Crack Attack

It’s been awhile since I’ve submitted various, miscellaneous musings from the brainpan of a junkie and social leaper. No better time than the present.

Blake (my brother and creative collaborator) and I have been hard at work on the second issue of our comic book – the H-Boyz. It’s an autobiographical essay on our lives as hard rock’n narcotics abusers, sexual deviants and all around reprehensible bottom feeders in the aquarium of society.

Our comic serves as a punk-rock style middle finger pointed in the general direction of pop culture. We hate a lot.

One of my favorite stories in issue two is one written and pencilled by Blake. It’s called ‘Crack Attack.’ It’s about smoking crack. Brilliant, I know! I don’t need confirmation.

‘Crack Attack’ as an illustrated retelling of one of our countless journeys down the blighted path of smoking rock cocaine. Sure, we punched up the dialogue for comedic effect, but rest assured that every moment of this harrowing tale is true.

Roasting your first boulder of sweet, sweet ‘butter’ (as our drug dealer, Barney calls it) is like the soft embrace of a lover. That initial hit is the inhalation of a celestial cloud. Your brain fills with white lightning as a flood of endorphins wash over you in a gentle wave of euphoria.

That sensation lasts…oh, I would say…five seconds. The warm, fuzzy feeling is immediately chocked like a defenseless kitten and replaced with a clawing, hateful need that screams inside your skull with rabid, wanton, feral desire.

“More! More! MORE!” is the unending chorus in your mind, looping in a cycle of hunger that can’t be sated, even if you’re ‘fortunate’ enough to have another rock at your disposal.

I know that sounds bleak, but the comic is hilarious. If you want to check out the first issue of our comic, visit and order an issue. Issue #2 is being worked on and will be available soon.

Until next time, this is Clay Hatrison from the H-Boyz, reminding you that if it feels good, most likely it’ll get you into trouble, therefore you shouldn’t hesitate. Peace!




I’ve identified myself as a cartoonist my entire life. From the moment my pudgy little digits could manipulate a drawing tool, I’ve been creating comics. My parents, who were obviously overcome with an irrational mixture of pride and optimism, encouraged my craft and even sent me to art school.

This ‘favor’ is something I’ll always resent them for. They should have scolded me mercilessly as a child, smashed my crayons and threatened to break my fingers if I ever had the audacity to scribble such infantile nonsense EVER again.

I was a pretty mediocre illustrator upon graduation. My attitude towards anyone in a position of authority didn’t work in my favor towards accomplishing my dreams of a career in comics either. When attending comic book conventions and speaking to editors, the portfolio critique would normally end with “Go fuck yourself” or “Yeah, well I boned your Mom in her asshole, you piece of shit.”

I’m a combative prick with a lackluster skill set. No wonder I was doomed to failure.

Around that time, I also came to the realization that most working cartoonists are malnourished, miserable, opinionated assholes. Really, they’re bad people.


This represents your typical comic book reader. Just add the eye watering stench of stale farts and Dorito crumbs.

We’re talking about a culture of people who never grew out of Saturday morning cartoons, never learned the health or social benefits to proper hygiene and who regard busting three self inflicted nuts to their favorite tentacle anime as a worthwhile night of lovemaking. Cartoonists are sub human scum who deserve systematic elimination. Aligning myself with these drooling retards would be a recipe for lifelong misery.

The bottom feeding cretins who make a living as editors and art directors – the guys who shit all over your portfolio and prevent you from getting published – they’re even worse. My limited vocabulary can’t express how much I hate these fuckers. They reek of fetid milk and are horribly apathetic from spending their entire high school career being verbally and mentally abused. And you know what? They deserved it. Fuck em!


Matt Groening either knew this guys or WAS this guy. This character is so close to reality that it's hardly a's an infuriating examination of a sad subculture.

My unabashed disdain for the comic book culture (of which I’m a member of, ironically) and my openly hostile approach led to me being banned from the popular convention that happens every summer in Atlanta. While I remain very, very bitter, I realize it was just one more confirmation of my fate.

I am an underground cartoonist. Where else can I properly vent my awful, dysfunctional revulsion for all humanity than in the comic my brother and I create? There’s no editorial control. There’s no censorship. There’s no boundaries.

There’s also no fucking readers, which sucks donkey balls, but we’re working on that.

So read our comic. Or don’t. I’m sure we’ll hate you either way.

– Clay Hatrison