Wait a minute! Some alien critter hopped up on nicotine was about to attack the kid and the kid was standing right next to mom! Why is he now missing and no one has noticed? If that critter was flying through the air right over their heads (presumably, it's not completely silent), why hasn't Lamont and Whit noticed it?

It seems like the biggest deal in this Friday's cliffhanger is Whit being a bit miffed at Lamont. I was hoping the alien nicotine junkie would be halfway through eating her child's brain by now.

Considering that you've been a loyal reader since the beginning, James, I'm surprised at your lack of interest in human drama.

That being said, you're apparently going to love what happens next week. :D

What? An alien drug addict zombie eating some kid's brains isn't human drama?

It's only human drama if another person intentionally got the alien zombie addicted to drugs so that it would eat the kid's brain.

Hey, that's like that old episode of "Starsky and Hutch", except for "zombie" insert "Hutch", and instead of "eat the kid's brain" insert "give away the location of the bad guy's ex-girlfriend."

On a not entirely unrelated topic: just how sad is it that that's what I thought of when I read the above exchange?

And at those words, deep inside the spinning paradox of reality an ill wind is blowing.

Far off in the multiverse a coffee starved Thorblaxian who works in a cubicle has been tipped to the edge by human indifference.

They give them coffee when they come in. From that point on the clock ticks.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
For a quick some there is coffee at lunch time. For others the clock ticks.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

His floor manager walks past his meager doorway and spots him typing away with his single yellow arm and three long fingers. The Thorblaxian does not need to turn to see her but does so anyway. The look of annoyance and contempt he wears at the drudgery the manager represents is lost completely on the rosy cheeked human. She does not comprehend his smiling mouth and upturned eyebrows as the look of a tortured prisoner, the barely contained rage of an addict, and the longing of a defeated heart.
Humans do not understand Thorblaxian faces which they think look so much like theirs.
Seeing her reminds him of the job he is here to do. He knows that if he solves the puzzles on the paper he has been given using the machine in front of him before each break he can have coffee.
He understands why she is here, because the reason never changes, nothing here ever changes. The clock ticks.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
She glides into his cubicle with a smile and drops an inch of papers onto his desk. In another universe she lies on the floor begging her gods but here she walks serenely away, misreading the increased grin on the Thorblaxian's face as happy to please.

Every day is the same.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Every night is the same. Hell, a thousand years long, wailing, and banging, and hurting himself, until he can come back to his daytime limbo and have coffee. A morning of heaven to pay for the night, just enough to do it all again.
Sometimes he's lucky, sometimes he has coffee twice in a day and those days he yearns for with everything he is. He watches some who have coffee 3 and even 4 times a day, those who are fast at their work. He is not, he is slow, he is jealous and it hurts him as much as the long nights alone.

Another nameless day in limbo.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The war was long over, the Thorblaxians lost, this he knows. Still every day he yearns to be free again, floating gently on the red seas of his home with his wife and child. These thoughts slow his work and his mind is constantly warring.
Family or coffee, family or coffee.
Each day it is harder to remember her face, easier to forget his child's first words. He feels himself becoming a beast, and can not muster the energy for terror, there is more paper arriving and he needs his coffee.

On his way home he comes upon a human mother and child. She breaks something in her hands and an intoxicating smell reaches his senses. He sees her hand the child a bar smelling of chocolate and coffee. His large and friendly looking eyes focus on the two. His smile is wide and joyous. He doesn't notice his own expression. The mother smiles back at him. None of the three realize what is happening.
Gods, if nothing else remains of him, he has to have his coffee.

Overlooking the cubicles, a pale skinned and black eyed man watches the floor, he is tall and could be carved of stone. The desk in front of him is tidy and minimal his desk label says Mr. P. and while he is bald no one has ever asked why at his age. As the say starts he notes that one cubicle is empty this morning and he calls H.R. to have the worker replaced.
Satisfied that the floor will continue unchanged. He glances down at his watch.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

Katawa, I think that officially earns the title of Most Epic Comment Yet. What in the world put you in the frame of mind to write that astounding little gem here? :D

In any case, I've taken the liberty of reposting it in a blog to make it a bit more visible. You're awesome.

You realize, of course, that you've opened the door for every commenter to submit a "mini-story". ;-)

I am eagerly awaiting Westward fan fiction of the most sordid kind.

"It was a dark and stormy night..." Oh wait! That's been done.

Haha, e, you so crazah. I love the dynamic you and James have in most of the strip comments.
The little blurb was supposed to be a reply to:
"It's only human drama if another person intentionally got the alien zombie addicted to drugs so that it would eat the kid's brain."
But HumalaDuck replied before I was finished writing and I forgot to refresh before posting.

I just got my kindle back from amazon after I broke it with my butt, so I guess reading a bunch got me into a little writing mood.
I love the blog picture, it's exceptionally close to what I was imagining.

Awesome. :P I love the recursive fan-art: the author creates fan-art for the fan-art a commenter created for the author's original work.

It's like Inception! Pretty soon I'll be illustrating all your stories and Westward will be a shadowy recollection—like a bad dream half-remembered.

It's like Inception! Pretty soon I'll be illustrating all your stories and Westward will be a shadowy recollection—like a bad dream half-remembered.

When do we get trapped in a comic strip within a comic strip within a...

You already are! Haven't you noticed your life becoming strangely sequential and juxtaposed?

I'll tell you a riddle. You're waiting for a ship, a ship that will take you far away. You know where you hope this ship will take you, but you don't know for sure. But it doesn't matter. How can it not matter to you where that train will take you?

Well that didn't quite work.

> But HumalaDuck replied before I was finished writing and
> I forgot to refresh before posting.

Wait...so by hitting "Add Comment" quicker than you did, I created a certain amount of chaos? Am...am I an octo-tortoise? Do people who've been taken over by octo-torti *know* that it's happened to them? Is there some kind of test? (Short of seeing if I'm now capable of smashing through a couple inches of leaded glass, that is.)

If you feel a sudden urge to see Jeff Goldblum act, you might be an octo-tortii,
If you feel a sudden urge to see Jeff Goldblum shirtless, you're probably alright.