture, since it was markedly less appealing than the average object in his collection. He then told me the story behind the photograph. “It is indeed a very bad photograph”, he said, running a finger over the faces of the men until he stopped over one in particular. “I knew this one. It’s Dr. Louis Brandt. A very appropriate name, after all...” He watched the picture for a few moments, the light from the fireplace flickering on half of his face. And then he abruptly said: “The photograph was taken by a private detective.” While I inspected the photograph, which then seemed to gain interest under the light of Mr. Steinberg’s revelation, he proceeded with his narrative...

2. Following Dr. Brandt “At the time this photograph was taken, Dr. Brandt was already over fifty, considerably overweight, and almost completely bald. Nevertheless, his wife saw rivals for his affection at every corner, as if all the women in Germany had a burning desire for Dr. Brandt... her jealousy was a sickness. And so, being convinced that her husband was having an affair, Mrs. Brandt hired a private detective to follow him.” A smile of amusement appeared in Mr. Steinberg’s face. “One detail seemed to justify Mrs. Brandt’s suspicions: Brandt would sometimes get home very late at nght and, whenever that happened, he could not or would not explain how and where he had spent the missing hours. Imagine what shady forms that secrecy can assume in the mind of a jealous woman!” “I, of course, know what the good doctor did on those occasions.


He never told me himself, but... I have my sources.” This phrase, I have my sources, was almost like a trademark catchphrase of Mr. Steinberg’s. And he did have many sources. “Dr. Brandt was a member of a very exclusive club. In fact, our photograph here is the only one ever taken that pictures all the five members of that society, which was named The Fraternity of Noble Gentlemen. A silly name, but so it was.” “So, the detective... and I want to assure you, young man, before you get suspicious... the detective was not me.” He smiled again upon seeing that he had been right about my line of thought. “The detective followed Dr. Brandt for a few days and eventually found out where he went for his late night secret activities. It was an old two-storey house, squeezed in

between tall buildings on a short street. At night, the vandalized street lights and the damp alleys of that neighborhood certainly painted an intimidating picture. I knew the neighborhood. Wouldn’t want to walk through it at night.” “The detective knew that Dr. Brandt arrived at the old house always around eleven o’clock. The doctor would then knock at the door and be welcomed by a certain elegant elderly man. The detective’s favorite hypothesis was that the house functioned as a disguised brothel. However, at that time, Hamburg was furnished by many other brothels which were better located and much more conspicuous than that house. Be as it may, it was the chance to get a few pictures of Dr. Brandt having a great time with the ladies of the night that led the detective to look for a way to sneak into the house. He wanted to be present when the next of those supposed meetings occurred.” Mr. Steinberg then pointed to another one of the five men in the photograph. “This must be the one who welcomed Dr. Brandt at the door. Old colonel Schuster... He must have been the central figure in the club. He was known as deeply erudite, and more than a little crazy.” Mr. Steinberg caught himself digressing again. He smiled apolo-


getically, cleaned his spectacles with a piece of felt, and returned to his narrative. “The detective found a clandestine entrance at the back of the house. It was an old iron gate, maybe used in the past to load coal, logs, and other kitchen supplies. Inside, he found himself in a small and dark room. Cautiously advancing among rusty tools and piles of moldy newspapers, his small lantern in his hand, he finally found a wooden stairway leading straight up into the floor above. And so, being confident that he would be able to take enough candid pictures of Dr. Brandt, he started to look for a suitable hiding place for his stakeout. Armed with lantern, photographic camera and pistol, he climbed the creaking stairs.”

3. Conversation in the dark Mr. Steinberg lit an aged pipe and resumed his tale. “While he walked across the old and gloomy house, the detective certainly had his curiosity aroused by a decent amount of evidence that something out of the ordinary was taking place. Of course, I cannot know the exact details... but I am certain about what transpired that night. I have my sources.” “Trying to make as little noise as possible as he inspected, with his lantern, every empty and dusty corner, our detective could hear all the little sounds that are so natural in an old house at night. All the faint creaks and snaps... picture that: in almost total darkness, the smell of rotten wood mixed with the mold in the curtains, and the murmuring downstairs. At this point, the five were already gathered and performed their conversation... the detective must have been either very brave or one of those people devoid of imagination. Maybe both. If not for at least one of these conditions, perhaps he would have abandoned the place in fear. Then, perhaps he would have lived.” “Above the ancient dining room the five used as a gathering place, there was a kind of small bedroom modified to serve as a deposit. Opening the door of this room, the detective ran the light of his lantern across the square floor until he found a door to his left. This door was sealed shut by a chain and padlock setting that he was not able


