The H-Boyz (WWW.HBOYZ) is a comic book and rock band project. It’s the brain child of myself and my older brother, Blake. What we’ve done is taken our love for music, our shared desire to create offensive comics, the punk aesthetic and stitched the whole blasphemous creation together into a Frankenstein’s monster of hate.
The H-Boyz is an assault on the reader and listener. It’s an examination of drug culture that’s equal parts hyperbole and public confessional.
Psychotic rock ‘n roll violence is a theme we revisit quite often. The drawings displayed here are from issue one and two (coming soon) of the comic. They’re some of my favorites. We both love capturing the raw energy that goes into one of our shows.
‘Fist Fight’n Fugger’ is a tale from Issue 1 retelling the story of a gig we played in Alabama. It may surprise a lot of people, but heavy metal and underground music is huge in the South. It exists in subterranean dungeons, packed to capacity with seething, smelly bodies. The South is a marsh of unrest, it’s community of malcontents driven mad by ceaseless humidity and inbreeding.
Our drummer at the time was Reginald “Retard” Randy. His cousin (a DJ) helped get us the gig. Weeks prior, Blake and I had broken into Randy’s apartment, stealing his drum kit to purchase narcotics. Randy was borrowing his cousin’s record tables to lay down beats and bass tracks. The whole affair was doomed to failure.
We went on late to an audience that was already drunk and surly. Crackling currents of vengeful energy surged around the place in a mist of body heat and beer sweat.
My introduction of “Hey Alabam…” was punctuated by a beer bottle traveling at roughly the speed of sound. It disintegrated against my chin in an explosion of pulverized glass, blood and fragments of teeth. Through the blinding stab of pain, I bellowed into the microphone, my rancor a white hot beam aimed directly at the crowd.
“So you slack jawed genetic fumbles wanna get down do ya!?” I barked, blood trickling down my cheeks. “This one is for you survived abortions! It’s called ‘Fist Fight’n Fugger!’ We’re gonna play it double tempo, you bovine fucking pieces of refuse”
Randy queued up the drum loop. The speakers thundered. Blake struck a mighty power chord, dwarfing the hostility of the crowd in a howl of feedback. I launched into the song, blood marbled spittle spraying my mic.
“Got a chip on my shoulder
And a bone to pick
So keep flapping yer lips
Ya big, fat fucking prick…”
I leapt into the audience, a thrashing windmill of bony elbows, thrust kicks and roundhouse punches. I clocked some fucker in the mouth, feeling a satisfying crunch as his nose flattened. My left hand found the plump globe of someone’s breast and squeezed, her yelp cutting through the din. Wrapping my mic cord around an unfortunate victim’s throat, I pulled as hard as I could.
My tornado of destruction was truncated by the flat, hard impact of multiple fists as security descended upon me like a black cloud, blotting out all sight and sound. I slipped into the slumber of concussion.
I awoke in an Alabama hospital to a body throbbing with pain, where I stayed until they released me a week later. It’s amazing how quickly doctors consider you rehabilitated when you’re uninsured.
On a positive note, I was able to snatch some pain killers from the hospital, which I happily chopped into a fine powder and sucked up my big, German nose. When life hands you lemons, ya gotta make lemonade.
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