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Nuns Kick Ass

Published Sun, 24 Nov 2013 12:00:47 -0600

Last updated Sun, 24 Nov 2013 12:58:15 -0600

Sara Hutchison writes;

At least in Gargoyle Bob they do. Actually in real life they do too, but that's a
different story.

For now, we just want to introduce you to a great story created by actor/writer
Stan Shaw (Fried Green Tomatoes and many other great movies) and his partner
Vincent Ho. The incredible artwork for the graphic novel currently underway was
all created by Ted Boonthanakit of Blizzard (World of Warcraft).

We'll be sending a .pdf of the complete novel that started this whole adventure to
anyone who is interested. So Bleeding Cool readers! Let us know you're interested by signing up at our Kickstarter page – or at our website – And just to get the ball rolling, here's the prologue that sets the stage for the rest of the story which all takes place in present day Chicago.

The miracle that is related today about St. Romain is so persistent and so widely spread, that it must be told, if only to explain the many allusions contained in picture, in carving, and in song, throughout the tale of Rouen, and in the very stones and windows of her most sacred buildings.

T.A. Cook – "The Story of Rouen" – 1901

The Bishop must have chosen the wrong man. On such a dangerous night, surely he needed the strength of a stonemason, not the talents of a sculptor. It was clear to Pascal that strong arms accustomed to breaking granite for the new cathedral would have been of much more help than his own artful limbs. "We should go," he said. "It's not
safe…"

Pascal's poorly cobbled shoes slipped on the wet river rocks that lined this desolate portion of the Seine. He yelped as he fell, but a firm grip caught his cloth tunic. His rescuer pulled him upright, drew him face-to-face.

"Quiet," said Bishop Romain. With a visage more soldier of God than holy man, the bright moonlight deepened the lines of his grim face. Pascal stifled a cry of surprise. "Your grace…there's a devil out here. They say a water dragon hunts at night." He looked back at the distant spires of Rouen and longed for its tight streets and narrow alleys, paved with stones just a few centuries ago by the Romans. "I know what lurks here." The Bishop prodded him forward. His coarse black robe made it difficult for Pascal to see him in the night, but through rips in the garment he caught the glint of mail armor. He had heard stories that the Bishop destroyed a pagan Temple of Venus with just his own hands. Now he believed all the wild tales about this warrior priest, and it appeared the Bishop had already done battle that night.

Pascal shuffled ahead. He prayed once more for God to deliver him from evil and completely ignored the "Your will be done" part. The sculptor just wanted to be back under his leaky thatched roof in the safety of the city, he really didn't care about what other plans God might have. To celebrate his birthday in this year of 630 Anno Domini was one of the many self-centered pleas he beseeched God to grant.

The gurgle of river water over rocks grew louder in the darkness. Pascal could just make out clumps of boulders along the bank, but as he drew closer, the water bobbed and shifted even the larger shapes about. He froze. Those could not be rocks.

The current flipped one of them over into the moonlight. Paschal screamed. The mauled face of a soldier stared up at him with one eye gouged and half its flesh shorn away, his hauberk was torn through like fabric, links of metal broken and shredded apart. Strewn next to him were the corpses of bloodied clerics and other mangled soldiers. The largest boulder shifted in the dim light and revealed its shape to be that of a dead knight; his armor split open, still straddling a half-eaten horse.

"Nothing on earth can destroy this monster," the Bishop said as he gazed on his dead flock. Afraid he was next, Pascal turned to flee, but the Bishop caught him. "No, no! What are you doing?" as he struggled.

"What must be done, this ends tonight."

Pascal sagged in resignation. "You plan to sacrifice me? Use me as bait?" By the Bishop's aggravated sigh, Pascal suspected all those possibilities had been considered.

A sudden wave swelled and crashed on the shore. The stench of death, more foul than possible for these newly slaughtered victims, stung Pascal's eyes and gagged him. He didn't retch though. He was too scared by the source of the fetid odor that loomed and swayed above him. A long neck with vicious jaws shot down toward Pascal. Before the giant maw with jagged teeth snapped him in two, the Bishop yanked him out of the way. "You're here to bear witness," he said. "Not to be eaten." The water dragon, no longer rumor or gossip, shook its scaled head and pulled itself along with two front legs. Behind those clawed appendages, an enormous worm-shaped body humped and undulated across the ground in grotesque elephant seal fashion.

The two men scrambled to stay out of its reach. "I will fight hellfire with hellfire," the Bishop shouted. He chanted a prayer Pascal had never heard before then thrust an amulet wrought with dark metal over his head. Arcs of lightning crackled over his arm and shot into the heavens. Pascal looked up into the moonlit sky. The clouds boiled, and a large shadow flew across his uplifted face. Somehow in this unholy night, things had just gotten worse. Answering the Bishop's call, a roar and beating of wings heralded the descent of something far from angelic. Ignoring the hors d'oeuvres scrambling before it, the water
dragon bellowed at its new challenger. The Bishop's champion dove down from the shadows and choked a brawny forearm across the throat of the water dragon. Its serpentine neck twisted wildly about, but couldn't dislodge the stranglehold. Desperate for air, the dragon's head swung back and forth in ever expanding arcs. The last one slammed its enemy down onto the riverbank. Smashed against the rocks and dazed, the Bishop's winged creature fell to the ground. The water dragon pounded forward on its front legs, eager for the kill. But its prey recovered and flew up with a punch that snapped the water dragon's head back. A low moan sounded deep within the leviathan's gullet. It staggered about for a moment then coiled its body together, ready for another attack. Pascal watched it all, too stunned to move. Earth shaking blows and hideous screams filled the sculptor's senses, and vaguely, he knew he would never again walk along the Seine with any comfort or peace of mind. Days after the primeval duel, Pascal stood in his rustic workshop with the same bewildered expression. The Bishop had forbidden him to ever speak of the battle, yet commissioned him to create anonymous sculptures of its victor. But Pascal struggled to process the danger he had survived. In front of him sat a block of stone. Slowly, he reached out with a chisel and hammer then chipped away a few flakes. His shock gave way to a desire to express what he had witnessed, he began to chisel with more certainty, more obsession.

A muscular arm of marble appeared ordinary enough, but then he created a hand with deadly claws at the end of it. A broad back seemed natural until he formed a bat wing folded along its length. Finally, he sculpted a face that was certainly not ordinary or natural, but macabre with horrific tusks. Pascal stepped back to admire the image of his savior, the Bishop's winged creature. He gazed on the sculpture without knowing that his work would forever mark Rouen as the birthplace of gargoyles.