to remove. And then, luckily or unfortunately for him, he found a trapdoor on the floor of the little room.” Mr. Steinberg’s eyes flashed with the fire from the fireplace. In his voice, I noticed a certain anxiety. “Perceiving that the voices he heard came from a point underneath him, the detective carefully raised the trapdoor. That is the kind of thing one does when following someone else, isn’t it? He then climbed down an extension ladder into a tight lower space that looked like a closet. Clearly hearing the conversation of the five, he came close to the wall in front of him and saw a small iron window. It was of that kind you see in espionage movies, used for demanding a password... he opened it... this detail is known because, had he left it closed,

he would never have been able to take the famous photograph.” “It was then that everything came to its tragic end. There was the detective, inside the house, no one aware of his presence. And there, on the other side of the small window, at the center of a large room that was completely empty except for a candle on the floor, were the five. They were in the middle of the conversation... the conversation of the five... poor man. The private investigator routine took hold of him for a moment, and he decided to photopgraph what he was seeing. Maybe to take it back to Mrs. Brandt as evidence of his investigation? I do not know. He silently aimed his camera through the iron window, trusting the immunity of his hiding place. However, being nervous on ac-


count of the strangeness of the whole situation, he shot his camera with the flash, which he had left mounted and ready!”

4. The entity “As soon as he took the photograph,” continued Mr. Steinberg, after another pause to clean his spectacles, ”the detective naturally knew that the five had been aware of his presence. You can see how all of them are turning to the camera as the flash goes off.” “I can barely imagine the turmoil in that poor detective’s mind. He had been discovered by the men he tried to spy on, and his first instinctive reaction must have been to run away from the house... but, then, a strong noise reached his ears. It must have sounded like a heavy object falling to the floor upstairs, followed by the crunching sound of mouldy wood planks being broken... and footsteps... heavy, slow footsteps like those of Karloff’s Frankenstein monster. All that racket, the detective understood, had come from the small bedroom upstairs; the one with the trapdoor. Just imagine what it was like in his head! The emergency of having been discovered, and also the emergency of the cryptic noises and movements behind him, and a third emergency! Something inside him asking, demanding an explanation for the fact that the five men in front of him continued their bizarre conversation, in the same tone and by the light of the same candle.” Mr. Steinberg got up and walked to a low table with several bottles on it. He poured two glasses of a dark beverage and gave me one. He


rial. And it becomes increasingly more dangerous to make mistakes in the performance of the con“You see, I know the contents of versation. Every detail, from the that conversation very well. I candle at the center of an empty have a book with all the lines. room, to the offerings the group It is, in simple terms, a sort of must make to the Prisoner, must dramatic enactment. Five gen- be prepared with perfection.” tlemen must gather at certain dates, always at the same place, Mr. Steinberg’s glass was empand recite their lines. Always the ty. Mine, untouched. He spoke, same lines. It is a ritual of some while staring at the bottom of his kind, but I have no idea about its glass. origins. I have memorized a very illustrative passage: In the first “Well, that was that. The detecconversation, the five will call the tive was caught between a rock Prisoner; in the second, they will and a hard place. He desired to bind him with fire; in the third, escape, but he somehow knew he he will answer their questions; in could never get through the small room upstairs. There was no way the fourth, he will bring gifts.” out except waiting, praying that “After that, as far as I unders- the five would finish their territand it, the five must gather on ble ceremony and leave, praying special dates and perform the for everything to go back to norconversation. At each gathering, mal. The conversation was about that mysterious entity, the Pri- to end. They reached the part soner, supposedly becomes more where someone says: Hold on, present, more solid... more mate- gentlemen, something strange is sipped a few times from his glass before continuing.


afoot. There is a sixth one among us. The answer to that comes in the form of some questioning by the other four which is answered by the Prisoner... I do not know whether a real voice sounds in the darkness or one of the five must play the part of the Prisoner. The final answer is: The conversation is for five only. But here we find a sixth among you. As lord over every misplaced thing, I take him, bind his life to me, and now retire...” “After that, everything supposedly returns to normal, and the five are supposed to have secured their control over the Prisoner until the next appointed night. The candle is blown and everyone leaves. That is all. That should have been all. Mr. Steinberg tapped his finger over Dr. Brandt in the picture. “The detective’s camera was recovered from the debris of the fire that consumed the old house that same night. The only survivor was old Dr. Brandt. But he was severely burned. He told me he knew his wife had put a detective on his trail and, being responsible for the sixth guest in the meetings of the club... he had the idea of attracting the detective to the house and allow him to do his part. He heard a gunshot back there, in the closet with the iron window. A single shot. Dr. Brandt has never understood what went wrong that night, but he forgot that every detail must be perfect, every single one. The smallest mistake will be enough to free the Prisoner from his bondage of fire, which the entity can then use against its captors. And the sixth man, the offering, must be taken alive by the Prisoner.” Thus ending his story, Mr. Steinberg returned the photograph to its place in his collection. I never went back to Hamburg.



Fr ed



Writer and Artist: Carlos Henry - Colors by Fabio Vardi

Who would walk at night in the forest certainly heard the death screams in the ominous castle up the... Due to it, the villagers were vigilant day and night...

... hill! and would get terrified. ... while the children got scared to death!

They knew that GOLTAR, the wizard, was making mortal victims for a macabre ritual!


I can finally invoke that which will grant my wish...

An intense light followed by the stench of sulfur invades the tower..

... leaving Goltar surprised...

: ... And baffled!

What is the password, despicable being?!


I do not know

Damn mortal, how dare thee invoke me, if do not know the password?

Thou shall pay, dear miserable servant!



But my lord, here are the six souls that I sent to thee. The last one is only collected at the ritual...

But have thee not noticed yet, bastard?

Thou art the seventh soul!

This is the password!

Yes, thou have done as it must be, doomed one...

The villagers, they do not know why, no longer hear the clamor of death up the hill!






Writer: Daniel Vardi - Artist: Mhick Holderbaum - Colors: Fabio Vardi

Are you sure it’s this way?

I think it’s crazy too.

There was nothing marked on the map. There’s no farm here whatsoever.

Cut the whining, I saw it!!

I’ll show you all there’s a productive farm in this area

There, there’s smoke up there! I knew, I knew there was a farm here!

That’s how we’re gonna look good for the movement.*

I’ll go run and tell our fellows at the camp! Tomorrow we’ll make plans to invade the land.

You’re crazy, man, wait for us...

I’ll be right back! Wait for me!

Carlos, don’t go. Stay...

*Movimento dos Sem-Terra (Movement of the Landless), Brazilian organization that seeks redistribution of land


The comrades were left alone, crawling. Silence explodes for a few seconds and, little by little, the jungle noises begun to show up again till...

It’s Carlos!

Oh my God!

Who did this? That’s no animal stuff!

You saw that? It was henchmen from the farm!

This is not over, coronelismo* is over!


*Period of Brazilian history where rich farmers, the “coronéis” held the economic and political power

At the movement’s camp...

You don’t kill a person just like that. We’ll fight back.

Got your guns?

It’s gonna be tonight!!! An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

Shhh!! There they are


Shoot’em up!

What the fuck is that? Those motherfuckers won’t drop dead?



Let’s run, they’re ghosts!

Die, you bastard!

Let’s get in there!!!

I don’t wanna die!

We’re lost!


Son of a bitch!


Let’s go in there!! Here, there’s a way out!

Let’s go!


Calm down! Here you’ll have all you need. Come in, eat and get a bath!

Try to get some rest... I want you tender... I mean, I want you comfortable... Have mercy, sir! Sanctuarium!


To be continued






In the not-too-distant future, the urban garbage problem reached never-before-seen levels.

origin - part one Writer: Alexandre Winck Artist: Daniel Lucavis


The lack of available land (that wasn’t reservation already) forced the construction of landfills in the middle of cities.

Selective collecting and recycling are nothing but bandaids on a hemorrhage.

Perfum and deodorants became useless and obsolete. Even indoors people can’t leave their noses unprotected.

But children still play. 95

C´mon Belle, not again!

You still wanna go to the old factory?

She really is crazy! They say a beast leaves there! Got rid of all hobos, junkies and couples used to go there!

Bones were found in the area! They say the freak eats people! i’M aFRAID!


That´s BS to keep thieves away. There´re still silver and platinum pieces there.

Must be the one place in town where you can walk unmasked. I took mine out once and took a whiff.

No smell comes from it. No people. No garbage.

Forget that weirdo! She´s gonna be the appetizer!

Let´s go to the fountain! They say it spills soda now!








September 13th , 2013 Creator Mario Mancuso Publisher Daniel Vardi Editor Alexandre Winck Conselho editorial: Alexandre Winck, Daniel Vardi, Francisco Tupy, Mario Mancuso Design: PUBLIGIBI under Isabella Sarkis´s project

Tales #5

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Tales From The Absurd # 4  

FOREVER YOUNG The young are not the future of anything, they belong to right here, right now, right this minute. One of the great pleas...

Tales From The Absurd # 4  

FOREVER YOUNG The young are not the future of anything, they belong to right here, right now, right this minute. One of the great pleas...

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